Chapter 1

His mother used to say he had blessed hands.

She would grab onto his hands and open up his palm, tracing onto the lines as her soothing voice explained the workings of palm reading. The traces she had made usually gave him a sense of comfort, and also a ticklish sensation.

At the time, he was thrilled at the idea of learning new things on the topic, so she would go into detail as she went on tracing. Her finger would usually linger on the faint crease that went across the middle of his palm.

"This is the fate line, Rafael," She muttered, her hand concentrated on the curved vertical crease. "It changes based on the path your life has taken."

He brought the index finger of his bandaged right hand onto his left palm, tracing unsteadily as each gallop of the horses shook the carriage. He wondered if his fate line had changed. He could barely remember what it had looked like when he was a kid. Even now, he could hardly see the places he had felt his mother's touch anymore.

His father's opinion of his hands were completely different, however. He would refer to them as too soft or not fit for a prince. Each time Rafael heard that, another gashed wound would end up on his right palm.

He closed his eyes and rested his back to the carriage, taking in a deep breath as he tried to control his respiration. 

Stay calm, his thoughts cautioned. Stay calm.

Soon enough, the carriage came to a halt and Rafael slowly opened his eyes. "We have arrived, your high—" He heard the coachman pause as he realized what he had said. 

Right, he was no longer a prince. Rafael reminded himself. This was his place of exile.

The carriage was only the last token of respect for a former prince. There would be no trace of his mother left to treasure. Only scars, creases and memories he did not wish to recall.

He glanced at his scarred hand once more. Hands that were once fragile and small, were now long and slim, yet still so soft to the touch. Such innocent looking hands, yet so dreadful.

Perhaps, his father would be glad that his son's hands would never see the light of day again. He turned to the discarded black gloves that sat next to him and then picked them up. The thin, leathery fabric stiff to the touch as he wore them, buckling after he had fully donned them.

Too bad his 'blessed' hands couldn't bring his mother back to life.

***

He was led through from the large golden gates into the magnificent palace walls by two male servants. They had simply picked up the little belongings he had brought with him and then asked him to follow them.

The halls towered over him as they passed through each corridor. The walls were made of marble and the flooring of parquetry. This palace was more expensive looking than the one back in Elfmale.

It hit him. His home. Or at least, his former home.

Even if most of his life, he had been isolated from the entire kingdom, it was still his birthplace and his origin. He would be separated from all that till the heavens know when.

They had made it clear that the exile would be a long one, maybe until he was of old age. But if he somehow had a chance to return, the only person he would want to see there was his brother. His lovely, naïve youngest brother, Kidan. They weren't born of the same mother but he was the closest Rafael had to being family. His mother had died immediately after birthing him and father had isolated him, just like he had with Rafael.

Rafael had wished he could take him along. He wasn't quite sure what life would be better for Kidan. A life filled with comfort but with a fierce battle for succession? Or a life with little to no comfort but with his brother?

He remembered the last conversation they had before he left the kingdom. The boy had sobbed bitterly, tears running down his face as he struggled to make out words, "Y-You'll come back s-soon, r-right?" The boy sniffed, his pleading eyes red from over-crying and his puffy cheeks stained pink. "You'll come back for me, right?"

Kidan was a little less than 10 years old, he could hardly understand why his beloved brother was leaving him. But he still trusted Rafael, and Rafael did not wish to disappoint him. Blinking away his own tears, Rafael bent down to Kidan's level before wiping off the streaks of tears on the little boy's face. "Of course, Kidan. I'll be back for you."

"You promise?" The boy stuck out his pinky finger in Rafael's direction, urging him to link his.

"I promise," Rafael muttered, linking their two pinkies together. He hoped Kidan wouldn't be mad when he wouldn't be able to keep his promise.

They took a right turn and then a left turn soon after, making him wonder if he would end up getting lost in the palace some day.

They reached the front door of a long passageway and the servants paused their steps.

"This is your room for the time of your stay. You will need to meet the King as well, to offer your greetings," One of the servants said after he had turned to look at Rafael.

He did need to pay his respects to the King. Afterall, he was the only one willing to accept him. Even after his own father had abandoned him.

***

Rafael opened up the giant doors with anxious gloved hands, allowing himself into the large throne room. He could barely focus on the decor, a furnishing of gold with a mix of vibrant red fabric, as he felt himself slowly become suffocated. His eyes went for the throne, high above a tall flight of stairs. It was bright yellow of gold just like the rest of the decor, but embellished with several jewels. Quite fitting for the King Emperor of Avene, a prosperous country with deep rooted foundations and several other countries conquered from their won wars. It was very unlike his father's small, but growing country.

Quickly stooping down before the crowned King, Rafael placed one of his knees to the parquet tiled ground, his eyes fixed downwards. He stretched both arms out with palms open and then placed both hands to his head before bowing his head to the floor in greeting. It was the customary greeting of his people to rulers.

A sudden realization came to Rafael as he became aware that one of the most powerful rulers in the world was about to address him.

Now he wondered what the King thought of him, an exiled prince, abandoned by both his father and his country. Would he look at him in disdain? A first born prince who could not persuade his father to keep him. Or perhaps, did he have a pitying look on his face? A child who had lost his mother and had been forced out of his country due to rumors.

Rumors that even he believed.

"Look up, child."

Rafael raised his head this time, taking in the appearance of the older male. His hair was a golden blond color, just like his beard, with wisps of gray here and there. A few crinkles on his face showing that he was indeed of advanced age. And then, he was met with piercing, sharp blue eyes. The King barely betrayed any emotion, an inexpressive face seemingly not affected by emotions. There was however, a hint of curiosity laced in with the impassiveness, that was almost hard to decipher. An intense gaze staring right back at him made Rafael turn his head away, as he focused on the adornment of the throne instead.

"Do you understand why you are here, son?" The King questioned, his voice a huge echo throughout the vast room. The authoritative tone in his voice was enough to give Rafael chills to his bone. 

Rafael clenched his gloved hands tight. Bowing his head down once more in a bid to avoid the gaze placed on him, he replied, "Yes, Your Majesty." 

"You are here to pay for the sins of your mother, child." As the words caught Rafael's ears, he could feel the nausea begin to swallow him up once more. A long shadow drawing closer and closer before fully covering him. 

"You are welcome to stay, as long as you keep your hands covered, boy," The King said, his eyes pointedly resting on the gloves that shielded Rafael's hands. "As you are a prince, I shall give you the privilege of treating you as one."

***

The suffocating feeling, along with the nausea, grew after he had closed the doors. He stumbled over his feet, blurred eyes swimming in a pool of red as he tried to walk steady. He paused his steps for a while, pinching the bridge of his nose as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to regain his impairing sight.

It wasn't the first time this had happened to him. He recalled the several times he had felt this. It usually started with his throat tightening as if to keep him locked down to the things he wanted to run away from, and then, it only sets him free after the past reminds him of his troubling memories. Just like a tormenting ghost.

He could still remember. The vile, metallic stench of old blood as it dried on the hard ground, his mother being the owner of said pool of blood.

"Mother... Mother..." Memories of his wails resounded in his mind, as he shook the corpse that lay on the floor. His throat slowly began to feel constricted. His hot stomach acid bubbled upwards, almost spilling out, burning his throat and loosening him from the death grip. He sprinted off, hand closed over his mouth as he tried to outrun the grief that weighed him down as fast as he could. He barely registered the shoulder that had bumped into him.

The moment he found a washroom, he emptied out his guts in the sink, not leaving out any grain he had forced himself to eat the night before. Then he rinsed out his hands before cleaning up his face. He finally coughed out, heaving and then breathing in.

It was all in the past, yet his mind and body did not seem to realize that. Each time, fragments and pictures of what he had witnessed at the tender age of 7 would resurface in his mind. All his father did was call him weak. 

He really wished he could bury it all, but what child would see the corpse of his own mother and not be traumatized?