Nonexistent

THIRTY-NINE- Zepher

THERE'S something I cannot quite put my finger on.

Crumpled pieces of parchment paper are scattered over my desk, and an ancient map of Valburn tenderly lies beneath the dusty mountains of borrowed books from the library. I carefully remove it from the bottom of the pile, and examine the wide sheet that once lay between the yellowed pages of a history book in the library. Laying it flat on the desk, I analyse the map. To the right of the Valburn is the representation of Westwind, and its size never fails to blow my mind.

It's about thrice the size of Valburn.

Rumours among the Merchants overseas report that Westwind has been stocking high amounts of ammunition and food, and they'd be ready for our next assault. Without a doubt, Westwind could easily overthrow Valburn in one gentle swoop. But I can't stop myself from wondering what exactly is stopping them.

Of course, only the Monarchs have control over the military. I merely scoff in my head and roll my eyes. They wait, like predators eyeing their prey, analysing and studying their movements, observing who makes the first move, and we're simply their bait.

How sly of their king.

With a compass in my left hand, I start to sketch another battle strategy. Opening another book from the pile, my fingers slowly turn its worn pages, almost riping one in the process. In and out, my eyes desperately comb through the small writings and ancient text, studying and reviewing the victories and losses of Valburn.

"Has the young Master eaten breakfast? The King is getting impatient," I overhear a servant loudly whisper through the shut doors. My knuckles start to whiten from the tense grip on my pen, and I ignore the rumbling of my stomach and scribble furiously. I've been at it all night, just searching for more effective ways of attacking the forces of Westwind. An ache starts to morph through my skull, and it shamelessly pinches its way to back of my head.

A migraine, out of all days.

"I don't know, dear," an older and more authorative voice answers. "Once he puts his heart into a task, he won't stop until he has succeeded. He's probably going to skip lunch as well." A silence breaks through their converstaion, then the older woman pipes in again. "Just leave him be. The lad's a hardworker, and he's the prince. He'll come and swing by when he feels like it." And with that, the pitter-patter of their footsteps softly fade down the hall.

An exhausted sigh escapes my lips, and I start massaging my tired temples. The soothing does help a little, but it does nothing to ease the gnawing pain. And for once, my body seems cold and stiff, as if it has been stripped away from the warmth of my fire. I press my back against the leather bound seat behind me, my muscles contracting in relaxation, finally feeling a bit more human.

Treasuring the moments on cloud nine, I serenely close my eyes and just stay like that for awhile. And before I know it, my exhaustion has caught up with me, and it takes over my body, drifting me into something that seemed so foreign yet so comforting.

Sleep.

-------------------

My head snaps back into reality as the vigorous grumbling of the earth jolts me from my slumber. I'm looking around, and I feel my body slipping off my seat while piles of books tumble to the ground. Clouds of dust swish through the air and into my nostrils. It's getting harder to breathe by the second, and I find myself staggering to get myself out of my room.

With one hand gripping tightly on the door frame, I hear several booming crashes echo from the distant hallways, followed by shrill cries of fear and dismay. I rush out of the room, just in time to see a small chandelier plummet down towards me. My hands defensively raise up to brace my neck from the imminent impact as the chandelier crashes down the marble floor. With two meter radius of tiny crystal shards surrounds me, my body cries in pain from the small cuts on my back and arms. I painstakingly get up from the position, only to see a colour of bright crimson on my cut-filled hands. They trickle with fresh blood, and I trace it from a small gash down my side.

Damn it.

I touch the wound and jerk from the sting. But it's no time to dwell on such things. I get up and look around, observing the discord in the palace.

Servants are scattered everywhere, running and hollering wildly in chaos. Some crash into me, and as I catch glimpses of their terrified eyes and shaken appearances, and another slab of the ceiling comes collapsing above me. But just before the impact, my blonde hair lights up into a blistering inferno of oranges and reds, mirroring my rage and pain. I manage to convert the feelings into power, blasting the concrete and exploding the thick slab with a swoop of the flames burning in my palms into ash and tiny little pieces. 

What on earth is happening? A quake? 

Or... worse--

"Prince Zepher! This way, Your Highness," a guard rushes me down the dilapidated hall. I'm about to follow... before something hits me like a bolt of lightning. With an immediate change of plans, I'm desperately running towards the opposite direction, my heart pounding in striking terror.

Please, please be alright.

I ignore the frantic calls from the guards behind me and dash straight to where I need to be.

Straight to the library.