The Devil's Betrothed

Arlan's morning started early as well due to the nightmare he had in the night. Just like Oriana, he could not go back to sleep and spent the night sitting in bed, staring at the ticking hand of the longcase pendulum clock on the other side of the room.

Tick, tock, tick, tock…

His mind was filled with the most horrific memory from his childhood.

Although almost two decades had passed, those memories still hurt him the same, and even as he grew into a full-fledged adult, the wounds of the past continued to bleed, with anger and his thirst for revenge being the only outlet.

Until he successfully killed the ones behind his mother's early demise, there was no escaping the hauntings of her death.

Her wide eyes lifelessly staring at him, the tears of guilt and relief streaming down her face—

'Mother, I….'

The rest of his words faded. He didn't know what exactly he wanted to say to her.

After what seemed like an eternity, morning finally came. The mild sun rays started to shine through the curtains, filling the chamber with light. As the brightness chased away the shadows, a bit of vitality returned within the prince's deep blue eyes.

Relief washed over him. Night was over. The nightmare was over.

Nobody knew that the always so confident and charming Crown Prince had always hated the darkness, only given his status, he never showed his weakness to anyone.

He stepped out of the bed, and without calling for the servants, readied himself to go outside. He chose to wear the most comfortable attire available in his wardrobe before grabbing his sword on his way out.

'The training grounds should be empty around this time,' he thought as he tightened his grip on his sword pommel.

When he stepped out of the chamber, the knights guarding outside his door were about to follow him but he raised his hand which was a signal for them to stand down.

"Good morning, Your Highness."

To their greeting, Arlan merely smiled before continuing on his way. It was not his usual good-natured smile but a cold one that gave them shivers.

His knights who were familiar with him could see it was one of those bad days when their liege would either brutally train them or harshly punish them for the smallest mistakes. This kind of Crown Prince was normally quiet and calm, but it was precisely this quiet prince that frightened the people of the capital.

On days like these, people would be most wary of him, and those who had plans of offending him would think twice before doing it.

One of the knights left his post, intending to warn the captain and their fellow knights about their liege's mood.

Slash!

Stab!

Slash!

Inside the indoor training ground, a man with long ash brown hair brought down his sword as if he was facing a ferocious beast, each of his movements overflowing with bloodlust. There was no beauty or elegance in his moves—there was only pure violence in his strikes, as if he was mutilating the image of his mother's assassin in front of him.

Arlan practiced with the sword again and again, to the point his shirt was soaked with sweat and he had to cast it aside.

Slash!

Some time later, Imbert and Rafal arrived but did not disturb him, only relaying to the rest that no one was allowed to go closer to the training ground. Imbert and Rafal wordlessly stayed at a distance, watching Arlan vent his negative feelings through his swordsmanship.

Time passed by slowly. The taut lines of Arlan's half-naked body glistened with sweat, his movements somewhat slowing, showing his exhaustion, yet his sword strikes remained frighteningly brutal. He didn't stop for a moment even though two hours had passed.

Within the dining hall, Duke Rhys and Duchess Alvera were waiting for the Crown Prince before starting their morning meal, but there was no sign of him.

"The Crown Prince is not joining us today?" the Duke asked as he looked at his wife.

"I am wondering as well," she replied and asked the butler who already had information relayed to him by a royal knight.

"His Highness has been at the training grounds since dawn."

It was nothing unusual for the prince to be training his sword, but it was rare for him to forget giving advance notice that he would not be eating with them. Alvera got the hint as she knew her brother well. She looked at her husband. "Let's have our meal first."

His wife's worry could not be hidden from the Duke. "He will be alright. It's not the first time."

She nodded and began eating.

Once the husband and wife finished their meal, the Duke of Wimark left for work, while the Duchess left to go to the training grounds.

The moment Alvera stepped inside the indoor training hall, the sight of her brother's violent swordsmanship welcomed her. Even from a distance, her heart shook at the ferocity of his strikes.

The moment Imbert and Rafal saw her, they bowed their heads. "Greetings, Duchess."

"He's been at it since dawn?" she asked, her eyes filled with worry for her brother.

"Yes, my lady. More than two hours of nonstop training," Imbert answered, a worried sigh escaping him. The ice cold knight hardly related to anything, but as a swordsman himself, he could strongly feel the emotions being vented by his liege.

The three went inside the hall and stopped in their tracks near one of the benches. Alvera's gaze was fixed at her brother. "He doesn't look like he plans to stop until he passes out."

Imbert understood what she meant. "Shall I help His Highness vent?"

Alvera nodded and Imbert walked towards the center of the training ground. He pulled out his sword from its scabbard and swung it leisurely to warm up.

Arlan, who was immersed in his own world, didn't notice what was going on around him.

Clash!

Any other person would have staggered at the sudden attack, but Arlan's sword effortlessly received the knight's downward slash, his footwork steady as his body moved out of pure instinct.

Arlan's cold gaze didn't flicker even for a moment and he accepted the challenge from his knight. Alvera and Rafal watched as Arlan and his guardian knight sparred, the loud sounds of their sword being brandished against each other filling the entire training grounds.

Be it strength, technique, speed or response, Arlan was vastly superior to Imbert. However, Imbert had the advantage of experience and stamina. At this moment, Arlan was being pushed back and he was showing more and more gaps. Imbert was not polite and attacked all those openings.

The fearless knight did not show any mercy on his exhausted liege.

Thwack!

Clang!

As expected, the spar ended with the prince's loss.

Arlan's sword flew out from his hand. Like a puppet with its strings cut, his body fell backwards, and he remained lying on his back. The tip of his knight's sword was pointed at the defeated prince's neck.

Arlan closed his eyes as he continued to lay on the ground. His upper body was covered in sweat and dirt, his chest heaving up and down. Only then did he realize he was tired to the bones.

Imbert put his sword back in its scabbard and did not say a single word, simply waiting for Arlan to get up on his own.

After a span of silence, Arlan opened his eyes and gave an imploring smile at his knight. Imbert offered him his hand which Arlan accepted and he was pulled upright.