"Bequest" - Chapter 1: The Lateness of The Hour

Content warning: This story contains fantasy violence - Reader’s discretion is advised.

(1,179 words - est. reading time: 5 min. Copyright © 2025, All Rights Reserved by J.E. Maurice - Cover art created with the help of a character base by twitter.com/JURASSlCJAY, and a stock photo of the Devil’s Bridge in Kromlau, Germany.)

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They arrived long after sundown.

They were masked, swift, but unprepared for the additional presence in the room. The wooden door splintered and collapsed under a blunt kick, and the disguised trio came crashing into the chamber. The prince hastily sat up in his bed, an expression of shock flickering across his colorless face.

Then a fifth silhouette in the darkness moved, a pair of luminous eyes accompanying it like twin moons in a starless night sky. The very air around it seemed to ripple like water as it lifted its clawed hands; the three masked militants were violently launched in all directions the moment the unnatural ripple enveloped them. The prince was already out of his bed and slinging a travel bag over his shoulder before they had finished hitting the floor, their weapons scattering.

“You were right, Miro,” he said, lighting an arcane lantern by the bedside. “I didn’t think they’d be this bold, but… by the gods, you were right. You’re always bloody right.”

Mirosaer Zakariah stepped out of the murky corner of the room, charcoal gray fur rustling beneath his cloak, the cold light making his skull-like face appear even paler than usual. He said nothing as he glanced around at the fallen kidnappers, making certain they stayed down. His jackal-like ears angled towards the destroyed door, listening for any imminent steps; his tail swished back and forth like an irritated housecat.

(Concept sketch of Mirosaer Zakariah by ratamok)

“We can take Thalwood Trail, I think,” Prince Vorynth continued, fastening the buttons of his weather-proof cape, his iridescent wings fluttering faintly beneath it. His regal, insectoid face was stoic despite the very slight tremor in his voice; he pulled a hood over his head with his top two arms while his third and fourth arms reached for the lantern, the light glinting off of his white exoskeleton.

He turned his multifaceted eyes to look at his trusted aide, the purple accents on his chitinous hands almost appearing black in the arcane lantern’s blue radiance. He rose to his full, impressive height, and crossed the room with determination. Mirosaer, meanwhile, was still watching the door, as if expecting more uninvited visitors.

“Alright… I’m ready,” said Vorynth. “Let’s go.”

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Their departure from the palace was rapid and uneventful. They met not a single soul on the road due to the lateness of the hour; Vorynth’s anisodactyl feet loudly crunched the frigid earth beneath them with every step, while Mirosaer’s padded strides were almost entirely silent behind him—so silent that the prince kept intermittently glancing over his shoulder to ensure his companion was still there.

“There it is,” Vorynth breathed as they eventually approached Billowskeep River. “Finally. That’s our way out…”

A small boat was pushed up against the riverbank, a figure clad in black standing beside it with a lit torch in his grip. The figure held up his free hand as the duo approached him, signaling them to halt where they were.

“This ain’t gonna work,” he said gruffly, looking between them. They gazed back at him, puzzled.

“What do you mean?” Vorynth inquired suspiciously.

“You, you’re a Kaelari,” replied the stranger, gesturing to Vorynth’s insectoid form. “Easiest creature to smuggle in these parts. No one’ll look twice at you, lad. But him?”

The stranger looked disapprovingly at Mirosaer, as if his very presence was a transgression. “He’s a Nulwynn. ‘Bout as common as blue pumpkins, they are. Folks’ll be starin’ at him wherever he goes. I don’t smuggle Nulwynns.”

“We paid you for two passengers,” Vorynth rebutted firmly before Mirosaer could comment. “And you didn’t mention a rule against Nulwynns before now.”

“Didn’t think I’d have to,” the cloaked smuggler argued, having a difficult time speaking around his own tusks. “They’re so rare, most folks go their whole lives without seein’ one. The last thing a smugglin’ business needs is gawkers, and that’s a fact.”

Vorynth sputtered a few times, his temper rising. He very nearly defaulted to playing the royal authority card to win this debate, but stopped himself in time. No one on the road could know who he truly was; revealing his sovereign identity now would be an unmitigated disaster.

“I can find another way,” Mirosaer finally interjected, his gravelly voice interrupting the other two’s quarrel. “If the fee for transporting me is returned, I will take another path.”

“Alright, done,” agreed the smuggler, riffling around in his travel satchel for the pouch of money he kept there. “Glad someone sees it my way.”

“Miro,” Vorynth said firmly, spinning around to face the Nulwynn. “No. Absolutely not, I’m not leaving you here.”

“You have no choice,” Mirosaer answered in a hushed voice. “We have no time to waste. And… he makes a reasonable point. I draw attention everywhere I go, just by the nature of my appearance. There will be eyes everywhere, and we cannot afford to draw their gaze to you.”

“But… what’ll you do on your own?” Vorynth asked slowly, his voice faltering. “Miro, I… I need you.”

Mirosaer’s ivory faceplate remained unmoved, as always, but a flash of sadness danced through his eyes. He felt his heart ache sharply at hearing those words, but he steadied himself with a slow breath through his nostrils.

“We will not be apart for long,” he said, taking one of the prince’s smooth hands in his own. “We are traveling to the same place, only separated by different roads. I will never be far from you.”

He glanced at the smuggler, who had finally retrieved the money pouch from his satchel, and was slowly counting out coins for the refund.

“And… I will come see you along our way when I am able,” he added quietly, his muzzle attempting the faintest trace of a reassuring smile. “You have my word. Just do not tell the smuggler about it. I suspect he will dislike any trace of my presence.”

Vorynth nodded, letting out a shaky breath as the smuggler approached them with the reimbursement. The prince stepped back as Mirosaer relinquished his hand.

“Give it to him,” the insectoid said to the boar, gesturing to Mirosaer. “He’ll need it for his own journey out of here.”

The smuggler obliged, plopping the coins into Mirosaer’s padded palm, and made his way back to the boat, grunting with every step. He vaguely muttered something about “amateurs,” but said nothing further to either of them. Vorynth slowly pulled his Nulwynn companion into a tight hug with all four of his sleek arms.

“Promise me you’ll be okay, Miro…” he said, his voice catching in his throat, as if there was an uncomfortable lump lodged there.

Mirosaer returned the embrace, wrapping his arms around Vorynth’s torso, and allowing his head to rest momentarily against the Kaelari’s broad chest. In the same gesture, he covertly slid the smuggler’s refund into the prince’s travel bag, the gently clinking coins inaudible over the flow of the Billowskeep River.

“I promise,” he replied simply. “I am more than capable of taking care of myself. You will see me again, sire… much sooner than you think.”

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— End of chapter —