Elías de Medina

He loved his parents. Loved.

Nothing about that morning suggested the world was about to end.

The sun rose quietly over the hills, casting golden light through the mullioned windows of the royal chambers. It spilled across the polished floor, warming the chill of early spring. The young prince awoke beneath the linen canopy of his bed, as he always did, to the familiar sounds of soft footsteps and rustling cloth. A servant entered with his breakfast on a silver tray: figs and dates, honeyed bread and warm goat’s milk with cinnamon.

The castle was as it had always been: quiet, noble, steeped in age and privilege. By the tenth hour, he made his way to the tutor’s chamber near the eastern wing. The room smelled faintly of parchment and beeswax. His instructor, a gray-haired man with sun-darkened skin and sharp eyes, spoke at length about the recent peace talks between León and the Taifa of Toledo. The boy nodded, absorbing only fragments.

When the hour turned and the bells tolled noon, the prince walked to the dining room, expecting the usual rhythm to continue: his mother already seated at the carved walnut table, his father arriving a moment later with his customary stride. He sat, waiting for the meal to be served.

But ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. No servant entered. No footsteps sounded down the corridor. The air felt still, heavy.

He rose, confusion shifting into annoyance. “Where are the servants?” he muttered aloud. “And where are my parents?”

He strode into the corridor. The halls, usually alive with motion and murmurs, were eerily silent. No guards at their posts. No distant laughter from the kitchens. Not even the rustle of maids’ skirts.

His pace quickened. Down stone corridors, past statues and cold alcoves, he hurried toward the royal wing. A strange chill crept into his chest. The silence wasn’t just wrong, it was suffocating.

Then he smelled it. A coppery tang, faint but unmistakable. He pushed open the great wooden doors of the royal chambers. And the world unraveled.

His parents lay sprawled on the blood-drenched floor, their lifeless forms twisted and broken. The tapestries were soaked crimson and a cold wind drifted in through the shattered window. His mother’s eyes stared up in horror, her body collapsed across his father’s chest, as if she had tried to shield him even in her final moments. His father’s hand clutched a dagger, though he hadn’t managed to use it.

And at the center of the room stood a figure cloaked in black, face hidden beneath a dark hood. Their tunic was soaked in blood, his parents’ blood.

The prince froze. The figure turned slowly toward him. They stared at one another in a moment that stretched into eternity. Then the killer moved. He ran.

But the assassin was faster. Boots slammed against the stone floor as the murderer launched forward. The prince barely made it to the hall before he was struck down. Pain burst across his chest as he hit the ground. The assassin landed on him, driving a knee into his ribs. Before he could scream, a dagger flashed and plunged into his side.

He gasped. His body arched against the sudden, searing pain. Hot blood gushed from the wound. The assassin raised the blade again.

But something ancient and primal surged through the boy. Pure survival instinct. He twisted and with every last ounce of strength, drove his knee into the assassin’s chest and kicked hard. The blade slipped from the killer’s grip as they stumbled back.

He scrambled to his feet, hand clutched over the gushing wound in his side. He ran, breath ragged, vision blurring. He barely registers the pain. Down the long corridors. Past familiar doors now warped by horror. Servants lay scattered along the floors, some with blood pooling beneath them. Guards too. No one was spared.

He ran through the outer gates, across the frost-tipped gardens and into the wooded trail that led to the nearest city. His side burned. His tunic clung to him, soaked with blood. He could barely breathe.

Branches clawed at his face as he stumbled through the forest. He tripped once, twice but still pushed forward. He didn’t stop until the towers of the city rose beyond the tree line, distant and wavering like a mirage.

Then everything spun. He collapsed. Darkness swallowed him.

—

When he awoke, the pain returned before the world did.

His eyes opened to a dimly lit chamber. A fire crackled softly in the hearth. Rough stone walls. The scent of lavender hung in the air. He lay in a narrow bed, a rough woolen blanket drawn to his chest. His side throbbed with agony, tightly bound beneath layers of linen soaked in healing balm.

A nurse sat beside him; a plump, middle-aged woman with careworn hands. She dipped a cloth into a basin and pressed it gently to his brow. “You’re lucky to be alive,” she said softly. “You were found just beyond the city wall. Half-dead. The cut was deep, nearly took you.”

But he barely heard her. Her words blurred. His thoughts swirled with images of blood. His mother’s empty gaze. The glint of the dagger. The assassin’s grip on his arm. The pain. He jerked suddenly, as if the memory struck him fresh. The nurse pressed a calming hand to his shoulder. “Shh... you’re safe. No one followed you.” He wasn’t so sure.

What if the murderer knew he survived? What if they were already hunting him?Waiting for him to be alone again? He couldn’t stay. Not here. Not in a place so open, so vulnerable.

He sent word to the only people he could still trust: the de Alarcóns.

They were a noble family of Aragonese descent, long-time allies of his house. His parents had always spoken warmly of them, trusted them. When the young prince arrived at their gates; pale, bloodied, barely able to stand, they received him without hesitation.

They gave him rooms in the secure upper tower. A physician tended to his wounds daily, inspecting the long cut across his side with grim care. Riders were dispatched to investigate the castle ruins and pursue the killer. Extra guards were stationed at his door. No one entered without permission.

But the prince couldn’t sleep.

Even with heavy doors and guards at his side, his dreams were haunted. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the chamber, the blood, the blade, the mask. He’d wake gasping, heart pounding, hand pressed to the wound that refused to heal.

He stopped eating. Refused to speak to anyone but the physician. Paranoia grew like rot inside him. He flinched at every noise, avoided every mirror. His eyes, once bright with youthful curiosity, dulled.

A week passed.

Grief hollowed him out. His body remained weak, still healing. His spirit, too, was bleeding.

Then one evening, as the last light of day faded from the sky, he stood beside the window, staring into the dusk. Somewhere below, servants lit lanterns along the garden path. He could hear the soft murmur of voices, distant and safe. It felt like a dream. Like another life. He turned back to the bed. Trembling. And at last his body gave in. He collapsed.

Not out of peace, not because he wanted rest, but because he could bear no more. His limbs buckled. His breath slowed. And darkness took him. It was the first time he’d truly slept since his parents died.