Page 26 of Essence of the Throne

“I’m sure the students will be delighted to see their prince.” Not entirely a lie, though I won't pretend I don't anticipate the backlash I’ll receive for bringing him here.

We step into the main area, and I thank the Angel that it’s empty. Traveling early does have its perks. I lock hands behind my back and pivot to my left, watching as Caspian takes in the space. From a simple look, the guild appears as just a home for the children who do not have one. But with just a little focus, the other purpose of the guild hides in plain sight.

Schedules hang on the wall, one for those who are only students and one for those like me, who have far more blood lust than mere textbooks can satiate. Our schedule is more rigorous than the normal students—we are expected to remain at the same education level while succeeding in combat lessons.

It has always felt like two separate worlds venturing to coexist together. The regular students kept their questions to themselves and paid no mind to the bloodied clothes and skin my side would often return to the guild with. And for that, none of them ever met my blade.

Well, it was mainly at Marek’s request after I threatened Eli a few times and he ran to my mentor crying like the pathetic idiot he is.

“This…” Caspian pauses, his tone hesitant. “This is not what I was expecting.”

I blink. Of course he wasn’t—I know the stories that are told.

“Ahh, you thought that you’d walk right into a dungeon, where there was so little light that you couldn’t see the ground in front of you, but enough light that you’d see layers of bloodstains on the wall from years of us keeping and torturing prisoners.”

His brows scrunch together as he chews on his lip and hums to himself.

“Fucking Aether, you did think that,” I groan, walking through the main room toward the labyrinth that travels through the rest of the building. “Don’t worry, my innocent prince, the dungeon is downstairs. What a waste of space it would be to have it here—and quite inconvenient, as we’re right next to the street.”

“I cannot tell if you’re being truthful or sarcastic.”

I whirl on him, not needing to feign my outrage. “Why would I lie about that? I need somewhere that will hide the screams of those I’m seeking answers from—the main floor is not soundproof and there would be fucking riots if peopleheardthetorture.” I must be in a mood this morning as I continue, my voice sounding as disgusted as I feel. “They may know what this place is, Caspian, but they are not privy to what happens inside its walls. They’re able to sit comfortable in their willful ignorance because they’ve never been forced to witness the truth of what they already know. Until they see it with their own eyes, it doesn’t exist to them and they have no moral obligation to do anything about it.”

I suck in a deep breath before nodding behind me. “Back to our tour.”

I point to the various rooms as we walk, keeping my pace slow so he can take in the details as if there is anything but plain walls and basic decor. Caspian’s gaze lingers on the weapons mounted along the walls of the training room—swords, different sized blades, and spears, each one worn from use.

The prince speaks to me, but my ability to hear is muddled by the heavy weight on my chest when I stare at the mat in the center of the room. When I was here the last week, I refused to spar Desmond in this room. I certainly would not divulge that coming in here would break me just as much as where I’m about to go, so I would make excuses:I need fresh air, we can spar outside. It’s too cramped in there, the common area would suit our needs better.

But seeing it now—it hurts.

I must get weaker by the day. I have not allowed any of the recent events to cloud my thoughts or goals up until the last few days. It’s as if the block I spent years building is crumbling, fallingapart one grain at a time, letting in fragments of things I would kill to never think about again.

And here? There are far too many memories clinging to each of the walls. The weapons. The fucking mat. My fingers twitch with the urge to grab a weapon, to relive the motions that are instinctive at this point.

As a child, this room was my entire world. This was the place where I’d learn everything I needed to get justice for my father. This is where I would look into the eyes of each person that I fought and imagine they were the king’s. My rage built this into what it is today as I spent more time in here than I did elsewhere. Years of marks and chips line every surface of the room, where they will remain long after I have left the realm.

This was what kept my mind from falling apart—it may have been fractured, but everything that happened in here was the glue holding those pieces together, offering me a purpose in this life.

This is where Isaiah and I had our happiest memories.

And I never want to see it again.

I spin to stalk back through the door with the prince on my heels, barking out places we pass but allowing him no time to discern all the minute pieces of the past that created who I am now. Before I realize, I’m standing in front of a bedroom.

Not mine. The one next to it.

“You will wait here.” My instruction to the prince is barely audible, but harsh enough that he doesn’t question as I push open the door to my best friend’s room and step inside. There’s a faintclick as the door closes, leaving me alone in the space I forbidanyonefrom entering—including Marek.

I wasn’t planning to ever see the walls of Isaiah’s room again, but he had always kept ourhunting gear—as we’d call it—and I need the supplies for my trip through the forest.

Our trip, I remind myself. Stubborn fool of a prince.

My chest tightens, but I force myself forward. This is not a time to be weak. Not now, not here.

The room feels colder than I remember, and I shiver as bumps raise along my arms. I take a slow, deliberate step forward, my eyes skimming over the familiar chaos Isaiah never bothered to tidy. Books are scattered across the floor, some still open to pages marked with smudges of ink—likely from nights we spent scrawling notes when Marek insisted we complete our assigned schoolwork.

My gaze drifts to the corner of the room, where a faded towel hangs over the back of an old wooden chair. It’s streaked a dull, muddy brown, the color uneven as if someone had tried to wash out a stubborn stain but gave up halfway. I chuckle—he was always so messy.

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