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Time seemed to slow as Tristan pulled Aurora close, their lips meeting in a desperate, passionate kiss. It was a kiss filled with promises. “I will see you soon,” he murmured against her mouth.
And then, with a final glance at the woman he had come to love, Tristan took a deep breath and threw himself off the cliff.
The sensation of falling was brief, and when he opened his eyes again, he was back in the cold, damp cell. The early morning light was weak as it streamed through the narrow slit in the stone wall. The contents of Millie’s bag—tools and potions of various kinds—lay scattered around him. With renewed purpose, Tristan set to work, using the tools to pick the lock of the cell.
The weight of his responsibility to his kingdom and the burning desire to save Aurora waged a war in his heart. But one thing was clear: he would stop at nothing to ensure her freedom and their future together.
Tristan barged into the council room. A long, wooden table, polished to a gleaming finish, dominated the center, surrounded by advisors deep in discussion. All eyes turned to him. Ryke, who was sitting at the head of the table, stood as soon as he caught sight of Tristan.
“Thank you for your concern for me, cousin,” Tristan began. “You were right about everything. I’m sorry for putting you in this position. I assure you, I am well and ready to resume my duties.”
The advisors exchanged uneasy glances, but Tristan continued, addressing them directly. “Please set a date for my coronation as king as soon as possible. My duty and honor to my kingdom has been delayed long enough.”
Ryke’s skeptical gaze never left Tristan. “Are you certain you are well?”
“I am better than well.” Tristan’s smile was confident, almost defiant. “I have found myself a bride—a queen—and I shall wed her at once.”
“A bride?” Ryke echoed. “From the ball?”
“I was with her the night of the ball, yes.” Tristan’s response was cryptic, but he didn’t linger on the topic. Turning to one of the guards, he commanded, “Please prepare a carriage for me. I must leave at once.”
An advisor, an older man with a graying beard, interjected, “Where are you going, Your Highness? We must discuss more reports of the war. Since your absence, there have been more casualties…”
“There shall be no more casualties after today,” Tristan declared, his voice booming with authority. “This war will end, and King Midas will no longer be a threat to us.”
The men fell silent, their hollow eyes looking at him wide and alarmed. It seemed as though they were weighing him up, wondering if he had finally come to his senses or given in to madness.
Ryke, however, gave a nod of approval. “Spoken like a true king.”
* * *
King Midas’ castle was a looming structure. Its tall spires reached for the heavens, and its walls of dark gray stone were impenetrable. The entrance was guarded by two massive golden lions, their eyes set with rubies that seemed to glow with an inner fire. The castle’s battlements were lined with soldiers, their golden armor reflecting the sun’s rays, making the entire structure shimmer.
As Tristan stepped out of his royal carriage, he noticed a magnificent fountain at the front. In its center stood a golden statue of a horse, its front legs raised as if in mid-gallop. The nameplate read “Midnight.” Tristan’s heart ached at the sight.
Perhaps, to an ordinary person, the fountain was merely a work of art. An exquisite monument to a beloved horse. But Tristan knew better. That was Aurora’s companion in the Dreamworld. He wondered what transgressions the horse might have committed to deserve such a fate. But then, a thought comforted him: in the Dreamworld, Aurora had Midnight by her side.
With determination burning in his veins, Tristan allowed himself to be escorted into the castle by Midas’ guards. The walls were lined with rich tapestries depicting tales of conquest and power. Golden chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their candles casting a warm glow that danced on the marble floors. The air was thick with the scent of burning incense, a mix of sandalwood and myrrh.
As Tristan walked deeper into the castle, he passed several rooms where young women busied themselves with cleaning, their faces pale and eyes vacant. Their hands moved lethargically, as if their soul was slowly withering away. The weight of their task was evident in their hunched shoulders. It was a chilling sight, and Tristan wondered which of them had been captured as children.
Finally, he was announced, then allowed into the throne room. At the far end of the hall, on a raised platform, sat King Midas on a throne gleaming with a brilliance that could only come from pure gold. The very air around him seemed to shimmer with opulence.
As Tristan stepped forward, the soft echo of his footsteps was the only sound that broke the heavy silence. Midas’ gaze, cold and calculating, followed him.
“Prince Tristan,” Midas began, his voice dripping with false warmth. “To what do I owe the displeasure of your visit?”
Tristan stopped a few paces away from the throne, his posture straight, exuding confidence. “King Midas,” he replied evenly, “I’ve come to end this war once and for all.”
Midas chuckled, a sound devoid of genuine mirth. “And how do you plan on doing that?”
Tristan’s hand moved to the small pouch at his side, extracting a vial filled with a dark liquid. “With this,” he said, holding the vial up for Midas to see.
Midas’ eyes widened slightly, a flicker of recognition passing through them. “Is that supposed to intimidate me?” he sneered, though the tremor in his voice betrayed his confidence.
“It’s scorpion venom,” Tristan stated calmly. “A single drop can turn all your precious gold to dust.”
The atmosphere in the hall grew even more charged. Midas’ initial confidence seemed to waver, replaced by a dawning realization of the threat Tristan posed.
