There are three emotions that Finious never ceases to feel. They drum through his veins like poison, spreading their signals to every vulnerable part of his body, leaving him unable to respond rationally to many situations. His tutors called him a noxious bomb that was one wrong phrase away from shattering and expelling venom strong enough to cap an entire kingdom.

His father was sure to inform them that if they failed to make Finious into his noxious bomb, they would all face terrible fates. And so, he was taught, through rigorous rituals, to hide the trembling in his fingers. He figured out how to keep the heat from entirely claiming his neck and face. And while those three nasty emotions backed up in his system, Fin imagined everything he would do to the world when he stole the crown from his sister.

He pictured his father’s face as his bodiless head dripped purple onto the dining room table. He smiled at the thought of his sister, her absurd and normally stoic face shedding tears for the first time in her life. He reveled in the imaginary feeling of thousands bowing before him.

And he trained.

He trained so hard, that even he had yet to understand what he would become.

“Mm, must I go now?” A warm hand drags along his chest as the woman to his side shifts. Her head raises, her silken hair caressing his skin like a warm waterfall. “It can’t be later than six, my prince.”

Heat claims him, a scowl twisting Finious’ features just like that. His hands fly out to capture the wrists of the woman rolling in his bed, his face rearing up into her own. “Do not call me that.” The vein, usually hidden by his brown hair, throbs. He hates that word, that title.

Prince.

Only the projected heir to the throne is given their own title of Lord or Lady. The worthless siblings, the ones thought to be so weak and feeble that they could never even dream of competing for the crown, instead have their titles tied to the throne. Prince and princess, for eternity. Disgraces that have their lives tied to the will of the ruler.

She might as well be calling him a no one. A nameless, weak thing. “Okay, my Lord. I’m sorry!” He releases her wrists, causing her to roll from the bed with a loud squeak.

“Yes, you must go now.” The first prince rises as he picks his rolled cloves off his bedside table. His fingers fumble for a match, tucked safely inside its small box. He strikes it just as Gwen finishes donning her nighttime shift.

Finious’ head tilts as he appraises her. Taking a drag, he waits for all the smoke to leave him before speaking, “You really are quite beautiful, you know.” And she is. If Gweneth was born the daughter of a Lord or Duke, hell, even a high mage, he might have felt comfortable being seen with her.

Unfortunately for herself, beauty does not buy you status in Hillanta. Only the crown can do that. Finious watches from behind the blue plumbs of smoke as Gwen’s face falls, her hands clutching the remains of her clothes. She understands the tone underlining his words.

What he hadn’t said but had really meant was that her beauty was wasted, a pathetic gift from the gods that wouldn’t even grant her a modicum of true power. A hiss flies from Finious’ mouth as his clove burns the tips of his fingers. Gwen is at his door before he can reach out to snatch her. “Farewell, Prince Finious.”

This is when it bubbles up.

Emotion number three.

Anger.

And he can do nothing but breath heavily, his fists balled, as it sinks into his skin.

Simio grunts, only able to spin enough to just barely lessen the impact of Finious’ fist. He spins, turning into the impact and falling low enough to dodge the next punch that comes his way. His hands raise, just slightly, his only showing sign before he casts. Fin feels a tugging on his dominant leg and is planting face first into the ground seconds after.

He rolls, the leg that wasn’t tugged, spinning out to trip the man now dancing around him. Simio jumps, skipping over the kick like it was nothing. “Come on man, what’s up with you?” He stops his hopping to look over his friend fully.

Finious is back up, his fists balled and his posture tense. “Nothing.”

Simio’s hands raise, and Finious finds himself on the ground again. “Eeeh- wrong. What’s up? You don’t normally let me wipe the floor with you.” Simio, formerly known as Slimy Simy, is Finious’ longtime partner. Fin’s rites came when he was eleven years old, and as an amplifier, it’s important to have a controlled statistic to measure up against.

The day after his rites, all the noble boys his age and size were lined up, and he was to pick one to be his academic partner. Simio’s been around ever since, his designated royal punching bag. “Shut up!” Finious stands, one hand going to his neck and the other going to run over his hair.

Simio loses his defensive posture, his head tilting. “Good gods! It’s about that girl again, isn’t it? Only Mal knows why you keep running to her when you could have any-” He stops when he meets his friend’s eyes. His hands raise as he takes a step back. “Okay, got it, I’ll shut up.”

There was something about Fin’s eyes that always took Simio aback. He could never figure out if it was the utter lack of something, or the presence of too much that made him want to call for his mother. Either way, he knows when he should back off. He clears his throat as Finious sits on the ground, his hand dangling between his bent knees.

“She’ll come back man.” Simio speaks up with a tossed hand. “She always does.” And that’s the truth. No matter what Finious does or says, Gweneth always comes back to him. Under the shadows of darkness, her kind eyes narrowed with apprehension and exhaustion, she always makes her way back to him.

But he’s not so sure this time. She has never abandoned herself like she did this morning. Gwen has never used her power on him before. No matter how angry he got her, no matter what names he called her or what insults he implied, Gweneth has always remained calm in the face of them.

But… “She burned me.” He looks to his purple fingertips. Simio hisses at the sight of them.

“Shit, you must have really pissed her off.” Gwen is a Noliver, an obscure devotee of the practices of Nolin, one of the first children of Mal. He had believed, that while the gifts he was given by his mother were to be revered, they should also be both nurtured in solitude and reserved for certain practices. He only practiced his abilities on his and his mother’s birthday, and it was said that his restraint made him even more powerful.

Nolivers are a very small group of religious practicers, consisting of mostly naturalist sourcers, that still uphold his values. They preach control and moderation, so for Gwen to break her vows to her devoted god just to scorch the tips of his fingers… She must be angrier than he’s ever made her before. Which is strange, since he said so little.

She takes her religion very seriously, and an infraction like this could cost her dearly within her coven. Finious doesn’t know if something like this can be forgiven. Simio sits next to him, a sigh falling from his lips. “Well, there’s really only one thing you can do, man.” Fin’s head raises to observe his friend. “You’ve got to go find her. Better you talk to her now than sulk about it until night falls. It’s not like you don’t have her entire schedule memorized anyway.”

He rolls to avoid Finious’ fist shooting out. “What is it with you amplifiers?! It’s always punch first and ask questions later.” It doesn’t matter that the advice came from Slimy Simy of all people, as it’s still legitimate advice.

He stands and his friend scrambles away, anticipating another attack. “I’ll talk to you later,” Finious throws over his shoulder as he walks out of the northern gardens. Gwen is the daughter of the First Royal Healer. She typically spends her mornings picking herbs from the medicinal gardens and helping her father attend to the small medical center.

Fin has about an hour before he’s to join the rest of the royal family for lunch, so if Gwen hasn’t changed her schedule, he figures he’ll find her attending to the medical stores right about now.

The walk is brisk despite the size of the manor. Or perhaps he’s walking faster than he normally would. He clears his throat as he steps into the medical center, the casting stone attached to the door frame turning green as he passes it. “I’ll be right with you in just a moment!” He hears, and the tension melts away from his shoulders.

She’s here.

When she exits the back storeroom, her hands are filled with small potted plants. She’s likely going to store them at the sides of the patient beds to grow and be clipped as needed. “If you could just sig-” Her eyes raise, and she stops speaking as soon as she sees him. Her nose crinkles at the corner, but other than that, she offers him nothing.

Gwen places the plants on the hosting counters as Finious steps up. She wipes her hands on her apron before bowing, both her hands to her chest. “I greet the first son, Prince Rinafi.” It’s when she doesn’t raise from her bow, that the severity of this situation seems to hit the first prince.

He sighs. “Rise Gwen.”

She does. “As you wish, first son. What can I help you with today?” He looks around at the room that’s absent of sourcer life. Fin always finds it strange that even in her later years, she still chooses to work here. Her father is a soul naturalist, specializing in the healing of the body, but Gwen has a rare talent.

Because the first son of Mal was born an earth naturalist, they’re the most common of sourcers. Naturalists in general are the most populous. Their specialties always fall into one of the five elements, and fire is the rarest of them all.

Gwen was born with the ability to manipulate fire despite both her parents being soul elementals. Since Finious first set his eyes on her, he got this feeling. It’s an inkling that continuously tells him that despite his royal lineage, Gwen’s power is stronger than his own. If she wasn’t such a devoted Noliver… If she actually trained and used her abilities more than three times a year, Gwen would ascend to the rank of high mage in no time.

His fists ball up. If she could just- “Prince Finious, what can I help you with today?” His eyes travel back to her own.

His fists unfurl. “I didn’t mean to make you angry, this morning. Forgive me.” Her brown eyes narrow, just the slightest.

“That does not make the situation any better, Prince Finious. Would you like to know why?” She braces both her hands on the counter, her head tilting to regard him. Had her hair not been tied into a bun at her nape, Fin knows it would have fallen to shade her eyes. “Because if you did not intend to make me angry, then that means you intended to degrade me.”

He takes a step back, because that isn’t what he had wanted to do. He had just… He had… He… “And while that was not the first time that you have brought me down bring yourself up, it is the first time that you’ve gotten so thoroughly underneath my skin. It starts with just the smallest of sparks.” Her eyes flicker to his hands. “You have taken many things from me, Prince, but you cannot have my faith.”

Then she leans away from the counter and picks up the potted herbs, her expression saying the words it would be too improper to speak aloud. Finious watches, his neck heating, as she puts on her prettiest customer service smile. “If you don’t have a medical problem for me to solve, please see yourself out, first son.” She bends at the waist again, for a brief bow, before resuming her duties.

And Finious is overcome with the second emotion that always seems to sit with him, regret.