Thrice? Fabian's thoughts raced, grasping at the threads of understanding. Confusion unfurled within him. What does it mean?
This wasn't Yohana's initial possession of another's body, a fact that seemed to hint at a deeper complexity.
How could such a sequence of events unfold? And why?
With each layer of knowledge that was unveiled, Fabian found himself sinking further into the quicksand of unanswered questions, a cycle of curiosity breeding even more uncertainty.
A glimmer of reassurance shone in the ascetic's gaze. "But rest assured, Your Grace, this ordeal isn't devoid of a remedy."
Fabian leaned into the conversation. "Pray tell, Vicar, what is this solution?"
"The remedy lies in a stone—a Baznite," Jean-Michel revealed, his voice steady. "With this stone in her possession, your sister shall find solace from the curse's grip. It will stand as her guardian."
Fabian inquired further. "And where might I acquire such a stone?"
A simple truth unfolded in Jean-Michel's words. "You are already in possession of it. Your mother, in her wisdom, fragmented the stone and distributed its pieces among her children. When united, their power becomes whole, safeguarding against the curse."
Perplexity furrowed Fabian's brow. "But I have no recollection of ever receiving such a stone from my mother," he confessed. He tried to search his memory but found nothing.
Jean-Michel's voice resonated with unwavering conviction. "Trust that the stones are with you, Your Grace. Sometimes, closer inspection reveals hidden truths."
As Jean-Michel turned to retreat into his chamber, a pause seemed to seize him, as if some forgotten insight had emerged. His gaze fixated on Fabian once more, his words carrying an unexpected directive.
"Your Grace, you must also find him—the exiled prince."
***
The manor nestled within the confines of Ostpreussenthal exuded an air of stillness as if it held its breath in a perpetual hush.
The guards, their presence relegated to the gate, dared not tread upon the manor's threshold. The echoing symphony of silence remained privy only to the maids who navigated its corridors.
Tonight, as on countless others, the manor seemed to embrace an eerie stillness. The exiled prince, a solitary figure, gazed upon the expanse of the night sky.
Supper had been a flavorless affair, leaving a peculiar aftertaste that mirrored the emptiness on his plate.
His chest tightened with a sense of unease gnawing at him—a sensation that perplexed him to no end. Pushing the plate aside, he sighed, contemplating the mystery of his own disquiet.
The tray, now adorned with the remnants of his meal, was carefully positioned outside his chamber door. Dawn would bring the maid to whisk away the evidence of his solitude.
Exile had reduced his existence to this room, its dimensions vast and barren. A barrenness that mirrored the world beyond, the one he had been banished from.
Though he sought refuge in his chamber's confines, at times even the expanse felt like a cage, its dimensions paradoxically constricting.
Through the window, his gaze rested upon the abyss of the cliff. A void devoid of life—no trees, no semblance of existence. The chasm mirrored his own isolation, the prince finding an odd kinship with the void beyond the glass.
"The sky carries an unusual weight today," his voice whispered into the stillness, his words a murmur that seemed to hang within the room.
In a quiet gesture, almost unconsciously, he trailed his fingers along his neck. His head turned slightly as if anticipating the prickling discomfort of a hidden thorn—a sensation born of unease rather than reality.
He knew well there was no actual threat, no possibility of being impaled by the thorns of flowers. His existence was confined within these walls; he was a recluse to the outside world.
His gaze shifted, scanning the room's empty expanse. It was an inexplicable feeling—an awareness of another presence sharing his solitary domain. An intrusion of an invisible entity, a sensation that sent a shiver down his spine.
With a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his being, he pressed his palm against his forehead, as if seeking to alleviate some hidden ache.
"It must be tied to that peculiar dream," he mused aloud, his words a soft admission.
The unsettling nature of the dream had lingered, casting its shadow across his waking hours. The passage of time had failed to erode its impact.
Days had blurred since that haunting dream invaded his slumber. Rest had become a fleeting luxury, stolen away as he often awoke in the heart of the night.
Morning found him more fatigued than the previous night—a cycle of weariness that seemed unending, a waking existence overshadowed by the specter of the dream's grip.
As the sky began to brighten, heralding the impending dawn, the exiled prince gravitated toward the solitary bed. Here, on this side, the sun's ascent didn't grace the horizon, offering only the promise of deeper shades of blue unfurling above.
The distant sounds of the maid retrieving last night's remnants—an empty tray—served as an auditory herald for the arrival of morning.
A slow, deliberate breath escaped him as he closed his eyes, leaning into the anticipation of the forthcoming slumber. A whisper of hope clung to his chest—that perhaps today's reprieve would bring the solace he sought.
However, as his consciousness yielded to the call of sleep, his yearning for respite remained unmet.
The dream, like a relentless specter, reclaimed its dominion over his thoughts. In the realm of blurred images and shifting scenes, a figure stood before him—familiar yet alien, like a memory half-remembered.
It was a girl, her smile radiating warmth, yet her features were obscured by some enigmatic distortion. His hand extended as a desperate bid to clear the veiled layer from his vision. But it clung to her face, refusing to dissipate, and with every step he took toward her, she receded, the chasm between them widening.
"Who are you?" the words, though willed, remained trapped within his throat, voiceless.
A fragment of response reached his ears, shrouded in obscurity.
"–see you–" Her words, like secrets carried on the wind, slipped through his grasp, leaving only fragments behind.
"Who are you?" he implored, his silent demand reverberating within the confines of his mind.
But once more, the silence persisted, refusing to yield answers. Instead, her laughter danced through the air—a melody of amusement that seemed to exist beyond the boundaries of reason.
A strange compulsion gripped him. His will seemed no longer his own as if the dream's strings tugged at his very being. His arms stretched wide of their own accord, enveloping the mysterious girl in an embrace. The lack of control was stark, a realization that heightened the dream's surreal quality.
Questions coiled like tendrils within his thoughts. Why did his arms embrace her? Who was she, this enigma that frequented his dreams without invitation?
A cascade of queries crashed against his consciousness, each one building upon the other. Amidst this confusion, an inexplicable ache clawed at his heart. It was as though the girl held a significance beyond understanding, and this fleeting encounter was destined to be the final one.
The pain burgeoned, a sensation that breached the dream's confines to pierce his slumbering form. Murmurs escaped his lips, the boundaries between dream and reality blurring.
His body writhed in unconscious struggle, attempting to navigate a realm where his control had been wrested away. Fingers clutched at the bedsheet, an attempt to anchor himself as the agony intensified.
A single word, clearer than the rest, slipped through the chaos of his mutterings—"Yohana…"
The name, spoken with an emotional intensity, was a beacon amidst the tumult, a whispered cry that carried a depth of feeling beyond mere words.