Bright sunlight streamed through the windows like a river of real gold, and the guards' confident footsteps echoed in the vast hall, whose emptiness was filled only by a single dais on which stood two thrones: one for the Pharaoh, one for the Prince; one for the father, one for the son; one for Israfil, one for Arenor.

  Arenor... That was exactly the name of Apharia's famous and only heir.

  But when Ife did manage to deal with the pain in her eyes and unclench them, she saw, contrary to her expectations, not Israfil on the Pharaoh's throne; nor Arenor on the Prince's throne.

  She saw the Prince on Pharaoh's throne; Arenor on Israfil's throne.

  A son sitting on his own father's throne.

  His Highness Crown Prince Arenor was dressed in the usual royal robes, which even though they were rare and uncommonly clean for the poor, did not impress her at all — which could not be said for his appearance: his shoulder-length black, slightly curly hair and blue eyes like a clear sky were the most prominent, and consequently the most memorable. Ife couldn't help but notice his pronounced eyebrows and chubby lips, but what caught her attention the most were his long black eyelashes, which she was sure were the envy of not only the girls, but the guys as well.

  At the sight of his appearance, she felt a twinge inside her, just as she had when she had first heard the name 'Airena'.

  But now, in the throne room where her fate was to be decided, Ife paid absolutely no attention to it.

  When the guards brought her close enough to the dais, they stopped and said at the same time:

  "Greetings, Your Highness."

  They bowed at the same time, and then, noticing that Ife wasn't moving, they straightened up and also simultaneously pressed her back, forcing her to do the same and pay her respects to His Highness.

  The men exchanged silent glances as if deciding which one of them would speak, and then, opening his mouth, the second one spoke:

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  "Your Highness, this is that one murderer."

  "That one?" asked Arenor, whose voice spilled softly across the hall — as if it were just a glass and his voice an expensive wine.

  Only now did Ife notice that all this time the Prince hadn't even looked at her.

  He was boredly looking at something in his hand — but what exactly — Ife could not see, because his hand was blocking her visibility, and the height of the elevation on which his—or rather, his father's—throne was located did not help, but only hindered her even more.

  "What do you mean 'that one'?" asked Arenor, stretching out the words. "Are you now elevating murderers to some sort of pedestal?"

  "Your Highness—"

  "Do you mold them into outstanding individuals? Making those who destroy people with animal cruelty into objects of adoration?"

  Ife's throat went dry as the Prince's tone gradually began to lose its initial softness; with each passing moment he grew rougher, harder, until the words leaving his mouth sounded like blows delivered to her without any mercy.

  "Murderers are murderers. They're not 'that ones', they're not outstanding individuals."

  Ife clenched in horror.

  "They're monsters. They're pathetic and filthy—"

  Suddenly he stammered.

  Ife opened her eyes to see why, and saw Arenor's face staring at her; not with hatred or disgust, but with the shock that had so badly distorted his royally beautiful face.

  Ife blinked fearfully, not realizing what was happening. She felt the guards' hands on her body tense — they too had noticed the Prince's incomprehensible reaction. She licked her lips and opened her mouth to say something, but had no time to utter a word when she heard Arenor speak:

  "Are you...? Is that you?..."

  His posture had changed — whereas before it resembled that of a bored cat lazily stretched out on the sun-heated sand, now his body was shuddering so violently that it resembled a man suffering from severe cramps all over his body and trying with all his might not to show it.

  Standing up from the throne, the Prince began to clumsily descend, stumbling and almost falling every now and then, as if every step caused him unbearable pain.

  "It's you, isn't it...?" he whispered in disbelief.

  His face was distorted: but no longer by shock, but by a deep-seated pain that like treasures hidden in the depths of a river came to the surface during a massive storm.

  "Isn't it you, Airena?..."

  The spoken name struck her body like a bolt of lightning, sending electrical charges invisible to anyone else, shaking her entire body. Ife fell to her knees and opened her mouth in a mute scream. Tears came out with such force that she felt them spurt from her eyes like water from a fountain.

  Like the fountain that her brother's blood splashing in all directions was so similar to.

  Irai's blood.

  And then... she remembered everything.

  The visit to the bazaar — which was no different from any other visit they'd ever taken; the rogue merchant who'd wanted to rape her and Irai who'd saved her from a terrible fate in time; their fight with him, the memories that had come up because of it and the immediate application that had followed; Irai's teasing, her slightly too aggressive reaction to it and his sincere apology for the bad joke; his leaving for some surprise, the appearance of the three strange guys and—

  The name.

  The name they said.

  Airena.

  That name.

  That cursed name she'd heard moments before her brother had been killed.

  That's the name those guys were talking about.

  That name.

  The name whose owner was asked to find those guys.

  The name that only one person could know.

  The man who ordered her kidnapping and the man who was responsible for her brother's death.