The air was thick with the stench of bruised fruit and mocking laughter. Raisel, bound tightly to the rough wood of the pillory, kept her gaze fixed on the uneven cobblestones, refusing to give Prince Allerick the satisfaction of her pain. Her silk blue dress, a gift from her father, was now a tattered, stained mess, a cruel testament to the morning's unexpected turn.

Just hours ago, she had been helping Queen Solandis, her pleasant routine at the castle uninterrupted. Then Allerick had arrived, his privileged swagger a familiar irritant. His possessive grasp, her defiant push – it had all spiraled into this public humiliation, a grotesque spectacle for his smirking friends.

"This is not over yet, Raisel," Allerick had snarled, his voice a chilling promise of future torment before he stormed off. Later, released by a grim-faced guard, she mouthed "Miscreants!" at their retreating backs.

Seeking a moment of peace, Raisel retreated to the castle's quiet back courtyard, drawn by the familiar large well. As she neared, hushed whispers drifted on the breeze. King Aldrich's panicked voice, then the insidious calm of Vangelis, speaking of something called the "Heart of Magic." A tremor ran through Raisel. Her father had spoken of that. And he had never returned.