Chapter 257: Lysara
Morgan remained rooted to the spot.
She...she could see him.
Every vision he’d had until now had played out like an old memory.
Up until this point, he had been nothing more than an spectral observer, merely gazing upon the distant past and the events that had occurred in this bygone era.
He’d been a phantom.
Simply wandering through what he assumed was another person’s past or rather...a different time.
No one had acknowledged his existence.
Except...that man on the battlefield. The progenitor.
And now—this woman.
Morfan felt his pulse quickening, his heart beating steadily on his chest.
"What is going on..." he whispered.
"Prince Modric, is everything alright?"
The beauty asked, siddling closer to him.
Morgan stiffened slightly, his expression turning slightly colder and impassive.
He hesitated, then tentatively turned towards her.
"... you can see me?"
The woman’s eyes widened slightly, then she laughed softly, shyly covering her mouth.
"A rather peculiar question, Prince Modric."
Suddenly, a wild thought slowly formed in his mind.
If she could see him, didn’t it mean then that the rest of them could see him as well...
He subconsciously took a step back from ledge, then quickly regained his composure.
Just then a storm of memories flooded his mind.
Morgan reeled back.
Then—a wave of searing pain exploded, piercing through his skull.
For a split second his vision turned completely white.
He staggered, one hand flying to his temple as countless memories burst into existence, crashing into his consciousness with overwhelming force.
"Bloody hell..."
A small boy sprinting through endless palace gardens, laughter echoing behind him as a young girl desperately tried to keep pace.
"Wait for me!" She squealed delightfully.
His eyes widened slightly.
"Lysara?!"
Suddenly, he knew the name of the woman standing next to him.
He suppressed the urge to blurt her name out loud.
The lady, Lysara immediately noticed his distress.
"My prince, are you alright?"
Morgan raised a hand, stopping her approach.
"I’m alright. It’s nothing of consequence."
Morgan struggled to make sense of the catastrophic flood of information flowing into his mind.
A stern man in flowing white robes correcting the boy’s sword stance with infinite patience.
The memory vanished.
Another took its place.
This memory was of an enormous throne room.
Rows of nobles knelt in absolute silence while a young Modric stood before an imposing man seated upon a throne carved from white crystal.
His father. The King.
Morgan’s eyes widened in recognition.
The Progenitor?
The familiar golden glow in the man’s eyes was a sight he’d never forget.
He’d recognize him anywhere.
Staring at the figure, even in just his memories, he slowly felt a surge of energy permeate his entire being.
"Father?"
Morgan shook his head, gritting his teeth.
"No! These aren’t my memories. That IS NOT my father!"
He fought the incoming tide of memories.
On one front he struggled to mantain a semblance of sanity.
And on the other, to mantain his sense of self.
The scene dissolved, swiftly shifting to a different memory.
In this memory, he saw books.
Thousands upon thousands of books.
A magnificent library whose shelves seemed to stretch endlessly upward.
And a younger Modric.
This time, Modric sat alone beneath a towering stained-glass window, poring over dusty tomes while an elderly scholar patiently answered every question thrown his way.
He was well learned.
His education was relentless.
History.
Languages.
Politics.
Astronomy.
Swordsmanship.
Magic.
"What is all this..."
The memories shifted again.
This time to laughter.
Morgan saw himself—no, Modric, standing upon the very same balcony overlooking the city.
Beside him stood the same young woman now before him.
Lysara.
She couldn’t have been older than sixteen.
The wind had stolen a ribbon from her hair, sending it tumbling across the courtyard below.
She’d pouted dramatically while Modric laughed so hard he nearly fell over the railing.
"You could have caught it!" She squealed.
"I was far too busy laughing." He replied, wiping away tears off mirth.
"You are impossible, Your Highness." She pouted.
Morgan/Modric smiled, cocking his head slightly and scrutinizing her.
"And yet you continue visiting," he said softly.
Her cheeks flushed crimson and she swiftly turned away.
The memory ended.
Morgan inhaled deeply, closing his eyes then stood straighter.
When he opened his eyes once more, they turned even darker, seemingly relecting the dark shadows around them under the pale moonlight.
The woman—no, Lysara studied his face for a brief moment before her expression softened.
"I suppose you’re nervous."
She folded her hands neatly before her.
"Though that is understandable."
Morgan stared at her blankly.
"Nervous...?"
She nodded toward the city below.
"The entire kingdom has gathered."
Morgan nodded doing his best to mantain what he assumed was his sternest expression.
Only then did Morgan notice what he had overlooked.
The streets were overflowing with people.
Colorful banners fluttered between the towering buildings.
Fresh flowers adorned every balcony.
Musicians tuned strange instruments in the plazas while merchants hurried to arrange lavish displays of food and gifts.
Children darted excitedly through the crowds carrying small carved serpents painted in brilliant shades of gold and blue.
The entire city buzzed with anticipation.
Just then an attendant arrived with a tray of refreshments.
"It has been decades since we’ve celebrated the Day of Covenant on such a grand scale," Lysara continued.
"The people have been looking forward to this for months."
Morgan slowly turned back toward her.
"The Day... of Covenant?"
She gave him a puzzled look.
"You’ve forgotten already?"
He quietly cursed.
It seemed there still gaps in his memory.
A teasing smile tugged at the corners of her lips.
"I knew Uncle was keeping you occupied with council meetings, but I didn’t think he’d worked you into senility."
Morgan blinked.
Uncle...
His father?
His thoughts spiraled.
The woman stepped closer, gently brushing an invisible speck of dust from the shoulder of his ceremonial robes.
"There."
She smiled approvingly.
"Much better."
Morgan looked down at the embroidered fabric.
The robes.
The balcony.
The city.
She truly believed...
No.
She wasn’t mistaken.
To her...
He was Prince Modric.
"I must admit," she said after a moment, "I’ve never seen you this anxious before addressing the people."
Morgan looked at her.
"Addressing... them?"
She nodded toward the immense square below, where thousands upon thousands of citizens were gathering before the palace.
"You are the guest of honor today."
Her smile became almost affectionate.
"After all..."
She paused, her eyes shining with unmistakable pride.
"...the entire realm is celebrating its future king."
Before Morgan could gather his thoughts—
A deep bell rang across the city.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Morgan stared at the city below in disbelief.
"What the—!"