The market of Thyra was bustling with activity, as it was every summer. However this year there was a new crowd among the throng. Many of the royals had ventured out from the Inner Hall to join in the activity. They halfheartedly browsed the wares of various vendors, but they were all there for one reason: Gorman prisoners. Word had gotten out that the Thyran knights took captives during the war against Gorm, and they were on their way back to sell them to the royals as slaves. Naturally, the royals responded quickly. Owning a large number of servants reflected wealth and power, and each of them wanted to display their importance to the commoners and to their competitors.

Down the road, horse-drawn carriages bounced along the road leading into the marketplace. They were far from the comfortable, luxurious ones used by the royals. Crudely made of splintering wood and encircled by iron bars, their presence could only mean one thing. The prisoners had arrived. Heads turned one by one as people began to take notice of the carriages, and the crowds parted to let them pass through. The royals pressed in as closely as they could to get a look at the Gorman prisoners crouching behind the bars. Their eyes were lit with greed.

The carriages halted beside the large wooden platform upon which hangings were executed. Today, however, the platform would be used as a stage for the slave auction. The royals crowded at the base and fidgeted impatiently as the prisoners were dragged roughly out of their iron cages and forced to stand in a line along the back of the platform. Their hands were bound with coarse rope that rubbed and left angry red marks on their wrists, and knights were stationed at all the nearby exits. There would be no escape for the Gormans, even if they tried to run.

After all the captives had been organized, one of the knights stepped forward with a scroll. His gaze swept over the audience and he cleared his throat.

“Fellow Thyrans,” he said, projecting his voice loudly, and then paused as the conversations among the royals slowly faded. “We return bearing good news. The war against our enemy, Gorm, will soon be over.” There was an eruption of cheers and applause. “The knights return victorious. We come bearing riches for our king and slaves for the rest of the Inner Hall.” He paused as there was another round of applause. “So without further ado, let’s begin.”

The knight began to call numbers from the scroll he was carrying. One could assume that the Gormans were assigned individual numbers, because each time the knight read one, a prisoner was lead forward by one of the other nearby knights. Then the chaos would begin. Any royal interested in buying the captive would shout out his price until only the highest-paying buyer remained. The newly enslaved prisoner would then be led off the platform to be taken away by his or her master.

During the bustle of activity, no one noticed the short, pudgy man pushing his way through the crowd. He carried a heavy satchel in one hand and a scroll in the other. He shoved his way past the royals to get to the front of the pack. Once there, he peered up at the platform and turned visibly paler. There was only one prisoner left, a young Gorman girl.

“Excuse me,” he began shouting frantically. “Excuse me!”

The knight gave the little man a look of disgust. Who did he think he was to interrupt the bidding? Nevertheless, he gestured for the new arrival to speak.

“My name is Esben,” the man said. His voice was tight was nervousness as all eyes turned on him. “I’m here in place of the King. I-I have proof.” He waved the scroll in the air. “The King’s seal is in here.” He handed it up to the knight, who unfolded in to verify that he was telling the truth. After a moment, the knight nodded in appeasement.

“I also have money,” Esben offered the satchel. The knight took it and opened it up. His eyes grew wide at the number of gold coins inside.

“Well, I assume this means the last prisoner goes to the king,” the knight said with an avaricious grin. The remaining royals grumbled in irritation and started to disperse. The other knight led the remaining captive down from the stage. He gave Esben a scrutinizing look.

“I will accompany you back in case she tries to escape,” he said. There was no question in his voice. “Just looking at you, I don’t think you will be able to restrain her if she runs.”

Esben glanced at the servant girl and nodded, “Well, come on then. The king is waiting.”

They made the trip back in silence, riding in one of the king’s carriages. Esben’s eyes kept wandering back to the Gorman girl. His gaze held a glimmer of sympathy, but the knight didn’t seem to notice it. The castle seemed to grow larger and more imposing as they rode closer. The carriage dropped them off at main portal, and the knight left them there in the confidence that there was enough security in the area to catch the girl if she tried to escape.

“This way,” Esben said softly, climbing the steps to the portal. The king was waiting for them at the top. He looked the Gorman girl over and gave a curt nod.

“You did well, Esben,” he said approvingly. “She will make a fine servant for my son.”

“Thank you, Sire,” Esben puffed his chest out a little at the praise.

“Take her to him now,” the king said. With that, he turned and walked back into the castle.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Esben bowed quickly as his king left and turned to the Gorman girl. “Please come this way to meet your new master.”

Two days. It had taken two days for their shambling prison to cart them across the countryside. The guards had been courteous enough to toss enough stale bread and putrid water to keep their wards alive, and yet even so the Gorman prisoners were in a pitiful state. Twice the prisoners had attempted some form of conversation to pass the long journey. Both incidents resulted in additional discoloration on their skin. Rhea didn't even recognize her fellow captives.

When she could finally hear the bustling masses as their caravan entered the city, Rhea's stomach turned. Despite her mind telling her to keep her eyes averted, she couldn't help but look with disgust into the crowds. Where she'd hoped to find even one face offering pity, she only found round cheering faces pressing in to get a closer look, each hooting and hollering. Women giggled behind feathered fans, while the men with round faces pressed to look closer, licking their lips as though looking upon a feast. It made Rhea's skin crawl.

She finally looked away as the carriage slowed, her gaze locking to the ropes bound around her wrists. She didn't even bother struggling as she was hauled to her feet and towards the stage. She knew their were guards and prying eyes in every direction; any attempt to fight would be useless. One by one the announcer gleefully sold off the lives of the people around her. Her gut again twisted when the sobbing woman she'd sat beside during most of their journey was hauled off to a heavyset man with grey hair. Part of her hoped as time went on that she would be left without a buyer, perhaps given the mercy of a quick hanging instead.

Rhea mentally cursed to herself. No. Getting home to her brothers was her only priority.

When she was the last to stand on the stage, a smaller man pushed his way through the animated crowds, but she could hardly bring herself to pay attention. So he was her owner. Her eyes darkly surveyed the bag of gold supposedly meant for her. At least she was apparently worth a pretty penny, she thought bitterly to herself. A brief hope shined when she thought of escaping once left alone with the man, but the knight's company quickly squashed that thought --

She stopped, her mind catching up to the situation. Did the man say the king?

Rhea swallowed hard as the pair led her to another carriage, one much finer and marked with emblem she had come to despise, the emblem of a man that had terrorized her people far before she had even been born. She swore she could taste poison on her dry tongue. Perhaps her thoughts began mirroring onto her face, for the knight's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword where it rested at his side.

Her mind was a blur as they made their way to the castle, until she was finally dragged out of the carriage once more. When she looked upon the king, her skin felt as though it turned to ice. He looked her up and down as they approached, as casually as though choosing his morning's bread. She had to purse her cracked lips to silence herself when he gave his approval, sending her off to whatever bastard son he'd bought her for without a second glance.

The pudgy man reached out for her arm to lead her away once they were again alone, but Rhea yanked her tied wrists away, glaring icily at the short man. "Do not touch me," she spat venomously. Running had yet to be an option and her insubordination would have led to a beating with any of the guards; but at least she could take out her resentment on this stubby man as all he could do was furrow his brow indignantly. Making sure she followed, Esben began making his way down the grand hallway.

"Such crude behavior won't be tolerated, you know. Now that you're here, you must begin to adapt to life in the castle," Esben began to chat busily. "You shall address the regent prince as 'Your Highness' or 'Your Grace', nothing less. Do not maintain eye contact with any of the royal family. You may only speak when spoken to, of course. When entering a room, you must--"

The man continued on dutifully, glancing to the side every now and again to ensure she was still there. Rhea only somewhat listened as he prattled, trying to memorize the hallways as best she could, trying to find any direct routes back into the courtyard, where maybe she could --

"And here we are," Esben finally announced, stopping in front of a large oak door. The man nervously knocked. "Your Highness? I have brought a gift from your father."

Beo stood as his servant strapped on his armor. He had a fighting tournament to go to that day and the prize was a hefty sum of gold, given to the winner by the king. Of course, Beo was not competing for the money or to impress his father. He wanted to show the spectating royals and knights that he was the best fighter in Thyra. It was the prestige of defeating all the other competitors that made him step into the arena and pick up the sword.

He winced as his servant strapped on a piece of armor too tightly to his arm.

“No, no,” Beo groaned. “You’re doing it all wrong. Could you be any more useless?”

“I-I am sorry, Your Highness,” the servant stammered, fumbling to correct his blunder.

Beo yanked his arm away from the servant. “I’ll do it.” He adjusted the strap to fit more comfortably against the inside of his bicep. The servant moved to help him with the rest of his armor, but Beo waved a hand to dismiss him. “Never mind that. Go make yourself useful and get my sword.” The man bowed quickly and hurried off to complete the task. Beo finished putting on his armor by himself. He preferred to have someone else do it for him because it was faster, but his most recent servant was a complete idiot. Beo suspected he would get rid of him by the end of the day.

The servant only made his situation worse when he tripped on his way back to give Beo his sword. The sheathed blade clattered across the ground and landed at Beo’s feet. He sighed and bent to pick it up. Yes, he would be getting rid of this nuisance of a servant before the sun set that day.

“A-anything else, sire?” the servant asked, trembling.

“That’s all for now,” Beo said. “Now come on. The tournament is going to start soon.”

--

The sequence of battles went by fairly quickly. Beo had gained a widespread reputation for his swordsmanship over the years, so when word got out that he was taking part in the tournament, many of the other fighters quit. It was also no surprise to anyone when the king’s son cut down all of his competitors and won with hardly an injury to himself. The king presented him with his prize money and the crowd either cheered or groaned depending on who they had been betting would win. Beo made a show of lifting the sack of gold, the symbol of his power, over his head to display to his audience, and hollering in victory. His father grinned from his pedestal on the sidelines. He was proud that his son was the best fighter in the kingdom. It was something he could boast about to the kings of other allied lands.

Afterwards, the crowd dispersed and Beo returned to the castle where he and his father sat down to eat dinner. The king put himself at the head of the table, and Beo sat a few chairs away on the right. He looked around as they waited for their dinners to be brought to them by kitchen staff. Made to seat a large number of people, he always thought the table felt uncomfortably vacant. His father never invited other royals or knights to eat with them, so most of the tabletop remained unused. Beo tapped his foot impatiently. The king gave him a sharp look.

“Stop that,” he scolded. “A prince should conduct himself with poise. You are always going to be watched for signs of weakness or immaturity by both friends and enemies. You will do well to keep that in mind.”

“Yes, father,” Beo said, silencing his foot.

Their personal servants entered the room carrying platters of food from the kitchen. Esben, the king’s servant, set his platter down gracefully, removing the lid with a subtle flourish. He gave his master a deep bow and left without a word. Almost laughable in contrast, Beo’s clumsy servant dropped his plate with a thump, and when he removed the lid it slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor. His father raised a brow and Beo put his head in his hands in embarrassment.

“That’s it,” he said. His servant froze and stared at the floor. “You have to go. I can’t take this any longer. Take your things and leave the castle. If I catch you here by nightfall, I swear I will have one of the guards arrest you.”

“B-but sire—” the servant began to protest, his eyes wide with horror.

“Do you think you’re in a position to talk back to me right now?” Beo said icily. “I am your prince. You are nothing but a lowly peasant. Now get out of my sight.”

The servant swallowed and hurried out of the room.

“You handled that well,” the king said approvingly. “We cannot stand to have careless servants in this castle. However, it seems you need a new one.”

“It seems so,” Beo said, taking a bite of his food.

--

“Your Highness? I have brought a gift from your father.”

Beo heard Esben’s muffled voice through the door. He got up from his bed, where he had been reading some books his father gave him about knighthood and war strategies. After all, he would have to lead the knights in battle when he became king. He set the book down and walked to the door. Finally. It had been three days since he lost his last servant. He had been borrowing some specialized servants from the king’s staff for some of his needs, such as laundry and cooking, but he still had to do more for himself than he would have liked. At last, he would have a personal servant to take care of those tedious chores.

“Thank you, Esben—” Beo opened the door, and then stopped when his eyes landed on the new replacement. A girl? This was odd. Personal servants were traditionally the same gender as their masters, as they had to perform certain tasks that were, well, personal. Esben read Beo’s wary expression and jumped to explain.

“She was the last of the Gorman prisoners sold at the market today,” Esben said, bowing. “I apologize, Your Highness. It was my fault. I arrived late. Unfortunately, there won’t be another prisoner auction for some time, so this was the best I could do.”

“It’s fine,” Beo said. At least he had a servant again. Male or female, someone had to get his work done. “You may leave.” Esben bowed again and walked back down the hallway.

Beo turned away from his father’s servant to examine his own. So she was from Gorm? It made sense. She had the darker hair and complexion that was characteristic of her people. He smiled a little. If the knights were taking Gorman captives, it was a strong sign that Thyra was winning the war.

“I don’t know if Esben filled you in on your duties yet,” Beo said, leaning against the door frame and gesturing for her to enter the room. “So I’ll make your first task simple. Tell me: what is your name?”

Rhea shifted uncomfortably as the short man waddled down the hall and out of sight, leaving her alone with the unimpressed devil in front of her. She scrutinized him up and down. Even in his casual state, his clothes were made of finer cloth than she'd ever owned in her lifetime. He seemed relatively young, around her age? It surprised her, she'd expected an older man barking orders at her.

His age did no favors when it came to the confused, sour look that crossed his face as he'd surveyed her, however. He leaned against the door and motioned her in, as though she were carrying in a piece of new furniture. Pushing the unease away at the sight of his bed, and what duties she would be tasked to perform, she returned his request with a scowl. She'd nearly had enough of this already - his title meant little beyond her exhaustion.

"Is there something wrong with your purchase, Your Highness?" she asked cynically, planting her feet defiantly.

Beo raised a brow at his new servant when she refused to complete the small task of stating her name. She was a stubborn one, that was for sure. All of his past servants were either happy to have the job –personal servants of the royal family were admitted to a room in the castle; quite a luxury to the lower-class men and women who were hired– or too nervous to argue over their duties for fear of being executed. The bravery (or perhaps stupidity) of this new girl amused him. He laughed and folded his arms over his chest.

“Something wrong?” Beo echoed. “Yes. My purchase is a bit dense. It doesn’t seem to realize I’m giving orders, not suggestions.” He leaned in close to her face and narrowed his eyes. “You would do well to stop fighting with me now rather than be executed later.” Part of him hoped the threat would be enough to keep the girl’s temperament in check. He didn’t want to kill her off so soon. This wasn’t because he felt any form of compassion for her; he merely didn’t want to lose yet another servant and have to wait for the next replacement. However, he kept his expression perfectly neutral to give none of these thoughts away.

“Now then,” Beo said coldly. “Would you care to tell me your name?”