The Prince's Rival
The sword called Sacred slashed against its rival.
Clang!
The brave prince swung the blade several more times at his foe.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The other knight parried each slash, matching the prince’s movements, step for step.
“You will not defeat me,” the prince screamed, putting all his weight into another slash. “Surrender your neck, fiend! Your demise will be swift, and nearly painless.”
The armored knight blocked each of the prince’s blows, but said nothing to counter his words.
The audacity of such a soldier! How dare he oppose a prince! He has no allies, no armies, nothing but a sword and a thirst for defiance!
The sword Sacred, forged of pure silver and bejeweled with two rubies and three emeralds, hummed a dissonant lullaby. Its sounds normally comforted the prince, but here in this fight, the blade’s music only added to the chaos’ cacophony.
In truth, the prince had never faced this knight before and his father’s kingdom wasn’t in war. Before the duel began, the last thing the prince remembered was his wandering in the forest. He had been hunting the ever-elusive red rabbit. Its magical properties would not only feed him for weeks, but its skin would give the prince even greater prestige.
Lost in the woods near the kingdom’s border, the prince remembered tales of thieves and rogue knights. Those that dared flee to the shadows and resist the rule of order.
The red rabbit dove into a small pond and disappeared. When the prince had approached the pond, the knight appeared, the fog retreating and revealing his hiding.
He dared draw his weapon on his prince! He dared oppose his superior, and he dared upending the entire order of the kingdom!
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The longer they fought, the more the prince was consumed with hate. And the more he lost track of time.
The prince paused, and so did his enemy. He waited, ready to counter the knight’s next attack, but he remained still. After a few minutes, a splash. The sword had fallen from the knight’s hand.
Now’s my chance. The prince screamed and stabbed, but the moment the blade touched the knight’s skin, the knight shattered, body as a pile of glass. The prince exploded in a pile of shards as well, unable to speak or react—body gone, spirit frozen.
A third of an hour later, a lone figure trekked through the woods and stopped at the edge of the pond.
The man wore a dark hooded cloak. Shadows obscured his face, but a long pointed beard protruded from within the hood’s shadow. Beyond his sleeves, two pale, bony hands and pointed, palms forward, at the pile of shards. The glass stirred, and the pieces floated and began to swirl. For a minute, the lone man allowed the cloud to whirl in circles, pieces clanking with every collision. He then waved his hands like an minstrel troupe’s conductor, and the pieces began to reassemble, like a flat puzzle. As each piece fit together, a glow of magic fused the glass, until the pieces merged into one: A standing, rectangular looking-glass.
The prince’s body was imprinted upon the mirror’s surface. And the glass, though perfectly reflective, was colored with a dark crimson tint.
The hooded man, called "the Enchanter," spoke.
“Foolish, foolish Prince of Vaamtomae. Your blood-stained glass window—a mirror. The next knight you fight will fear the seer’s sight. How easily did you forget that the sword Sacred wasn't forged for bloodshed?”
Sacred emerged from the pond and floated to the Enchanter, hilt resting in his hand. The sword hummed a quiet melody, its refrain carried by the breeze. The Enchanter sheathed the sword on his right side, picked up the mirror with both hands, and hiked deeper into the woods.
