Nilana awoke in the dark, drenched in sweat, with widened eyes and a severe headache. Memories resurfaced over her head like a steed galloping, creating an inhumanely loud noise. Her headache worsened as she tried to remember the last moments of her being trapped inside the pit. The rising water above her hips, a hand of a man extended towards her, a woman in a cloak helping the white-haired man to pick her up.
Ian...Ian.. He is the one who saved her... again.
The wooden door creaked open. "Thou art awake!" an elderly woman came in holding a tray full of food, a bowl of water and a white handkerchief. She was probably in her late 60s and her smile radiated positivism.
She sat upright on the bed, leaning her back on the wooden headboard, and glanced around.
A small candle lit at a distance atop a wooden desk it attached the desk to an enormous closet. Wax pooled around the small candle. It was almost about to die.
She wasn't in her room.
Was this Ian's room?
A weird sensation washed over her. She was in Ian's room. And Ian wasn't here. How did she even end up here?
"You are?"
"Ye may address me as Aunt Giselle. I dwell nigh Sir Allister's domain. He did commission me to tend to thee, mend thy wounds whilst he tended to matters in the capital for a few suns hence."
A sudden shift to the local Windspirean accent took Nilana aback. It took her a few moments to rephrase what Aunt Giselle said.
"So Mr. Ian won't be here for a few days?"
"Yea, verily." Aunt Giselle put the tray on the nightstand, and extended her palm to rest it on Nilana's forehead. "Thou art in better state now, with thy fever abating. Partake of thy victuals posthaste!" And handed the plate of freshly made bowl of porridge to her.
Puzzled with her words, Nilana looked at her and blinked. "Huh?"
Aunt Giselle pointed at the bowl, then at her mouth. "Eeeat."
So she proceeded to take a spoonful of the white porridge and put it inside her mouth. The aroma of grains and spices intermingles, inviting and tantalizing. The texture, a perfect balance of creamy and slightly coarse, each spoonful a soft embrace to the palate. This was one of the finest porridge Nilana had ever tasted.
While she devoured the porridge, Aunt Giselle went up to the desk and changed the dying candle with a new taper. She lit it with a matchstick, then searched for something. After finding a paper, a quill, and a small bottle of ink, Aunt Giselle returned to Nilana and put them on the side table. "Once thou have finished thy repast, might I ask thee to scribe a missive to Sir Allister, conveying thy reawakening and my vigilant attendance? The esteemed Sir did charge me to dispatch such tidings upon thy waking."
Nilana stared at her confusedly.
Clearing her throat, Aunt Giselle rephrased her words so Nilana could understand easier, "Once you've had your fill, could you jot a note to Sir Allister, letting him know you're up and I'm tending to you well? He asked me to notify him as soon as you're awake."
"Okay... So you want me to write a letter to him?" "Yes."
"Alright." Swallowing down her last spoonful, Nilana put the bowl aside and received the ink, quill and paper. She gulped as she looked down at the paper.
Knowledge of alphabets was always a weak spot for her. Growing up, her foster parents couldn't afford to provide her with any tutor or anything that'd enhance her academic intelligence. Her elder sister had a lowly instructor, who came once a month and demanded 5 bronzes. While her elder sister read, she somehow managed to catch up with some alphabets, vowels, and lettering. But she wasn't that good at it. The only thing she was good at was writing her name on a paper with coal. It came to her naturally somehow.
She held the quill and dipped it in the ink. Holding it right above the textured surface of the paper, her hand shook.
Shaking, she moved the quill, holding all of it inside her palm, like a child learning to hold a pen for the first time.
After finishing what she intended to write, she looked at the end product. Letters scattered with ink across the paper. Only six letters took the whole of the paper, and her little name appeared right beneath the huge letters.
Folding the paper with her two hands, she handed it over to Aunt Giselle.
"This will be enough."
.
.
.
Almost four hours later, at the foreign royals' estate, Ian's attire screamed of elegance and lush. He wore a black doublet with a silver vest. His tan skin and ice-white hair played a stark contrast with each other, which highlighted his impeccably angelic beauty.
He sat on the low cushioned sofa, his posture straight. Sipping coffee off a ceramic cup, he looked outside the vast window panes, the majestic view of the afternoon sky wielded right before his eyes. Despite the heart-warming view, Ian's gaze did not falter, did not show any emotions.
Right across from him sat the duke of the Hermann house of Amadeus and Prince Dylan of the Kingdom of Amadeus.
Duke Hermann kept on blabbering something Ian put aside his ears. Duke's words came out as white noise. While Dylan had a hand covering his mouth, trying his best not to laugh aloud.
"Sir Ian Allister." Duke Hermann called out to him in a stern tone.
"Go on." He motioned his hand, which rested casually on the armrest.
The gesture hit the Duke's ego and pride at the same time. "A deal was made with the King of Amadeus, as I surrendered my holdings to his majesty. Now, should you must insult me by postponing it?"
"Who said I'm postponing it?" His frigid, bitter voice sent shivers down Duke Herman's body. "I simply do not acknowledge this betrothal. I deny it. Postponing comes when I've agreed, and plan to do it later." Sipping the last drop of his coffee, he put the cup on the center table made of glass.
Right then, a messenger in a cloak entered the extensive study of Duke Hermann. The ceiling had its rounds of ancient paintings of gods and angles, while a luxurious chandelier hung a high right at the center of it. The wallpapers and ceramic curved designs screamed lavishness.
The messenger walked over to Ian and handed him a small piece of folded paper. Ian's brows creased as he received it.
"But why so? What does my daughter lack, sir? She's already conceding a great deal by consenting to unite with a humble merchant like yourself. You lack noble blood, after all." Duke Hermann stated.
Not replying to him, Ian opened the folded paper, his furred, strong shaped brows creased more at the monstrosity of the handwriting that overtook the whole paper.
"AM WAKE—NILANA."
A soft chuckle of amusement left his mouth, almost like a whisper which no one heard.
"Because I do not desire your child daughter." Ian replied fast and forward. "And if you are to seek noble blood. He's sitting right beside you. Be done with the deal you struck with His Majesty of Amadeus." Dylan's face of playfulness turned sour instant. His eyes widened panic as he mouthed NO NO. With that, Ian stood up, putting the folded paper in his pocket.
"I'll be taking my leave. Then I ought to attend to urgencies at my humble abode, Lord Hermann. His royal highness, Prince Dylan, will keep you accompanied."
Ian left the gallant spacious study with a powerless Prince and a groom-seeking Duke.