The Prince of Peculiar Plights

Whispers of the Hexwyn

The static was still a low, jagged thrum behind Valerian’s eyes when the first light of dawn began to bleed through the heavy curtains. He hadn’t slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the ghostly warmth of Isolde’s hands and the terrifying weight of Mirabelle’s words: She’s your executioner.

A sharp, insistent rhythmic rapping at his door broke the suffocating silence of the room.

"Val? You decent? I’m coming in whether you’re dressed or not."

Renald Curseborne didn't wait for an answer. He pushed the heavy oak door open, his usual easy-going smirk replaced by a look of frantic intensity. He was holding something wrapped in a piece of stained velvet.

Valerian sat up, rubbing his face. "Renald? It’s barely dawn. If this is about the wine bottles from yesterday, I already told my father—"

"Forget the wine, Val. Look at this." Renald tossed the velvet bundle onto the bed. "Found it in the servants' quarters. Behind the coal chute in the West Wing."

Valerian unwrapped the cloth. Inside lay a heavy, tarnished silver locket. It was cold to the touch—unnaturally so—and a faint trail of black, crystalline salt leaked from its hinges.

"Black salt," Valerian whispered, his heart skipping a beat. "Theodric mentioned this. He said the witch left trails of it in the slums."

"It’s more than just salt, Val," Renald said, pacing the length of the rug. "I saw one of the kitchen maids trying to polish it. She said she found it tucked into a crack in the wall. When she touched the metal, her fingers turned blue. Not like cold-blue, but like... ink-under-the-skin blue. She’s in the infirmary now, screaming that her hand doesn't belong to her anymore."

Valerian stood up, his cloak discarded. "Elsinora. She’s not just in the city. She’s inside the palace."

"That’s what I figured," Renald said. "And if she’s here, she’s not here for the catering. We need to find where this came from before the Council Guards catch wind of it. If they find witch-tracers in your wing, they’ll use it as an excuse to lock you down for good."

"We need Caelum," Valerian said, grabbing his boots. "If we’re going into the service tunnels, I want someone who can actually swing a sword without tripping over their own ego."

"Ouch. I’ll let that one slide because you look like death warmed over," Renald muttered.

*

They found Caelum Dreadmont in the training courtyard, his practice blade a blur of silver against a wooden dummy. The big man didn't even break a sweat when they approached, though he stopped the moment he saw the look on Valerian’s face.

"Lord Morcant," Caelum greeted, his voice a low rumble. "You’re up early. Or you never went to bed."

"No time for the 'worried bodyguard' routine, Caelum," Valerian said, holding out the locket. "Take a look at this. Renald found it in the West Wing."

Caelum leaned in, his eyes narrowing. He didn't touch it. "Magical residue. It’s thick. It smells like... ozone and rotted lilies."

"Exactly," Renald added. "The maid who found it is losing her mind. We think the witch is hiding in the lower levels."

"The servant passages are a maze," Caelum said, wiping his brow with a towel. "If she’s been there long enough, she’ll have set wards. It’s not safe for you, Valerian. Your magic is... volatile right now."

"My magic is always volatile, Caelum. At least this time, I have a target," Valerian snapped. He felt the static flare at his fingertips, a brief spark of orange light jumping to the silver locket.

"Whoa, easy there, Sparky," Renald said, holding up his hands. "Let’s keep the internal combustion to a minimum until we’re actually underground."

"Follow me," Caelum said, his tone turning professional. "I know the entry point in the West Wing. If there’s a trail, I’ll find it."

They slipped into the shadows of the palace’s underbelly, moving past the bustling kitchens and into the narrow, damp corridors used by the invisible army of servants. The air here was heavy with the smell of coal and old stone.

"See that?" Caelum whispered, pointing to the floor. "The dust. It’s been disturbed, but not by a boot. It’s like something heavy was dragged, or someone was walking without putting weight on their heels."

"Or someone in a very long, very tattered dress," Valerian muttered.

"You're doing that brooding thing again," Renald whispered as they pushed through a narrow iron door. "What happened last night? Theodric said you went to the marshes, and Isolde looked like she’d seen a ghost when I passed her in the hall this morning."

Valerian tightened his grip on his cloak. "The seer told me things, Ren. Things about the 'Anchor.' About what happens when she stops my surges."

"And?"

"And she thinks Isolde is a void. She thinks every time she touches me, she’s pushing the magic back in, letting it eat me alive."

Renald stopped in his tracks, nearly causing Valerian to collide with him. "You’re kidding, right? The girl has been the only thing keeping you from turning into a human supernova for weeks. You really think she’s trying to kill you?"

"I don't know what to think! All I know is that when I’m with her, I feel better, but the magic... it feels heavier the next day. Like a debt I can’t pay back."

"Listen to me, Val," Renald said, his voice unusually serious. "Witches and seers? They thrive on doubt. They feed on the cracks in people's heads. Don't let some old hag in a swamp ruin the one good thing you’ve got going."

"Focus," Caelum hissed from the front. "The trail is getting stronger. Look at the walls."

Valerian looked up. The rough stones of the tunnel were beginning to change. The mortar between the bricks was glowing with a faint, sickly violet light, and the air was vibrating with a low-frequency hum that made his teeth ache.

"It’s a resonance," Valerian said, his voice shaking. "It’s matching my frequency."

"Is that a good thing or a 'we're all about to die' thing?" Renald asked, drawing a small dagger.

"It’s a 'we're close' thing," Valerian replied.

Caelum stopped in front of a section of the wall that looked no different from the rest, save for a small, circular indentation in the stone. He looked at Valerian. "The locket. It’s a key, isn't it?"

Valerian stepped forward, his heart hammering against his ribs. He pressed the tarnished silver locket into the indentation. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the black salt began to pour out of the locket like water, dissolving the stone beneath it.

The wall didn't just open; it melted away, revealing a hidden room that shouldn't have existed according to the palace blueprints.

"Well, that’s not ominous at all," Renald muttered, peeking over Caelum’s shoulder.

They stepped into the laboratory. It was a chaotic mess of glass vials, piles of ancient parchment, and strange, humming machinery made of brass and bone. In the center of the room, a large vat of glowing emerald liquid bubbled softly, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls.

"Look at this place," Caelum said, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "This isn't just a hideout. This is a workshop."

"It’s a nursery," Valerian whispered, his eyes fixed on the far wall.

The wall was covered in drawings. Not sketches of spells or maps of the city, but portraits. Dozens of them. They were all of the same person, at different ages.

"Val... is that you?" Renald asked, his voice dropping to a shocked whisper.

Valerian walked toward the central frame. It was a large, oil painting, the colors still vivid despite the dampness of the room. It showed a child of five or six, sitting on a high-backed chair, wearing the Morcant family crest. The boy was smiling, his eyes bright and full of life, before the marks of the Awakening had ever touched his skin.

"It’s me," Valerian said, his voice barely audible. "This was painted before my mother died. My father told me the original was lost in a fire."

"Why would Elsinora have this?" Caelum asked, his eyes scanning the room for threats. "Why would a witch who hasn't been seen in twenty years be keeping a gallery of your childhood?"

"Because she wasn't just watching me," Valerian said, his fingers brushing the frame. "She was studying me. Look at the notes on the side."

The edges of the portrait were covered in cramped, spidery handwriting. Vessel 04. Stabilization required. Static resonance at 40% capacity. The Veyrana bloodline remains the only viable containment. The seal must hold until the Forge is ready.

"Veyrana bloodline?" Renald asked. "She’s talking about Isolde’s family. They’ve been planning this? For twenty years?"

"It’s a setup," Valerian growled, the static in his blood beginning to roar. "Everything. The 'accident' at the dinner, the Council hiring her, the way she just happened to be the perfect match... it was all part of a script."

"Valerian, wait," Caelum warned, sensing the shift in the air. "Don't let the magic flare. We don't know what’s in those vials."

"I don't care!" Valerian shouted, his eyes glowing a fierce, rhythmic orange. "She lied to me! She’s not my anchor, she’s my keeper!"

The door to the laboratory creaked open.

A figure stood in the threshold, framed by the dim light of the servant passage. She was breathless, her hair disheveled, and her gown torn at the hem as if she’d been running.

"Valerian?" Isolde whispered.

She stepped into the room, her gaze sweeping over the vials and the bubbling vat before finally landing on the far wall. The moment she saw the portrait of the young Valerian, the blood drained from her face.

She didn't look confused. She didn't look surprised.

She looked absolutely horrified.

"No," she breathed, her voice trembling. "Not this again. Not here."

Valerian turned to her, his hands sparking with uncontrolled energy. "You’ve seen this before, haven't you, Isolde? You knew this room was here."

Isolde didn't answer. She walked toward the painting like a woman in a trance, her hand reaching out as if to touch the face of the child in the frame. "I thought... I thought we had more time. I thought I could change it."

"Change what?" Valerian demanded, stepping into her space. "Isolde, talk to me! What is this place? Why does a witch have a portrait of me as a child?"

Isolde looked at him, her eyes brimming with tears that she refused to let fall. "Because that’s not just a portrait, Valerian."

"Then what is it?"

"It’s a map," she whispered, her voice breaking. "And I’m the one who drew it."

The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush the air from their lungs. Valerian stared at her, the woman he had begun to trust more than his own family, and for the first time, the static in his head went completely silent—replaced by a cold, hollow dread.

"You drew this?" Renald asked, his dagger held loosely at his side. "You’re just a scholar, Isolde. You’re nineteen. This painting is fifteen years old."

Isolde didn't look at Renald. She kept her eyes locked on Valerian’s. "I'm older than I look, Valerian. And I’ve been trying to save you since the day you were born."

A loud, metallic clack echoed through the room as the door they had entered through slammed shut, the iron bolts sliding home of their own accord.

From the shadows behind the bubbling vat, a raspy, melodic laugh drifted toward them.

"Oh, how touching," the voice croaked. "The bird has finally found the cage she built."

Valerian spun around, his magic surging in a violent wave that shattered half the vials on the table. "Show yourself, witch!"

But the room remained empty, save for the flickering shadows and the terrified look in Isolde’s eyes.

"We need to leave," Isolde said, grabbing Valerian’s wrist. Her touch didn't dampen the magic this time; it felt like a cold shock of reality. "Valerian, please. If she’s here, the ritual is already starting. We have to go now!"

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me the truth!" Valerian shouted.

"The truth?" the witch's voice echoed from every corner of the room. "The truth is simple, boy. You’re not the hero of this story. You’re just the fuel."