Premonition (3)

The name still echoed inside her like a distant bell: “By Alfonse Heisenberg Van Allytharion, weighty, solemn, almost familiar, yet indecipherable.

Alice walked alone through the palace corridors, her footsteps ringing in slow rhythm against the cold marble. On either side stretched a gallery of portraits, each one bearing austere expressions. They all shared something in common: eyes and hair of gold, as though molded by the same ray of sun.

She let her gloved hand drift across the gilded frame of one painting, while the fine velvet of her scarlet dress rustled softly with each step. A light tiara, merely a walking adornment, glimmered under the pale light filtering through the high windows, where morning mist still clung to the glass.

“If last night wasn’t enough already…” she muttered to herself, brow furrowing though her chin remained lifted, as befitted a princess. Something inside her seemed intent on keeping that event alive in her memory, yet an opposing force urged her to forget.

The night before, in her search for knowledge and mysteries to share when she finally reunited with her friends, she had ventured into one of the deepest sections of the royal library.
A place that smelled of ancient dust and spent candles, where silence itself carried weight. With the reluctant aid of the librarian, she had found a book on the founding of Allythéon. A tome that seemed to promise answers… but when opened, it revealed only blank pages, save for the first: the title, and a single name written in faded ink, Heisenberg.

That image refused to leave her mind.

The sound of her own breathing grew louder. Without realizing it, she had stopped before a portrait larger than the rest. A robust man, draped in a mantle of blue and gold embroidered with royal insignias. A massive crown rested on his head, and a golden staff leaned in his left hand. A thick beard framed his face, imposing, unreadable, except for the eyes.

Eyes that, for an instant, seemed to move.

Alice blinked, taking an almost imperceptible step back. She straightened immediately, smoothing her skirt with an automatic gesture, as though erasing hesitation.

“Imagination…” she whispered under her breath.

But then, in a motion, too sudden, or perhaps too slow to be real, the figure in the painting lifted his hand. First, thick heavy fingers, golden rings glinting beneath the cold corridor light. Then, in a deliberate gesture, he removed the crown, as though undoing some ancient vow.

The other hand gripped the golden staff… and now Alice saw: the tip was not rounded. It was pointed. A spear in disguise. He stepped forward. Not quickly, but with a movement that seemed to tear the air apart, each strike of the staff on marble resounding like the beat of a distant drum.

The man’s eyes flared, a vivid, feverish gold, and in that instant something invisible collapsed upon her. A crushing weight, cold as stone, engulfing her whole.

The air was too heavy to breathe. Her muscles hardened into stone. Even her eyelids sagged. Her mouth… would not move.

‘This…!’ Her body strained to retreat, but not a single finger obeyed. The scene stretched into endless seconds. The crack of the staff on marble. The heavy mantle billowing as though alive. His shadow swallowing the light behind him.

Then, something broke through the paralysis.

“AAH!” The scream tore from her, high-pitched, ragged with panic. Her body spun in a violent motion, the delicate tiara clinking against her bound hair, the hem of her dress brushing across the marble like a terrified whisper.

The sound of boots and hurried steps filled the corridor.

“Princess Alice!”
“Your Highness!”
“Princess!”
“Highness!”

Guards and servants rushed in, surrounding her. Swords flashed from their scabbards, forming a protective barrier. Maids knelt at her side, trembling hands outstretched toward her. Yet the corridor behind remained unchanged. The portrait stood as it had before: the robust man with crown on his head, staff resting calmly. No pointed spear. No movement.

Alice lay on the ground, heart racing, her face slick with cold sweat. When her hands finally moved again, they trembled faintly, hidden in the folds of her gown.

Inside, a chill climbed her spine, as though something still watched her. And the name echoed once more… louder now, yet changed. “Alf… Heisenberg Van Allytharion…”

The syllables dissolved within her, fragmenting, as if someone, bit by bit, was erasing them from her memory.

✦ ✦ ✦

“Catch.” Damian tossed me another narlith leaf with his usual precision.

I caught it midair, holding it between my fingers and feeling the cool sap seep faintly into my skin. “Thanks,” I muttered, watching him already turning to hand out more to the others.

‘This guy… seriously…’ It was almost annoying how he always had those leaves on him. And more than that, after every single training set, every single one, he distributed them to all of us in Sir Isaack’s “pervert squad.” Sometimes he even gave them to kids from the other groups, especially the poor bastards under Kyle.

From what I’d heard, Kyle had once been Isaack’s pupil, which explained why he had picked up some of his habits. Habits like enjoying the torture of children. But, to be fair, at least Kyle didn’t seem to enjoy it as much as Isaack did, who treated cruelty like a sport.

“Where do you think he keeps them?” Lewis asked, holding the leaf up to his face and inhaling deeply, like it was some rare flower.

Bart, leaning his back against Lewis’s, shrugged. “Under his clothes?”

“Fuck…” Antônio looked ready to toss his leaf to the ground, but Bart raised his hand. “Wait, wait—it’s just a joke—”

“That’s why you don’t have a girlfriend,” Antônio cut him off bluntly, not even letting him finish. Then, without missing a beat, he went back to the original question. “No, but really… where does he keep them?”

Bart’s forehead wrinkled, the kind of look that said you didn’t have to say that.

Lewis snorted softly. “Not under his clothes… Magic, maybe?”

“For the first time, Lewis actually thought,” Nolan muttered beside me, his voice lazy, throwing barbs without even trying. But as he spoke, his expression shifted. His eyes narrowed, and a dangerous half-smile tugged at his lips.

‘Weird…’ I thought, noticing the subtle glance he cast sideways. ‘This guy… is just as much trouble as I expected.’

“Look at his chest…” Nolan whispered, just loud enough for the group to hear.

And as though following a silent command, every single one of us turned at once to Damian.
Eyes locked.
Bare chest.
Two seconds of silence.

A sharp whistle cut through the air. “What a view…” Elaine said as she passed us, arms crossed. “Not every day you see a pack of boys staring at another guy’s chest. And to think you’re all supposed to be Sir Isaack’s little degenerates…”

Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “I can’t even decide if I should be sad or relieved that you’re too busy drooling over him to pay attention to us.” She was already walking away when she stopped, turned back, and fixed her eyes on me.

“Oh… But I see at least one of you is still a man.” Her gaze narrowed, and the corner of her mouth curved into a sly smile. “Though maybe… ‘pervert’ would suit you better.”

She didn’t need to say more. The slight tilt of her head, the lazy sway of the loose strands of her hair… it was practically a message. She had seen it. Or rather, she knew that I had seen it.

As if she could read the reflection in my own eyes, it was obvious I had noticed the pair of bindings strapped across her shoulders, loose enough to give away a fleeting glimpse of what she supposedly hadn’t intended to show.

“So… I guess I’m both,” I answered, unhurried, letting the words drip like sweet poison.

For the briefest moment, the spark of amusement in her eyes faltered before her face returned to its usual expression.

“Better feel sorry for them,” I added, pointing toward the group. Lewis’s eyes went wide, as if to protest “Don’t drag me into this.” Bart just turned away, smothering a laugh. Nolan? He only raised his brows, confirming with a half-smile that this had been his setup all along.

“…And happy for me,” I continued, tapping my own chest. “Because I can appreciate the fine view you’re offering.”

A vein twitched at her temple. “Perver—”

“But I must say…” I cut in, moving my legs slowly, swinging one foot in an almost lazy rhythm. “Looking at… you-know-what… really gave me a second wind.”

Half a second of silence.

Lewis coughed lightly, hiding a laugh.
Antônio muttered a hushed, “Holy shit…”
Bart chuckled under his breath, eyes on the floor.
And Nolan leaned back, watching it all unfold like a well-played game of chess.

She, on the other hand, only drew in a deep breath. Her shoulders lifted in a restrained motion; she tried to open her mouth to answer, but her lips pressed tight, holding back something caught between a smile and an insult. And then… she turned to keep walking, but not before shooting me a quick glance over her shoulder. The kind of look that promised the conversation was far from over.

The worst glare, however, was reserved for Nolan, the one who had orchestrated the whole scene. I caught the way she looked at him before heading toward the other girls, who quickly helped her tighten her bindings again.

‘That guy is screwed’, was the only thought I could muster. But when I noticed the way the others were staring at me, realization sank in. ‘And… yeah, I guess I’m screwed too.’

✦ ✦ ✦

Unaware of the little storm brewing from his own generosity, Damian extended the last Narlith leaf.

The one who received it was a girl with light brown hair so faded that, under the light, it looked almost blond… or even white. Her eyes were a deep green, but without the sparkle of youth; they carried a weight, a silence.

Her skin was pale, too pale, almost translucent. Her frail, childlike body left no doubt that one day she would grow into a rare beauty. And yet, the dark circles beneath her eyes, together with that unnatural pallor, lent her an air of something ghostly at times.

“Althea, here.” Damian handed her the leaf.

“Once again… thank you, Damian.” Her voice was soft, distant. She didn’t lift her face to meet his.

“There’s no need. It’s the duty of the older ones to care for the younger.” He said it with steady conviction. At fifteen, the eldest among the descendants, he believed it his responsibility to guide the younger, just as someone had once done for him.

“…k.” Her reply was barely a whisper.

A tear slipped down, hidden by the tilt of her head. No one saw it. Not even Damian, standing right before her.

“But I have to say… you truly are an example, Althea.” He smiled, meaning to encourage her. “Even being the most fragile of the group… with all the difficulties, you still manage to keep up with Sir Issack’s regimen. And you… you still find the strength to study and train more than anyone else. I also—”

He stopped. Something in the air had shifted. It wasn’t a sudden movement, but the way she seemed to recoil, as though the word fragile had seared itself into her skin like burning iron.

Althea didn’t hear the rest. His words melted away, drowned in a muffled silence that only she could hear. Her fingers clenched tight around the Narlith leaf, the leaf slowly crumpling in her grip.

Finally, she spoke, her voice low, but sharp and cuttingly clear, without lifting her eyes:
“Yes… you’re right. I really am an example… of what not to be.”