Chapter Text
From the first breath he took, there was pain. It was a sharp, searing agony that cut through his tiny form, an unfamiliar torment that made every new sensation feel like fire. His lungs filled with air, but it burned like embers, his little body overwhelmed by the sheer torture of existing. The world around him was an unbearable assault — sounds too loud, light too bright, skin too raw against the cold air. It hurt so bad. Every nerve seemed alive with discomfort, a relentless storm of sensations he couldn’t understand or escape.
The second thing he could register was a faint twisting in his ribs. A cold, scaly pressure that wrapped around his ribs. He wasn’t alone in this body. Messmer writhed, his tiny fists clenching, the distress a primal thing that he couldn’t comprehend but felt carved into his flesh. He couldn’t recognise the wailing that tore from his throat, desperate and pleading, the cry for comfort, for something to make the pain stop. Everything hurt, everything was wrong, and he was powerless against it all. He wanted to be warm again. He wanted it to be safe again. He wanted it to be dark again.
But then, as his eyes fluttered open for the very first time, the world shifted. Through the tears and haze, he saw something so utterly stunning that it made his cries falter. Above him was a figure—golden and glowing, cascading like a radiant waterfall that shimmered in the light. It was spilling down in waves glided across his little cheek, shielding him from the cold. He was captivated, mesmerised by the sight that seemed to cast a sense of safety over his tortured figure. And suddenly, he realised he wanted light now.
His viridescent eyes, still new and unfocused, strained to take in more. As his vision adjusted, he saw her;
Mother.
Her presence was like divine, her skin glowing with an ethereal light that made her look like she had descended from the heavens themselves. Her face was soft, rosy, her eyes filled with a gentle kindness that contrasted starkly with the sharpness of his pain. She was breathtaking , an angelic figure draped in gold, and her mere presence dulled the ache that had plagued him since his first breath.
Messmer’s little body calmed, his frantic squirming easing into small, jerky movements as he reached out with trembling hands. His wails died into soft, pitiful whimpers, the unbearable pain now overshadowed by the overwhelming need for the comfort of his mother. He reached for her, his fingers stretching towards the golden strands that seemed just out of reach.
He wanted her. He wanted to be close to her, to be held by her, to feel the warmth of her touch. The world was still too bright, still too loud, but her presence made it bearable. His cries softened into gentle hiccups, his eyes wide and fixed on her, the only thing that made sense in the chaos of his new existence.
Yes. He understood now. Everything would be alright, as long as he had Mother.
Her arms enveloped him, and the his tiny form curled into her embrace, nestling into her breasts. Her warmth seeped into him, soothing the fiery pain that still lingered beneath his skin. He pressed his face against her soft skin, his small body shivering but her gentle rocking and the sound of her heartbeat against his ear slowly coaxed him into calm.
For a moment, the agony of being alive faded into the background. All that existed was the golden glow of her hair, the gentle hum of her voice, and the steady rhythm of her heart. She was his safe haven, his mother, and he clung to her with all the strength his little body could muster.
He didn’t understand the words she spoke, but her voice was like a melody, soothing and sweet, wrapping around him like a soft blanket. Every gentle coo, every stroke of her hand, made the pain a little less, made the world a little less frightening. He blinked up at her, his eyes heavy with exhaustion but still fixated on the angelic figure before him.
He nestled closer, a quiet whimper escaping him as he settled against her. He was still hurting, still overwhelmed, but as long as Mother held him, as long as he could see that golden glow and feel her warmth, he felt a tiny spark of peace in the storm of his new existence. His eyelids drooped, and he let himself be lulled by the comfort of her presence, the first comfort he had ever known. And the only thing he could ever need to survive.
In that moment, Messmer didn’t realise the sadness behind the smile that adorned his mother’s face. The red that tinged gold as she cradled him close.
He didn’t see the tears that ran down her cheeks, falling onto his bloodstained scalp.
————
The sun hung low over Leyndell, casting a warm glow over the city. It shone through the cracks of the towering Erdtree that hung against the hues of the sky. It always made him slightly nervous; in his very, very youngest years, he could faintly remember gazing up at nostalgic blue instead of the blinding gold. Still, if Mother wanted it, he wanted it. From the castle’s high windows, Messmer could see the bustling streets below, filled with vendors, knights, and the occasional scholar, all moving through the shadow of the Erdtree. The city's opulence never failed to impress him—the patterned banners, the shimmering armor of the guards, the intricate carvings that adorned every archway and column. Yet despite the grandeur, the boy always felt a twinge of disconnection, as though he were an outsider looking in, caught between the splendor of the Golden Order and the quiet, earthy roots of the Shaman village where he was born.
Over the years, he had changed. As a child, he had been more carefree, dashing through the castle’s halls with Melina, his younger sister, his laughter echoing off the walls. But as he grew older, his world had grew grayer . It demanded more of his energy and attention. Now at the age of 16, he had grown quieter, more reserved, his once bright eyes often cast downward, always careful to keep his sleeves long and his expressions controlled. The weight of his curse, a burden he bore in silence, had made him cautious and self-conscious, constantly on edge for no one could discover the secret Mother had told him most sternly to hide.
In fact, Mother had hid him from the world entirely. Godwyn was known as her firstborn, Melina having no interest in the title. But he understood; the world was already unkind enough, having not known of his disgrace. He was soon to become ruler of the Capital, and then Mother would shine her light upon him as her son. Proudly.
For now, he trained in the courtyard, sparring with the guards who he once played with. They now looked upon him with a sort of fear that left him drained. Well, apart from one outsider he trained with, a damned, stubborn first-generation albinaruic that soon came to be his best friend. Apart from him, and his siblings, Messmer lacked any companionship.
The young man moved through the halls with a purposeful stride, though his posture was slightly hunched, pained by the snake spiralling up his spine. His thoughts were preoccupied with the fact Mother had summoned him yet again, the latest in a series of meetings that always filled him with equal parts anticipation and anxiety. His twin red winged serpents, hidden beneath his robes, slithered in gentle loops around his ankles, offering the only comfort they could.
As he rounded a corner, Messmer nearly collided with Melina. His younger sister was dressed in her usual simple garb, her hair stubbornly loose-flowing, and she carried an armful of scrolls—no doubt from her latest studies or errands around the castle. His sister was always quite rebellious, never looking at Mother with the same warmth he did, although he could never understand why. She glanced up at him, her expression softening into a rare smile.
“Brother Messmer,” she greeted, her voice light, though tinged with a note of concern that never seemed to leave her when she looked at him. “Art thou summoned by Mother again?”
Messmer nodded, awkwardly shifting on his feet. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Aye, Melina. She—she wishes to speak with me.”
Melina’s gaze lingered on him, her eyes searching his face as if trying to peer through the mask of composure he wore. She was the one the very, very select few who knew about the serpents, about the hidden pain that burdened his every day, and though she rarely spoke of it, her worry was always evident in the way she watched over him. “Thou art not… troubled, are thou?”
He managed a small, uncertain smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nay, not greatly. Just… trying to be as Mother desires.”
Melina nodded, though the concern in her eyes didn’t fade. She set down her scrolls for a moment and reached out, her hand resting briefly on his arm. “Thou dost well, Messmer. Thou art… too good for her.”
He stiffened slightly at the touch, unused to displays of affection, but he nodded, conflicted. “ Do not speak of Mother in that tone. I am her flesh and blood; my duty is to fulfil her request.”
Melina sighed, picking up her scrolls again before giving him one last look and then continuing down the hallway. Messmer watched her go, her figure disappearing around the bend, and for a moment, he felt the pang of loneliness that often accompanied him. It was as if everyone in the castle moved with a purpose he could not quite grasp, each step taking them further into a world of glory and honor that he felt perpetually at the edges of. He almost envied his sister for carrying such certainty in herself, her purpose. Like him, it was Mother who had given that meaning to her. But she never felt the pressure the same way he did, almost as if she had the liberty of choosing her own fate at her ease.
Shaking off the thought, Messmer resumed his path to Marika’s chamber, his heart beating just a little faster. The corridors seemed to stretch endlessly, lined with portraits of great heroes and scenes of victory that he felt increasingly distant from. He paused before the grand doors, taking a steadying breath. As always, there was that flutter of awe mixed with anticipation at the thought of facing Marika—his mother, the goddess who embodied both his highest aspiration and deepest fear.
With a soft breath, he pushed open the heavy doors and entered the throne room. There she stood at the far end, bathed in the soft glow of sunlight streaming through high windows. She was radiant, her golden hair cascading like silk around her shoulders, a long braid flowing down her side, her presence both ethereal and commanding. For a moment, he forgot his pain entirely, captivated by the sight of her. She turned her head, her mesmerising gaze finding him immediately, and she beckoned him closer with a gentle wave of her hand.
“Messmer,” she greeted, her voice smooth and calm. She was always calm. “Come hither, my son.”
Messmer approached, bowing his head slightly in reverence. He kneeled before her, having grown almost twice her height already. “Mother.”
Marika studied him, her expression soft but tinged with an unspoken intensity. Her eyes, golden and all-seeing, seemed to pierce through him, and he could not help but feel exposed under her scrutiny. She reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against his cheek, and despite her touch being gentle, there was a coolness to it that made him shiver. Nevertheless, he leaned into it.
“Thou shouldst eat more, thy features grow thin and sharp. Is thine discomfort growing again?” she observed, her tone soaked in softness. He smiled gently, holding his hand to hers.
“Nay, Mother. It hath fell dormant for now.”
She nodded, rising up. He felt the warmth leave his cheek, feeling colder almost immediately.
“I have called thee, for there is news thou must hear.”
He looked up at her, trying to mask his discomfort. “Aye, Mother. I am at thy service.”
“Thy father, Radagon, is soon to wed Queen Rennala of Raya Lucaria,” Marika said, her gaze shifting slightly as she spoke, her expression unreadable. “They hath fought valiantly against one another, and now, love has softened the edges of war. It is a union that shall bring peace to the realm.”
She looked forlorn, cold for a moment.
“Thou must attend the ceremony,” she continued, her voice firm yet tinged with an odd warmth. “Thou art to become a prince of Leyndell in but a few years, and it is time the people see thee stand amongst thy kin.”
Messmer’s throat tightened. “Mother… I…” He hesitated, the words sticking in his throat. Radagon, the father he scarcely knew, now to marry another. He thought of his beloved half-siblings, Morgott and Mohg, locked away in the sewers for the crime of being born omens. Messmer wondered, not for the first time, how long before his own curse was deemed unforgivable . His own serpents, both his protectors and his tormentors, felt like a tenuous secret he was constantly struggling to keep.
How could he explain his fears? The thought of being surrounded by all those watchful eyes, of trying to conceal the writhing serpents beneath his robes, made his skin crawl. The base serpent seemed to sense his trepidation, twisting painfully within, a sharp reminder of its presence.
Her expression softened, just a fraction, and she reached into the folds of her robes, drawing forth a small vial filled with a shimmering golden liquid. “Take it, child.”
Messmer accepted the vial with careful hands, gazing at the golden liquid inside. He had taken Mother’s blessing many times before, but the sight of it always filled him with a sense of relief—of being seen, understood, and cared for. The fact she meticulously, painfully crafted near perfection just for him. No, it was not the concoction that was tainted. It was him.
He uncorked the vial and drank deeply, the sweet liquid flowing down his throat, spreading warmth through his veins. The pain did not vanish, but it dulled, receding to a bearable throb that allowed him to draw breath without wincing. More than the physical relief, it was the connection to Mother that soothed him most; it was her touch, her will, making the burden feel lighter.
He looked up at her, offering a small, tentative smile. “Thank thee, Mother.”
Her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, and then she nodded, her own smile faint. “Thou art my treasured one, Messmer. Fear not what is to come. Stand tall, for thy lineage is noble, and thy place is beside thy family.”
The boy bowed his head again, clutching the empty vial in his hand as though it were a lifeline. He forced down his worry, burying it beneath a layer of practiced calm. “I shall do as thou ask, Mother,” he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil that brewed beneath the surface.
She leaned down, hands curling gently into his flames of fiery hair. Pressed a soft kiss into his scalp.
“Thou art mine most proudest love.”
And his heart glowed a warmth that felt soft, briefly.
————
Messmer stood in front of the grand mirror, his reflection staring back at him—a young man caught between the boy he used to be and the lord he was expected to become. Mother moved around him with an effortless grace, adjusting his ceremonial garments. The gold-threaded robes, adorned with intricate designs that told the history of the Golden Order, hung heavily on his shoulders. Her touch was light as she smoothed the fabric, her fingers moving with grace along the seams.
“Thou hast grown so handsome,” she murmured, a smile playing at her lips as she studied him. Her words, though soft, struck Messmer with a warmth he often longed for. He nodded, trying to match her smile, but his gaze flickered downward, unsure he was worthy of the praise.
As if on cue, the twin red-winged serpents, ever curious, slipped their heads out from beneath his sleeves. They looked around, their eyes bright and alert, tasting the air with forked tongues. Marika stiffened, her smile fading as her fingers darted forward, pushing them back under the cloth with a swift, graceful motion. The redhead flinched slightly, but her expression had already softened, her fingers gentle as they resumed their task of straightening his robes.
“Thou must keep them hidden,” she whispered, a note of warning in her voice that her son knew all too well. “The world is not kind to what it doth not understand.”
“I understand, Mother,” Messmer replied, his voice obedient, though there was a flicker of frustration behind his eyes. The serpents were a part of him, a constant reminder of his curse and the power that lurked within. But for Mother, he would keep them hidden—always.
She moved behind him, guiding him to sit on a low stool. She took up a silver comb, its handle encrusted with the carvings of prayer, and began to work on his hair. Her touch was soothing, each stroke of the comb comforting against the tension that tightened his muscles. Messmer closed his eyes, leaning slightly into the motion as his mother braided his hair, the repetitive rhythm and weaving of her slender fingers calming him in a way few things could.
“Thou art strong, Messmer,” she said softly, her voice laced with pride and a touch of something deeper, something that Messmer couldn’t quite place. “Thou hast always been strong, even when it hath been hardest.”
He remained silent, savoring the moment of closeness. He didn’t need to say anything—Mother’s presence was enough. He focused on the feeling of her hands, the way she carefully twisted and braided each strand, as if weaving some quiet reassurance into his very being. As a child, she would work on his unruly locks often. He would squirm, desperate to get up and play.
When she was done, she stood back, admiring her work with a nod.
“Come now,” she said, her voice once again composed and regal. “We must not tarry.”
The carriage ride to the Church of Vows was a quiet affair. Messmer sat beside Godwyn, his younger brother, who was squirming with excitement. Melina sat across from them, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her expression composed but bright with curiosity. He often forgot she was also young. Mother, ever the picture of poise, sat beside Messmer, her gaze fixed ahead, serene and unyielding.
As the carriage pulled up to the church, the noise of the gathered crowd hit him like a wave. The air was thick with the sound of chatter and the clatter of hooves on cobblestone. The church itself loomed above them, its white stone walls gleaming in the afternoon sun, banners of royal blue fluttering from every spire. Messmer felt his heart quicken, the noise pressing in from all sides. His twin serpents shifted restlessly beneath his robes, their anxiety mirroring his own. He hissed at them under his breath, trying to calm them.
“Stay hidden,” he whispered fiercely, his voice barely audible above the chatter. He felt them coil tighter, obedient but tense, almost hurt by the fact their companion was so embarrassed by them.
Inside, the church was a spectacle of opulence and reverence. Candles lined every brick, their flames dancing softly, casting long shadows that flickered across soft grass. The attendees were filled with nobles, all dressed in their finest, their eyes fixed on the altar at the far end where Radagon and Rennala were to be wed. Radagon himself stood tall and imposing, his armor gleaming like the sun itself, every inch the warrior that tales spoke of. His red hair, pulled back and braided, shone similar to Messmer’s in the candlelight. The teen had always felt self conscious of his fiery locks, so contrasting to Mother’s and Godwyn’s. He almost hoped Radagon had stayed, for they could relate over that.
Next to him, Rennala was a vision of ethereal beauty, her gown a shimmering cascade of silver and blue, her long black hair flowing like a river of midnight down her back. She held herself with a serene grace, her eyes youthful, warm and full of spirit as she looked upon her groom. She held Radagon’s hands, her gaze steady, her smile so bright.
Messmer felt a twinge of nervousness but more so a detachment. The event was grand, but it felt like it was happening in another world; a world of splendor and celebration that he could observe but never quite touch. He didn’t mind Radagon’s marriage, not really; his heart and loyalties were bound to Mother, the woman who had defined his world from the moment he first opened his eyes. As long as he was by her side, nothing else truly mattered.
Standing near the couple was Godwyn, adorned with Golden Sunflowers in his braided locks and the most precious beam. He clutched a basket of petals, the leftovers from when he had scattered the rest on the aisle. Mother had chosen him as the flower child, and he fit the role like a pin.
Messmer’s gaze drifted from them to the maid of honor standing nearby—a striking young woman with short black hair and a delicate, determined expression. Her eyes were a piercing blue, her posture poised and confident. She watched the ceremony with a mix of reverence and vigilance, her presence commanding without overshadowing the bride. He admired her beauty from afar. A spark of recognition flickered inside him, suddenly recalling that this was the fierce younger sister of Rennala, known for her persistence. Princess Rellana.
The officiant stepped forward, his voice reverberating throughout the modest little church.
“We stand here today to witness the union of Radagon, the mighty warrior, and Rennala, Queen of the Full Moon. A love forged not by alliance, but by the deepest of affections, transcending the realms of war and wisdom alike.”
Radagon turned to his bride, his voice clear and strong. “Rennala, thou art my one and only moon, and I wouldst bear with you my stars. In thee, I have found both peace and purpose, a guiding light that hath led me through the fiercest of battles and the quietest of nights. I vow to stand by thy side, in triumph and in sorrow, in glory and in shadow, for as long as the stars shine in the heavens.”
Rennala’s eyes glistened with unshed tears as she replied, her voice soft yet unwavering. “Radagon, thou art my sweetness and my succour, a flame that doth warm my heart even in the coldest of winters. With thee, I hath found a love that is boundless, and a consort in whom I can confide all my fears and hopes. I pledge to thee my heart, my loyalty, and my unwavering support, now and for all the days that we shall be blessed to share.”
The officiant raised his arms, declaring, “By the grace of the Full Moon, I pronounce thee united, as one heart, one mind, and one soul. May your marriage be blessed, and may it endure beyond this age we are mortal in.”
A resounding, polite cheer resonated from the crowd, the hall filling with applause as Radagon and Rennala sealed their vows with a kiss, their embrace radiating a kind of pure, unfiltered joy. Messmer clapped along with the rest, but a faint sense of longing tugged at him; the unspoken desire for a connection as profound and unbreakable as the one he had just witnessed.
As the celebration spilled into the courtyard, the awkward young prince did his best to mingle with the guests. He exchanged polite nods and brief words, but the noise and the closeness of so many bodies soon became overwhelming. The music, the laughter, the clinking of goblets—it all felt like a tidal wave crashing against him. His serpents shifted restlessly beneath his robes, hissing low in discontent. The sensation was akin to pins and needles prickling under his skin, and he found it increasingly difficult to keep his composure.
Godwyn was being crowded around by the guests, fawned over by those of Leyndell and Liurnia alike. His gorgeous smile, his rosy cheeks were admittedly unfathomably sweet. Messmer watched over his little brother with some caution for a while, looking for any discomfort in his posture, although he seemed to find none. After all, Godwyn was perfect in every way.
Feeling rather claustrophobic by now, he excused himself as politely as possible, winding his way around the church to the back, seeking the reassuring solitude that always accompanied the night. The cool evening air was a balm against his flushed cheeks, the quiet a saving grace from the chaos inside.
As he turned the corner, he paused, noticing a figure standing by the old stone wall, gazing up at the night sky. It was a young woman, eyes delicately blue. She seemed lost in thought, her posture relaxed but purposeful. Her body was slim against the moonlight, slightly muscular in the arms and features sharp in a way that cut out her silhouette and framed it against the backdrop of the stars.
Looking closer, his ears glowed red. It was the maid of honour, and she was staring right back at him.
——-
Rellana was aware of him long before he spoke. She turned, her sharp eyes catching sight of the tall, lanky figure that had emerged from the shadows. At first glance, he appeared awkward and slightly misshapen, his robes draped in a way that seemed to conceal more than they revealed. Yet there was something else—something curious about the way he moved, as though every gesture was uncomfortable, unnatural. But not in a freakish way; no, she merely found it intriguing. He seemed young; her age, perhaps.
He shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, his eyes darting away as if unsure of where to rest, eventually deciding on the floor.
“What art thou doing here, away from the festivities?” Rellana asked, her voice carrying a note of casual curiosity. Her confidence was palpable, her posture open and unbothered by his presence.
Messmer glanced up, meeting her eyes for the first time. “I am… not good with people,” he admitted, his voice soft, almost apologetic. His gaze was guarded, defensive, and Rellana noted the faint blush that dusted his cheeks.
Rellana returned her gaze to the stars briefly. “Thou art not alone in that, I assure thee. I care not much for these gatherings, despite my dear sister’s love for them.” She shifted closer, turning her head, studying him with renewed interest. As she stepped into the light, she caught a better look at his face—pale, angular, with an open golden eye that seemed far older than the rest of him. His hair was drawn in neat braids, but strands flowed around his cheekbones, deep with a blazing, brilliant red. Despite the awkwardness, there was a gentle art in his features, a handsomeness that was undeniable.
The man seemed to shrink a little under her eyes, his gaze dropping once more. Something— something disjointed shifted under his robes, and it immediately caught her attention. But she did not avert her gaze, keeping it fixed on his face, mentally noting the strangeness that just occurred.
“I… I am Messmer,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “Son of Marika.”
Rellana’s brows lifted slightly, a spark of confusion in her eyes. “Rellana of Caria,” she introduced herself, her tone smooth. “I am Rennala’s sister. I had not the knowledge that the Queen held another child.”
“ First child.”
For a moment, they stood in silence, the awkwardness between them tangible yet not entirely unwelcome. Rellana watched as Messmer fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve, his fingers tugging absently at the fabric. She found herself intrigued, not just by his connection to Marika, but by the contrast of his outward shyness and the hints of strength she sensed beneath the surface. Moreso, she was confused as to how she had never heard of him.
“Thou art different from what I expected,” she remarked, her voice carrying a hint of playfulness, saving her questions for later.
Messmer looked up, confusion flickering across his features. “Expected?”
Rellana nodded, leaning against the wall as she crossed her arms. “Aye. One would think a son of Marika would be more… commanding, perhaps. But thou seems—” She paused, searching for the right word. “Gentle, in a way.”
He blinked, taken aback. He looked as though he wasn’t sure whether to take her words as a compliment or an observation, but the sincerity in her voice was disarming. He cleared his throat, his stiff demeanour softening a little.
“I… I am as I am,” he said quietly, the words feeling both like an admission and a defence.
Rellana nodded thoughtfully. “As are we all.” She offered him a half-smile, her eyes glinting with a mix of mischief and understanding. “Mayhaps we both find these grand halls too stifling. ‘Tis good to find company that doth not demand performance.”
Messmer nodded eagerly, before shifting, his hands clasped behind his back, the words he was about to say looking as though they weighed heavy on his tongue. "I am... also son of Radagon," he admitted, his gaze skimming over Rellana’s expression to steal a look at her reaction.
Rellana’s brows lifted in surprise. She had never heard of this. “Son of Radagon, thou sayest?” She paused, studying his face more intently now. “I hath heard much of Godwyn, of his victories and heroics. But of thee, Messmer, I have heard naught. Strange that Radagon, a man so present in the annals of history, hath children that remain unseen.”
Messmer glanced away, his eyes clouding as the words settled between them. He shrugged slightly, a gesture that seemed to dismiss the weight of her curiosity. “Mother intends to announce me soon, to give me the role of Lord of Leyndell eventually. ’Tis only a matter of time.”
”Oh, my deepest congratulations! Thou wouldst make a fine leader…” Rellana tilted her head, her interest piqued. “And yet, thou hast remained in shadows, hidden from the light of the Erdtree’s grace. Why doth she wait?”
The prince hesitated, the question lingering in the air like a ghost. He looked down at his hands, pale fingers twisting nervously. “There are… things. Complications,” he murmured. Her eyes snapped to his robe now, unable to hide her interest as the cloth shuffled once again.
Their conversation was momentarily interrupted by the distant sounds of celebration—a chorus of laughter and the jubilant clinking of goblets echoing from the grand hall. Messmer glanced toward the noise, a faint, wistful smile touching his lips. “May the grace of the Golden Order shine upon their union,” he said, his voice low, careful.
Rellana’s expression shifted, her lips curving into a wry smile. “I care little for the Golden Order anymore,” she stated plainly, her tone firm but not unkind. “Nor for Marika, if I may say so.”
Messmer scoffed softly, unable to hide his immediate disapproval. “Thou speakest boldly,” he said, his voice edged with an incredulous tone. “The Erdtree’s light is the very essence of our realm, the source of all that is righteous and divine. And Mother— Mother is all, she giveth life to this land.”
She shrugged, unperturbed by his reaction. “Aye, but I find more solace in the moon’s embrace, in its gentleness and quiet strength. The moon doth not demand worship; it merely watches, serene and patient, offering a light that is soft and forgiving, unlike the striking blindness of the Erdtree.”
She never feared retribution. Her heart had always spoke most truest to her, never bereft of honesty and passion. The boldness of her words seemed to stun the composed figure before her. There was a conviction in her stance, a quiet defiance that made him look upon her with a sense of shock.
“I have never heard it spoken thus,” he admitted, his voice softening. “The moon as a guiding force. It seems... an unusual path.”
Rellana looked out to the horizon, a spark of light in her eyes. “There is much to learn beyond the walls of Leyndell, Sir Messmer. The world is vast, filled with more than the rigid doctrines of the Golden Order. My sister and I, we have found our own ways, our own beliefs” She stopped, remembering the twin moons that they had stumbled upon in their youth. Their beauty, their elegance; it was something that had shaped her. ‘Tis not wrong to look beyond the light of the Erdtree, to seek comfort in the shadows it doth cast.”
Their conversation lulled into a comfortable silence, the sounds of the ongoing celebration fading into the background. Rellana found herself oddly intruiged by Messmer’s presence, more so than anyone she had ever met. She watched him carefully, noting the way his shoulders eased and his breath slowed. She could see the struggle behind his eyes, the tension that lay coiled within him like a tightly wound spring. And yet, despite the awkwardness and the quiet pain she sensed, there was a kindness to him—a gentleness that set him apart from the rest of the Golden Order’s rigid adherents. He was not like them.
“I think,” she said after a moment, her voice soft but sure, “that thou art not so bound by the Erdtree’s light as thou believest. There is more to thee than the titles and the roles others have laid upon thy shoulders.”
Messmer looked at her, truly looked at her. He opened his mouth to reply, but the words seemed to catch in his throat.
Rellana simply nodded, her expression now warm and unassuming. “Perhaps we shall cross paths again. I certainly hope so,” she said, stepping back toward the open hall, her figure slipping once more into the shadows of the moonlit night.
As she left, she swore she saw out of the corner of her eye his mouth move. But, when she looked again, he had disappeared. Messmer had certainly been the most interesting person she had ever met.
Tonight, in his demeanour, she had found a sliver of solace—a shared understanding that, despite their differences, they were both navigating the expectations of a world that never quite seemed to fit.
And she intended not to let it go.
———
Rellana sat at the window ledge of the grand academy later that week, gazing out over the beautiful landscape of Raya Lucaria. The entire place shimmered in hues of blue, the delicate glintstone spires catching the light and scattering it like thousands of tiny stars. It was a city built of sorcery, where knowledge and power were studied with patience beneath the ever-watchful gaze of the moon. From her perch, she could see the enchanted waters of the lake, their surface glittering with ethereal light, as if reflecting the very magic that flowed through the veins of every scholar, every ambitious student within these hallowed halls.
She turned, slipping quietly into Rennala’s chambers. The air was warm and filled with the soft, floral fragrance of the flowers that adorned her sister’s hair from the wedding. Rennala sat before a large mirror, its frame encrusted with delicate glintstone shards that sparkled with a soft, otherworldly light. She was brushing her hair, the long, ebony strands catching the light as they fell over her shoulders, fresh blossoms woven carefully throughout, a remembrance of the recent celebration. Her expression was elated, her eyes lit with a contentment that was rare to see so plainly on her usually composed face.
Rellana’s steps were light as she crossed the room, her own excitement bubbling just beneath the surface. She approached her sister, a bright smile breaking free as she leaned in to catch Rennala’s reflection in the mirror. “Thou art a vision, dear sister,” Rellana said, her voice glowing with joy. “Truly, the fairest lady in all the Lands Between. I must say, I do not think I hath ever seen thee smile so much.”
Rennala laughed softly, setting her brush down and turning to face her. She reached out, pulling Rellana into a warm embrace. “Ah, my sweet Rellana, thou dost flatter me. But I am merely a bride, caught in the whimsical joys of love. ‘Tis the magic of this vow that makes me glow so.”
They lingered in their embrace, two sisters sharing in a happiness that felt as radiant, as though they were kids again. Rellana rarely felt such unrestrained joy, her usual confidence often outweighing her any sense of bubbling excitement. But here, in the presence of Rennala, she could be soft, she could be carefree. It was a moment of pure elation, one she cherished deeply.
After a few more moments of light-hearted chatter, their laughter grew quiet, and the room settled into a comfortable peace. Rellana perched on the edge of the vanity, watching as her elder sister continued to fuss with her hair, the flowers shifting with each movement.
“I met an interesting soul at the ceremony,” Rellana began, her voice softening as she recalled the awkward yet endearing figure she had encountered at the church. “Radagon and Marika’s concealed son; Messmer.”
Rennala paused, her hand stilling mid-motion as she turned to Rellana with a puzzled expression. “Radagon’s son?” she echoed, brows furrowing. “I was not aware Radagon had a son. Hath the Eternal Queen not claimed Godwyn as her sole heir?”
Rellana nodded, understanding her sister’s confusion. “Aye, it surprised me as well. He is not as known as Godwyn, and ’tis clear he hath not the same stature. He is… different. Quiet, almost reclusive, yet there is a certain kindness to him. He told me he shall soon be named Lord of Leyndell, though he carries himself with the air of one who remains hidden.”
Rennala’s eyes softened with interest, a thoughtful smile tugging at her lips. “A hidden son of Radagon,” she mused, her fingers resuming their gentle combing through her hair. “I had thought Radagon an open book, but it seems there are pages I have yet to read. What manner of man is he, then? This Messmer?”
Rellana considered her sister’s question, recalling the way Messmer had looked at her, the awkward tilt of his frame and the quiet longing in his eyes.
“He is… timid, in a way that seems almost at odds with the expectations placed upon him. He carries a burden, I think, though he speaks not of it. There is a shyness, a hesitance, as though he doth not truly believe he belongs in the light of the Erdtree.”
Rennala nodded thoughtfully, setting aside her brush and turning fully to face Rellana. “If he is Radagon’s son, then he must possess some strength, surely. Yet, I hath never heard his name mentioned. It is curious, but I hold no ill will. If he is to be Lord of Leyndell, then I shall welcome him as family, for Radagon is now my husband, and his kin are mine as well. Furthermore, he sounds of a kind nature.”
Rellana’s smile returned, grateful for her sister’s acceptance.
“Thou art ever gracious, sister. I hope thou shalt meet him soon. There is much to understand about him, and I feel… drawn to know him more. He is unlike any I have met in the Golden Order.”
Rennala nodded, her gaze softening as she reached out to gently touch her sister’s hand. “Trust thy instincts, Rellana. Thou art wise and strong of heart. If Messmer is worth knowing, then thou shalt find a way to bring him out of the shadows. And I wish to know more about this surrogate son of mine.”
Rellana squeezed her sister’s hand, feeling a surge of warmth at the elder’s encouragement. As she left the room, the shimmering blue light of the academy reflected in her eyes, and her thoughts lingered on the artistic figure of Messmer. There was something about him that tugged at her curiosity, a quiet strength masked by an air of sorrow. She resolved to uncover the truth of him, to understand the burdens he carried, and perhaps, to offer him a glimpse of the moon’s gentle light in the midst of the Erdtree’s blinding radiance.
————
Messmer moved swiftly through the grand corridors of Leyndell, the golden glow of the Erdtree filtering through the high, stained windows, casting elongated shadows that stretched across the polished floors. He had been summoned by Mother once more, her message delivered with an air of urgency that made his steps quicken. Though he was accustomed to her summons, there was a weight to this one that settled uneasily in his chest. He could feel it in the way the air seemed thicker, the echoes of his footsteps muted as though the very walls of the castle were holding their breath.
When he reached her chambers, he paused at the doorway, gathering himself. The winged serpents retreated, having grown terrified of her. But not Messmer. Never Messmer, for he could recall her gentle touch at his birth. Now that she was both Mother and Goddess, there was some disconnect between the two. But all would be well, as soon as she held him proud as her son publicly.
He knocked lightly, and at her soft command, he entered.
Marika stood by the window, her silhouette framed by the brilliant light of the Erdtree. She was dressed in flowing white robes, her golden hair cascading down her back like a waterfall of sunlight. She did not turn as he approached, her gaze fixed on the horizon beyond the city walls. Messmer's breath hitched as he looked upon her; she was always so radiant, so ethereal, like a vision from a dream that he could never quite grasp. He wondered how his flesh was born of hers.
"Thou art nearly ready, my child," Marika began, her voice soft but hindered with an tone of something sharper. "Soon, all shall know thee as the Lord of Leyndell, son of Marika, the one who shall uphold the Golden Order.”
Messmer nodded, though his gaze lingered on her back, sensing there was more. His heart quickened, the anticipation gnawing at him. He had longed for this moment, to be fully recognized, to have his place secured beside her. Yet, he felt the unease seeping into his bones as he watched her stand so still, her posture taut with unspoken tension.
"But first," she spoke, her voice taking on a more serious, more intense tone, "I must ask something of thee.”
Marika turned slightly, her profile now visible, her expression unreadable. She looked past him, her eyes distant, as if seeing something far beyond the room, beyond the city, perhaps lost in memories that predated him. The silence between them stretched, heavy and expectant, until she spoke again, her voice brittle like glass on the verge of shattering.
“I did not inform thee when we were at your first home; t’was far too brutal for thine youthful soul.” She breathed in. "Long ago, we hailed from a land I removed far from this place," she said, her tone carefully measured. "The Land of Shadow, the Shaman Village in the Hinterland. T’was a simple place, where our kin lived in harmony, where our prayers were not for power, but for peace." She paused, and for the first time, Messmer noticed a tremble in her hands, a slight quiver that betrayed the stillness of her exterior.
He remained silent, his gaze fixed on her. He had heard fragments of her past before, whispered tales of a distant land, but never had she spoken of it so directly.
He watched as she turned fully to face the window again, hands clasped, fingers interlacing as though she were holding herself together.
"The Hornsent ," she whispered, spitting the word out with a distaste he had never heard before. "They despised us, hunted us. They believed our blood, our very flesh, was impure. They revered the Crucible, the blending of all life, and sought to emulate its divinity. But they saw us, my people, as lesser. Not worthy of life, but worthy of... usage."
Her voice wavered on the last word, and he saw her shoulders tense, her grip on her own hands tightening. " They tore us apart ," she continued.
"Men, women, children... all taken, all butchered in the name of their beliefs. Our bodies... desecrated, turned into vessels for their rituals. They sliced us into jars, made us tools for their perverse worship of the primordial. I hath heard my mother beg, beg for mine life," she whispered, her voice faltering as she stared unseeing out of the window. "The cries... the screams... they linger still, like echoes that never fade."
Messmer felt a chill run down his spine, the horror of her words sinking into him like ice. His mind conjured the images unbidden, of villages torn asunder, of lives ended in agony and terror. He saw his mother, young and frightened, running through the smoke and blood, her cries lost in the chaos. His stomach turned, a cold sweat breaking out across his skin. The young man had known pain— it was ever present throughout his entire existence—but this was suffering on a scale he could scarcely comprehend. His heart pounded against his ribs, his breaths coming in shallow, uneven gasps as he looked at her, her outline blurring before his eyes. All of a sudden, he was glad to have carried this heavy weight. Perhaps it took some off her.
"Mother, he whispered, the word catching in his throat, laden with the weight of everything she had endured, everything she had hidden from him. "Why... why tell me this now?"
Marika finally turned to him, her eyes locking onto his with an intensity that made him flinch. Her gaze was fierce, but there was a fragility there, a depth of sorrow that threatened to swallow him whole. She stepped closer, her hand reaching out to rest lightly on his shoulder, the touch as cold as the edge of a blade.
"Because thou must understand," she said, her voice steadier now, though still laced with a quiet, simmering fury. "The Hornsent still live. They continue to thrive, even now, in defiance of the peace I sought to create. Their sins... they remain unpunished."
Messmer's eyes widened, his breath hitching as he met her gaze. The realisation of what she was asking of him settled like lead in his chest, heavy and suffocating. His pulse pounded in his ears, each beat a painful reminder of his own heartbeat, his own existence tied to hers, to the pain she had borne alone. No. No.
"I need thee to kill them all," Marika said, calmly, the soft warmth that had once coloured her words gone, replaced by an unyielding steel. "For justice, for the lives they have taken, for the cries of my kin that still remain heavy in my heart. As these years pass, thou shall train earnestly, until the moment is ready. Thou art my son, and with my blessing, thou shalt bring judgement upon them. Eradicate them, every last one, until not but their lingering cries remain."
Messmer's throat tightened, a bitter taste flooding his mouth, unable to find his voice. He wanted to refuse, to turn away from the path she was laying before him, but the weight of her expectation, the burning need in her eyes, held him in place. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t. He could not even bring himself to rid the mice in the courtyard, instead freeing them into the hedges. He felt his heart hurt whenever he drew blood in any one of his spars.
He couldn’t kill, let alone massacre.
He stood there, his whole body tense and trembling as he stared at Marika. His breath hitched, his vision blurred, and for a moment he couldn’t tell if the pounding in his ears was the rapid beat of his heart or the distant echoes of the screams she had described. The words caught in his throat, thick and heavy, choking him as he tried to muster the strength to respond.
“ No ,” he whispered, his voice breaking on the word. “No, Mother… I can’t… I can’t do this.”
His eyes flickered to the door, to the windows, anywhere but Marika’s piercing gaze. The enormity of her request was too much—his heart clenched painfully in his chest, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. Because he knew, he knew from the moment she had called him to her chamber, he had already been given a purpose. Except this purpose was too much.
“There must be another way,” he pleaded, his voice rising, strained and desperate. “Please… Mother, there has to be something else… anything else.”
Marika watched him, her expression unreadable, and for a long moment, she said nothing.
Then, slowly, she took a step forward, closing the distance between them, and gently, she reached out to him. Her touch was light, almost hesitant, as she pulled him close, wrapping her arms around him lightly. It wasn’t the hard, commanding hold of a goddess expecting obedience; it was the soft, almost fragile embrace of a mother .
Messmer’s breath hitched as she held him, his body stiff at first, then slowly melting into her touch. He buried his face against her shoulder, his fingers clenching the fabric of her robes as if he could anchor himself to her, to the warmth she offered. The familiar scent of her, the blend of soft flowers, not of the Erdtree but of Shaman Village, and something else uniquely hers, filled his senses, and for a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to feel like a child again, safe in her arms, sheltered from the world.
“I am sorry, mine sweetling,” Mother murmured, her voice a soft, quiet confession. Her hand stroked his hair, her touch gentle, soothing. “I know thou art a gentle soul, Messmer. More than any other, I know how much thou feel for others, how thou takest their pain upon thyself. But that is why… that is why I must ask this of thee.” She pulled back slightly, her gaze meeting his, her eyes filled with a sadness that made his chest ache. “Thou art my strongest. The one who endures. And that is why thou must do this.”
Messmer looked at her, his throat tight with unshed tears. He had seen that look before, that blend of fierce determination and heart-wrenching sorrow, and he knew, deep down, that there was no swaying her. She was resolute, unmovable, and though he wanted to keep begging, he knew it would do no good. But most of all, he wanted to cease her suffering.
“Mother…” he began, his voice cracking under the weight of his grief. But before he could continue, Marika lifted her hand, brushing her fingers gently over his right eye. The touch sent a jolt of pain through him, sharp and searing, and he gasped, stumbling back slightly.
Burning agony that had once ravaged his senses flashed vividly in his mind. He remembered the crying; his own, the uncontrollable sobs of a boy in unbearable pain. His right eye missing, swiftly plucked out. He remembered her holding him then, too, her embrace just as gentle, just as soft, but her eyes filled with the same unyielding resolve. The day she put the seal in his eye. The day she granted her grace upon him.
Messmer nodded, his movements slow, reluctant. He swallowed hard, trying to force down the lump in his throat, the dread that clawed at him from the inside. He wanted to say more, to protest, to refuse;
But above all, he was Messmer, son of Marika.
He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stand straighter, to meet her gaze with the semblance of resolve, even if his insides were still twisted with fear and doubt.
“There is no other way,” Marika repeated, her voice low, final. She cupped his face in her hands, her touch cool against his skin. “Thou art my son, and I need thee to be strong. For me, for our people, for the justice that must be wrought. Thou canst not falter. There are still plentiful moons before the cleansing; train hard, train fierce . When the time comes, do not hesitate.”
He nodded again, this time more firmly, though the motion felt like it might break him. He would do it. He would do anything to make her happy, to see that look of approval in her eyes, to feel her embrace again. If this was what she needed, if this was what would ease the sorrow she carried, then he would bear it, he would do as she asked, no matter the cost to himself.
“Yes, Mother,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “For thee… I will do it. Anything… to satisfy thee. To satisfy our fallen kin.”
Marika smiled, a faint, bittersweet curve of her lips as she pulled him closer, her hold tender, yet unyielding. Messmer closed his eyes, leaning into her touch, the warmth of her presence a brief comfort amidst the storm brewing within him. He would do it. He would bring justice, he would be her blade, her instrument of vengeance. But as he stood there, held in her embrace, the faint memory of wailing echoed in the back of his mind, and he knew that even if he succeeded the burden of what she had asked would never truly leave him.
————
The clash of steel echoed behind the castle of Leyndell, a rhythmic sound of strikes and parries that filled the air with the cries of combat. Messmer spun his spear in a wide arc, the flame-shaped blade gleaming as it cut through the space between him and his favourite opponent. The weapon, gleaming with the light of the afternoon sun, was a gift from his mother—a weapon forged with divine delicacy and destined for war. The evening sunlight caught the edges of the intricate patterns carved into the metal, feeling foreign and heavy in his hand. He gripped the cold haft harder, palms sparking with embers in an attempt to warm the handle.
There were the marks of the serpent on it. Blasphemous to the Erdtree; Mother had bestowed this weapon upon him in secret, whispering that he must not tell anyone. That he must command this war with his own name.
Across from him, Gaius, his brother in arms, leaned against his pet boar, young but supported with its master’s hard-learned magic, a sturdy creature with a bristly coat. The rider’s legs, frail from the base of his albinauric heritage, were carefully draped over the boar’s broad back, his hands resting easily on the beast's hide. Despite his physical limitations, there was a vibrancy in Gaius that his best friend envied—a spirit that burned bright, unrestrained by the frailty of his body.
He pressed forward, leaning into his strikes with an exuberance that was hard to match. Each thrust of the other’s blade was accompanied by a burst of energy that sent dust and pebbles scattering, his boar snorting and digging its hooves into the ground to keep pace with its rider’s aggressive tactics. The other found himself constantly on the defensive, his spear whipping around to block and deflect Gaius’s relentless barrage. Despite his best efforts, the other’s sheer vigor was overwhelming; there was a fierceness in the way he fought, a fire that burned bright even as his legs threatened to fail him. This was a warrior, lacking the fake mask that fronted Messmer’s ferocity whenever he wielded his blade.
“Come now, Messmer!” the Albinauric called out, a wide grin splitting his face as he urged his boar into a tighter turn, circling the other, the creature sharing the same glint of virtue in his eye. “I’ve seen thine strikes hit harder—is thee holding back on me? Surely thou wouldst not be so cruel as to take it easy on piteous Gaius, eh?”
The prince gritted his teeth, eyes narrowing as he focused on Gaius’s movements. He could feel the strain in his arms, the weight of his spear growing heavier with each swing. He wasn’t holding back — not intentionally — but the energy radiating from the young man was hard to match. Messmer tried to find an opening, watching the way he manoeuvred on his boar, the slight hitch in his movements where his legs failed to fully respond. It was a small weakness, but one that he knew he could exploit if he timed it just right.
”A certain loss that we cannot make use of the courtyard. Thine guards wouldst flay me alive,” the Albunauric laughed, shifting his boar out of the crusted, cracked dirt behind the castle. “But I’d not trade this life for anything. Imagine, Messmer, the two of us at the head of a great army, fightin’ side by side! Oh, what tales we’d weave!”
Messmer nodded as he tightened his grip on his spear, feeling the muscles in his arms burn as he met Gaius’s attack with a counter of his own. He ducked under a swing of the blade, his spear lashing out with a quick thrust that Gaius barely managed to deflect. The boar skidded to a halt, its flank heaving as it turned to face its opponent again. For a moment, the two combatants locked eyes, the intensity of the fight mirrored in the set of their jaws and the gleam in their eyes.
The taller of the two saw his chance and lunged forward, his spear slicing through the air with a ferocity that would’ve intimidated the wielded just a few months ago. Gaius’s blade came up just in time to parry the blow, but Messmer didn’t relent. He pressed the attack, each strike of his spear aimed with careful intent, forcing the two to retreat with a leap backwards.
“There, that is more like it!” He cheered, his voice breathless but still full of that indomitable spirit. “Keep that fire ablaze!”
Messmer thrust his spear one last time, the blade stopping just an inch from the other’s face. He froze, his breath catching in his throat as he stared at the deadly point hovering so close. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, the back of the castle quiet save for the heavy breaths of the two sparring partners. Then, the young man let out a loud, hearty laugh, clapping his hands together in genuine delight.
“Well done, friend!” Gaius exclaimed, pulling back with a broad grin. “You’ve gotten better, truly! That was—well, that was something else! As if the very essence of battle has been carved upon thee!” He clapped his hands, still beaming with pride, as if Messmer’s victory were his own.
The winner pulled back, lowering his spear as he tried to steady his own breathing. Despite his friend’s praise, a sense of unease lingered in his chest, a heaviness that dulled the edge of his victory. Gaius, ever used to his companion’s self-concealing nature, noticed the shift in Messmer’s demeanor. He tilted his head, studying the redheaded man with a look of genuine concern.
“What’s troubling thee, Messmer?” He asked, his tone softening, the playful energy dimming as he looked at his friend with concern. “Thou seemest distant. Is something the matter?”
The young man hesitated, his gaze dropping to the ground. He turned the spear in his hands, hoping the weight of it would be a small comfort as he struggled to find the words. It provided the opposite. Finally, he glanced up, meeting the other teenager’s expectant eyes.
“I..am not sure if I am to say.”
“Thou are my dearest friend; my brother. No judgement shall I let upon thee, nor any fear should you harbour. Please.”
Seeing the honesty in his bright, wide eyes, the taller man shuffled nervously, rubbing his arm.
“Let these words upon not a soul,” he whispered.
The Albinauric nodded firmly, looking at his friend with intensity.
“…In few years,” Messmer began, his voice low and unsteady, “I am to be sent to the Land of Shadow. To the race of the Hornsent… I am tasked to—” He swallowed hard, the enormity of his mission catching in his throat. “To end them. All of them.”
There was a vile silence in the air, thickened by anticipation. The redhead looked down, shame suddenly washing over him. He was certain, beyond the darkness of his orders, the very thing Gaius must be disgusted at was his inability to hold true to his heart.
But his friend’s expression softened, sympathy mingling with a flash of resolve. He slid down from his boar, his movements careful and deliberate, and made his way over. The boar snorted, shifting slightly as its owner leaned on it for support. He placed a hand on Messmer’s shoulder, his grip firm, reassuring.
“Messmer,” He began, his voice filled with earnest conviction. “I know thou art afraid. It is a terrible thing to be asked of thee, I know it well. But thou art not alone in this.”
The lanky boy looked at the Albinuaric, determination written in the crease of his face, his eyes searching his friend’s face. “I cannot ask thee to follow me into such darkness,” he whispered, his voice tight with the weight of his fears. “I do not wish to involve thee… to place thee in such peril on my behalf.”
Gaius squeezed Messmer’s shoulder, his expression unwavering. “Thou needest not ask,” he said firmly. “For I will follow thee of my own accord. I cannot, and will not, let thee face this alone. If thou art to march to war, then so shall I. As thy friend, as thy brother in arms, I shall stand by thy side, no matter the foe.”
Messmer’s grip on his spear tightened. He had always admired the young man’s courage, the fire that drove him to fight despite the disapproval that tailed his every moment existence. Shunned by all, yet still persistent. And now, faced with that same unyielding spirit, he could not bring himself to dim that light.
“Brother,” the young man began, his voice softer now, touched by a quiet gratitude. “If… if thou art truly willing, then… I would have thee at my side. As commander of my men.”
The man grinned, his eyes alight with determination. “Then it shall be so,” he declared, his voice glowing with certainty. “Together, dear friend, we shall face whatever comes. And we shall do it with not honor, but loyalty and understanding.”
Messmer nodded, the lingering dread in his chest easing, if only slightly. With such a warrior beside him, the path ahead seemed a little less daunting. Just a little. And yet, a new fear blossomed in his heart. Gaius; a best friend, a brother, a kindred spirit who would stand by him, no matter the darkness that lay ahead; he prayed that the disgrace of his touch would not befall his dearest friend. One of the few who saw past his treacherous, disgusting frame, who seemed to peer into something deeper.
Even if Messmer himself was not quite sure what.
————
Rellana stood before the grand doors of Leyndell Castle, the golden light of the great Erdtree casting a soft glow over the entrance. She hesitated, smoothing her short, dark hair with a classy motion as she took a steadying breath. The vastness of the golden palace loomed before her, its towering spires and gilded walls exuding a sense of overwhelming majesty that made her feel quite small in comparison. Her heart beat a little faster.
Having insisted she be the one to collect Radagon’s belongings to move back to Liurnia, she had hoped, secretly, that she might catch a glimpse of Messmer.
She knocked lightly, the sound of her knuckles on the grand door muted against the heavy wood. It creaked open, revealing two guards in gleaming, golden armor. They eyed her with a hint of suspicion, though their gazes softened slightly at the sight of her robes, marked with the crest of Raya Lucaria.
"I am here to retrieve Lord Radagon’s belongings," Rellana said, her voice firm. "By order of both him and Queen Rennala, I’ve come to collect what is owed."
The guards exchanged a quick look before nodding and stepping aside. One of them gestured for her to follow. "Very well, Princess Rellana. We’ve been expecting someone from the academy. This way."
Rellana followed them through the grand halls of Leyndell, her eyes wandering over the ornate tapestries and statues that lined the passageways. Everything was bathed in the radiant light of gold, giving the space an ethereal quality that was almost blinding. She felt out of place here, in this shining palace that seemed to hum with a heaviness that weighed on her. Once, she had admired the Golden Order; even possessed a shield that paid fidelity to. But as time passed, her loyalties had faded.
The guard stopped outside a highly decorated, grandeous room, gesturing for her to enter. "This is where Radagon kept his personal items," he said. "Take what you need, but do not linger.”
Rellana nodded, stepping inside. The room was different compared to the rest of the castle, but still finely adorned. She spotted the golden sewing kit first, its intricate designs glinting in the light. She picked it up, feeling its weight in her hands—a strange connection to the man she knew only through her sister’s many romanticised tales. She moved around the room, gathering a few other small items: a golden ring, a set of carefully wrapped parchments, a vial of faintly glowing powder. Each piece felt like a fragment of a life she had never truly known.
As she left the room, her eyes wandered down the hallways, noticing the many portraits hanging along the walls. The paintings were detailed, capturing the likeness of each royal figure in all their impressiveness. She saw Marika, resplendent in gold, her eyes soft. Godfrey, the Golden Lineage, his stance commanding and proud. And Godwyn, already looking every bit the young hero that the capital revered. They were all there, captured in eternal poise and glory.
But Messmer’s portrait was absent.
Rellana felt a pang of something—disappointment, perhaps, or frustration. It was as if he was missing, not just from the paintings, but from this world of golden light entirely. He wasn’t here, not really. Despite his birthright, he was not immortalised on these walls, not proudly displayed as his siblings were. She couldn’t help but feel a mix of emotions: pity for his absence, curiosity about his story, and a quiet determination to understand the boy she had met only once, whose gentle nature had lingered in her thoughts.
She turned a corner, still lost in her musings, when she suddenly collided with a figure draped in red. She stumbled back, steadying herself as she looked up—and found herself staring directly into the victim’s startled eye.
Messmer, standing there tall yet unbalanced, flinched, his expression a mixture of surprise and embarrassment. He quickly reached up to adjust his robe, fingers fumbling with the fabric as he tried to smooth it down, his twin serpents hidden beneath the cloth. "P-Princess Rellana," he stammered, his voice squeaking slightly. "What—what brings thee here?"
Rellana took a step back, collecting herself. "Just ‘Lady’ would suffice. I’m here to collect Lord Radagon’s belongings, at the request of himself." She tilted her head, studying Messmer’s face, the faint rose that coloured his cheeks. "Though I confess, I had hoped to see thee as well."
Messmer’s blush deepened, and he glanced away, his eyes darting nervously to the paintings that lined the walls. "I see," he murmured, still adjusting his robes. "Radagon… Yes, he left many things behind. I hope thou hast found what thou sought."
"I did," Rellana replied, her gaze following his to the portraits. The two stood there for moments, awkwardly looking amongst the contrasting portraits of proud warriors, bathed in rays of divine light. Words lingered on her tongue, glancing to her side as Messmer still stood, gaze fixed bashfully upon the paintings.
"Wouldst thou show me the gardens?" she asked finally, her tone feigning a lightness to try and improve the mood. "I have heard tales of their beauty, but never have I seen them with mine own eyes."
Messmer blinked, taken aback by her request. He hesitated for a moment, uncertainty flickering in his gaze, but then he nodded, his expression softening slightly. "Of course, Lady Rellana," he said, his voice still soft. "The gardens are… lovely. I think thou wouldst like them."
They walked side by side down the long, open corridors, the light from outside casting gentle rays through the high windows. The palace hummed with a quiet grandeur, the walls and floors echoing with the soft clinking of distant armors and the murmur of servants going about their tasks. Rellana glanced at the prince occasionally, noting the way he kept his eyes forward, his steps measured and careful. His nervous energy was almost endearing, like he was trying too hard to be perfect.
As they stepped out into the royal gardens, Rellana’s eyes widened. Before her stretched an expanse of vibrant greens and golds, a sea of carefully tended flowers swaying in the gentle breeze. The air was fragrant, filled with the delicate scents of lilies and roses, and the gentle hum of bees moving from bloom to bloom. Trees with golden leaves shimmered under the sun, their branches stretching towards the sky as if reaching for the Erdtree’s light. In fact, every plant seemed to do the same.
Messmer led her down a winding path, pointing out various plants with a quiet reverence. "These are Golden Sunflowers," he said, motioning to a patch of tall, radiating gold. "They turn to face the Erdtree, savouring its embrace as if drawn by its light. Mother says they are blessed."
Rellana smiled, bending slightly to touch one of the sunflower's petals. "They are beautiful," she murmured, her voice filled with genuine admiration. "I have never seen such golden blooms before. In Raya Lucaria, we have flowers that glow with the light of lunar essence. I hath not seen this kind of glow before.”
The man glanced at her, his expression growing a little softer. "Aye, they are special. The gardens were one of the first things Mother showed me when we came to Leyndell. She says they bring peace, even in times of turmoil."
As they continued walking, Rellana noticed a smoldering butterfly fluttering near Messmer’s shoulder. It was a small, flaming creature, its wings glowing with a faint, ember-like red. The butterfly landed gently on his outstretched hand, its tiny wings pulsing softly with heat. Rellana watched in awe, captivated by the delicate creature perched on his finger.
"Look at that," she said softly, leaning in closer. "It is like a little flame, so delicate yet so alive." She marveled at the way the butterfly seemed to trust the lanky man, resting calmly in his palm without a hint of fear. He seemed to emit that safety.
Messmer looked down at the butterfly, his expression softening as he studied the small creature. "They are drawn to warmth," he said quietly. "They say these butterflies are born aflame, serving as kindling for most. It…it seems to fulfil them."
Rellana met his gaze, her smile growing as she watched the quiet exchange between him and the butterfly. There was a gentleness to the redhead that she found strangely captivating—a quiet, unspoken kindness that seemed to resonate even with the smallest of creatures. For a moment, they stood in silence, sharing the peaceful stillness of the garden as the butterfly took flight, its glowing wings leaving a faint trail of embers behind.
After the butterfly had flown away, Messmer cleared his throat, breaking the quiet. He glanced at her, his voice sturdier, yet more tentative. "Art thou… happy about the marriage?" he asked, his question hesitant but sincere. It was the first time he had ventured to ask her something, something that delighted Rellana and her curious demeanour.
She considered his question, her eyes flicking up to the branches that stretched overhead. "I am," she answered thoughtfully. "My sister, she is happy, and that brings me joy. Lord Radagon is a strong ally, and their union means peace, which is something we all wish for."
She paused, turning her gaze back to Messmer, her expression changing. "But," she continued, "I am also on my own journey. I seek something… more. Completion, perhaps. A place where I truly belong." Her voice grew quieter; introspective.
He listened intently, his eyes fixed on her as she spoke.
"It is…not easy, finding where one’s place is in this vast world," he said softly, his voice tinged with a hint of his own uncertainty. "But I hope that thou findest what thou art seeking."
Rellana smiled at his words, feeling a warmth spread through her chest. There was something comforting in his presence, something that made her feel seen, alike to the watchful eye of the moon. She nodded, taking a step closer to him, her gaze steady and sincere.
"And I hope the same for thee, Sir Messmer. Perhaps, in time, we shall both find our peace."
Messmer nodded, his eyes meeting hers with a quiet determination. For a moment, they stood together in the garden, the warmth of the sun bathing them in its gentle glow. It was a simple, fleeting moment, but Rellana could not help but feel her own cheeks share heat with the afternoon.
She sat on the edge of a nearby marble fountain, her fingers idly trailing through the cool water as she inched closer to Messmer. The garden was tranquil, with the gentle trickle of water and the soft rustle of leaves providing a calming music to their conversation. She stole a glance at him from the corner of her eye, observing the way his shoulders relaxed when he thought she wasn’t looking. He was tending to a rose, cradling it in his smooth palm, fingers gliding over each petal as he caressed it with care.
For a moment, the corner of his lips tugged, expression soft and gentle, and in that heartbeat Princess Rellana gazed upon the most beautiful sight she had ever seen in all her life.
His smile, soft and genuine, one so soft she did not think the grandest of art could compare.
But then, something shifted.
Messmer's garment, which he had been nervously adjusting throughout their walk, moved again. Rellana's eyes flicked to the disturbance, her gaze sharpening. For a brief second, she glimpsed something beneath the fabric—two small, green eyes staring back at her, unblinking. They were serpentine , almost luminous in the dim garden light. Rellana’s breath caught, her heart skipping a beat as she tried to make sense of what she’d seen.
Messmer jolted upright with an unexpectedness that contrasted his usually gentle demeanour. His cheeks flushed as he quickly coughed into his hand, his gaze darting anywhere but at her.
“Thou hast spent much time here, my lady,” he stammered, voice tight with nerves. “Mayhaps it is time for thee to return home.”
Rellana opened her mouth to protest, to ask about the eyes, about the peculiar nature she sensed lurking beneath his composed facade, but Messmer cut her off before she could utter a word. “’Twas good to see thee again,” he said hurriedly, his tone polite yet unmistakably final. Without waiting for her response, he turned and gestured for the nearby guards. "Escort Lady Rellana back to her quarters please, ensure she arrives home swiftly and safely," he commanded, his voice regaining some of its usual poise.
Rellana hesitated, her brows knitting in mild frustration. She wanted to argue, to push further, but the look on Messmer's face—a mix of unease and reluctance—held her back. Reluctantly, she nodded and allowed the guards to lead her away, casting one last glance over her shoulder at Messmer. He was already walking in the opposite direction, his movements stiff, almost mechanical, as if every step was an effort to keep himself together.
————
The journey back to the academy of Raya Lucaria was swift, the carriage wheels clattering softly over the cobblestone streets. The princess gazed out the window with a forlorn expression, frustrated their meeting had died too early. As amber transitioned to azure, she looked for the Academy, it’s spiralling towers unmistakable. When Rellana finally stepped into her chambers, she was greeted by the familiar sight of Moonrythill, her loyal knight and chamberlain. The tall, statuesque woman stood by the door, her silver armor gleaming in the dim glow of the glintstone lamps. Her hair, a cascade of fine strands, was tied neatly behind her back, and her eyes, sharp yet kind, immediately softened at the sight of Rellana. They had been friends since their youth.
"Welcome back, my lady," Moonrythill said, inclining her head with a slight smile. "How was thy visit to Leyndell?"
Rellana sighed, shaking her head slightly as she unpinned a decorative brooch from her cloak. "T’was grand, as expected. Yet… different."
Moonrythill raised an eyebrow, a curious tilt to her expression as she helped Rellana out of her cloak. "Different how? Did something trouble thee?"
Rellana pondered her words for a moment, her thoughts still lingering on Messmer and the brief glimpse of those strange, green eyes. "I am not sure," she admitted, eyes thoughtful. "The palace, it is beautiful—grand in every way, basked in golden light. But, I fear that my being was out of place; I no longer hold the same devoted gaze I once showered upon the Erdtree.”
Moonrythill nodded, understanding in her gaze as she led Rellana to a comfortable chair by the hearth. "Aye, the Golden Order’s splendor can be overwhelming. It is a place of power, but not necessarily of warmth."
Rellana smiled at her friend’s perceptiveness, but her expression soon turned pensive. Ushering her into a nearby small room, she shut the door behind her, turning back to her confused knight.
"I met Messmer again," she said softly, almost as if testing the weight of his name on her tongue.
Moonrythill’s eyes widened slightly, a spark of interest lighting them. "The quiet one, son of Radagon, the one you spoke of a few moons ago? What of him?"
“He is…” Rellana leaned back, her gaze drifting to the crackling cerulean flames of the fireplace. “…a mystery," she said, her voice carrying a note of curiosity. "He is unlike any of the others in that palace. There is a somberness to him. But there is more to it—something hidden. I saw something today, something beneath his robes. I cannot explain it, but it felt… wrong."
Moonrythill listened intently, her expression thoughtful. "Thou speakest of riddles, my lady. What didst thou see?"
Rellana shook her head, frustrated at her own lack of clarity. "I know not. Only that it was strange. For a moment, I saw serpentine eyes peering from his garment, but they were not his. And when I looked again, they had vanished. He grew so uneasy; almost afraid."
The chamberlain crossed her arms, pondering the description. "Aye, that is peculiar. There are many secrets in Leyndell, especially within the royal family. Perhaps he bears a burden like no other, something he dares not share."
A tentative nod afflicted the princess’ head, her mind replaying the moment in the garden, the way Messmer had tensed and fled so suddenly. "He carries a heavy weight, that much is certain. I wonder… if I shall ever understand what it is. Oh, my sister in arms, I fear I am lost in the mystery to him.”
Moonrythill placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, her grip firm yet gentle. "Perhaps in time, thou wilt understand. Sometimes the greatest mysteries are not meant to be solved swiftly. But if thy heart is true, perhaps he will let thee in."
"Thank thee, Moonrythill. Thou hast always known how to set my mind at ease." The Carian sister offered her a grateful smile, appreciating the comfort of her friend’s presence.
"’Tis my duty, my lady. And my pleasure. For now, let us rest, and trust that in time, the answers will come to thee."
Rellana nodded, letting herself relax in the familiar company of her friend. Yet even as she closed her eyes, her thoughts lingered on Messmer—the quiet prince with the sad eyes and hidden secrets. And she couldn’t help but wonder what lay beneath the surface, waiting to be uncovered.
And she let herself think once more of his inconceivably gentle smile, the one that made her heart flutter warm.