The market streets were positively humming with activity. The thrum of overlapping voices, the trill of coin in drawstring bags, vendors wrapping their goods for eager patrons; This was the hub of Alaria. Colourful pennons and standards hung from overhead, proudly brandishing the royal crest. Midnight blues, royal purples and blood reds shimmied in the gentle breeze, swaying above the crowds that gathered below. The smell of freshly baked bread and stale ale filled the narrow, winding streets of the market sector. Crows cawed from their perches on windowsills and rooftops.

Dotted amongst the various robed inhabitants of Alaria as they spent their coin in the market, were the Royal Guards. Their armour garish against the colourful backdrop they observed, the Guards stood rigidly, brandishing their weapons ominously. Children’s laughter echoed through the streets that snaked through the centre of Alaria and Prince Griffin smiled peacefully as he tugged at the headscarf wrapped around his golden locks. To describe his attire as a disguise eluded more to its intention than its actuality. It would only take a lingering, analytical gaze to rumble the headscarf and plain robes. Griffin’s looks were far from discreet; Glossy blonde curls and piercing amber eyes. Standing taller than most of his subjects, the Prince ducked his head and rolled his shoulders. Cowering beneath the fine wool of his headscarf, Griffin took slow and deliberate steps through the market. This was his favourite part of Alaria, save for the meadows behind the castle. He loved the electricity that crackled through the air, the sound of the people’s laughter and the smell of freshly baked goods… It was paradise, to him. So contrasted to the quiet imposition of the castle, the market had been breathed full of life. Here, the Prince could blend into the commonality of normal Alarians. He could traverse the market, unbothered by inhabitants and guards alike, just to soak in the atmosphere of the city he so proudly reigned.

Sidestepping through the crowd, Griffin brushed shoulders with blissfully ignorant patrons, lowering his gaze so as to avoid exposure. He shuffled through the gaggle of people, revelling in the ease of moving through the city without a Guard for protection and the absence of commotion. For now, Prince Griffin was a simple Alarian amongst other simple Alarians.

As Griffin pushed his way through the crowd, he heard a voice that broke out from the chorus of market chatter. The voice was raised, a little shrill, and belonged almost certainly to a young child. The crowds were thinning out here, less market stalls framing the path. The Prince narrowed his eyes as he strained to make out what the voice was saying.



The pleas of the beggar had hints of desperation but remained unanswered. Shouts into the void, the people of Alaria passed by, eyes fixed ahead. Griffin had slowed to a stop, letting the bustle of market goers shoulder past him. The pleas came from a young boy, no more than 8 years old, dressed in a tattered, creased linen shirt that was dusted with dirt. Those worn clothes hung loosely on his slim frame, tiny wrists poking out from beneath the sullied sleeves. His eyes appeared a little sunken in his angular face and the boy held out a hat that harboured just 2 dull coins inside.



The boy had noticed Griffin’s abrupt halt amongst the crowd. His eyes, hooded by the headscarf, softened further as the boy fixed him with laden eye contact. The Prince felt his heart wring with guilt. He knew this little boy was not the only Alarian pained with poverty. A few streets over is where the more impoverished inhabitants lived, he’d wager a bet that’s where the little boy lived. His tiny chapped lips, etched into the picture of innocence, remained parted as he readied for his next call. Griffin took a few slow steps towards the young beggar, a hand slowly slipping beneath his robes as he reached for his coin purse. The young boy’s eyes widened in surprise, realising someone had heard his cries and answered his prayers. The streets quietened as the Prince approached, the buzz of the market fading away as he focused on the boy in front of him.



The boy’s eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion knitting his brow together. Taken aback by the attention, a small silence fell between the two of them for a moment. Griffin’s fingers parted the drawstring of his coin purse that stayed tied to his belt. The sound of coins clattering beneath the Prince’s common cloak and robes made the little boy’s eyes shine with unbridled glee.





As the gold clinked in Griffin’s fist, the young boy just nodded wordlessly. Outstretching his clenched fist, the Prince motioned for the boy to open the hat a little more. As the coin tinkered into the fabric of the hat, the boy’s troubled eyes welled with tears of gratitude. Not wishing to linger, Griffin gently squeezed the young boy’s shoulder, feeling nothing but bone beneath linen. Then, the Prince turned on his heels and made his way by foot back to the castle.

As he walked, still anonymous amongst his subjects, his mind was plagued with the saddened eyes of the beggar boy. Heart heavy, he wondered how long that coin would last the family. He thought about young siblings, gathering around a freshly baked loaf of bread and the beginnings of a stew bubbling over the fire. That coin might last them a few weeks and it had taken him just seconds to drop it into the outstretched hat. How quickly coin could remove the strain and sadness of poverty in Alaria. How he wished he could give charity to all who needed it. Isn’t that what the Crown was for? To protect? To keep the people of Alaria safe from harm? When Griffin had raised his disgust with the poverty levels amongst the continent, the Council had scoffed. For one to have riches, others must have poverty. Like good and evil, the existence of one is dependent on the abundance of the other. Griffin approached the Royal Castle, his home, nestled on a hillside overlooking the city below. He thought of the angular, miniature shoulder bone beneath linen. The sunken eyes of a child plagued by a truth he should know nothing of. The blue skies overhead, illuminated by summer sun, looked down on Prince Griffin as he made the journey back to the castle walls. Discarding his disguise in a wooden barrel just outside the gates, the Prince struggled to shift the blanket of guilt that enveloped him.

How could he so nonchalantly return to his 25 bedroom, walled home with Royal Gardens, a fountain and a banquet table full of feast at every fourth hour when his people struggled so much in the city below him? It filled him with a rage reserved exclusively for the Council. A burning sense of injustice he could only direct at his father. The King. The merciless man that sat atop his throne, choosing ignorance to the struggles of his people. As the Prince slowly made his way toward the castle gates, the creak of aching wood as they swung open at his arrival, he fought the frown that pinched at his brow.



Prince Griffin sighed, simply nodding once in reply. He passed through the gates into the castle grounds, his royal tunic so bold in comparison to the robes he’d adorned for Alaria. Picking up the pace, the Prince headed towards the castle entrance. Still the eyes of the poor boy haunted him, that feeling of skin and bone beneath his fingertips a ghostly, morbid reminder.

“Highness,” a voice crooned into the entryway of the palace.

An older stewardess, one of a small handful palace agents tasked with keeping the establishment prim and orderly, had eyed Griffin with the same speculation as perhaps an elder relative passing judgement upon a disorderly child caught sneaking back into the household. She smoothed her hands against the creases of her long, linen apron as she made her way towards the Prince, her stern eyes more akin to a bird of prey, and her thin lips pressed in a signature hard line. Amongst the ranks of maids and servants, her word was law, and she ensured that the castle ran as smooth as a sergeant’s whistle under the approval and satisfaction of the King. It was more often than not that she ended up delivering crucial notes and correspondences between members of the royal family, as she was able to navigate the large estate’s many avenues with ease.

The senechal, named Mairwen, was a woman in her late fifties, tall and lithe with an austere countenance and pale skin that contrasted her ebony hair, that was slicked back into a tidy bun. Her ocean blue eyes were naturally narrowed, which complimented her sharp tone when giving her commands to the lowly servants under her keep. She had initially been one of the palace’s many maids and, over the span of her decades long career, had crawled up the domestic ranks of lead stewardess through grit and dedication to her craft. Since she was a young woman in the early days of her employment, Mairwen had seen Prince Griffin mature over the years and became well acquainted with his rebelliousness and quirks as a young heir.

The woman offered a customary courtesy that was more a formality for his status than it was out of true humility as she may have displayed for his father, King Thorne. Nevertheless, she never spoke out of place with the Prince or against his wayward inclinations, though her tone was indicative of her disapproval. The Seneschal was a cold woman, but a practical one nevertheless, and she routinely displayed her disfavor towards Griffin’s ‘galavanting’ to heaven knows where.

“His Majesty would like a word, at your earliest convenience.” She informed the Prince tersely, her slender hands folded atop themselves. She stood rim rod straight, sharp shoulders rolled back and stood before Griffin with a posture that could put any soldier to shame. Her eyes scanned the Prince from top to bottom, then back up to lock with his amber eyes, her brows raised with a thread of suspicion. She said nothing about his whereabouts that afternoon, though it was clear that the woman surmised Griffin had wandered well beyond the bounds that his father had implemented. Regardless of what she’d concluded silently to herself, Mairwen daren’t scold the young heir, for he was no longer a child under her keep or that of the handful of nannies employed to keep the heir out of trouble.

Now, Prince Griffin was a young man with a mind and conviction of his own. He was not the same young boy with whom Mairwen had been first introduced, and she remembered a point when the Prince was simply too small to go unaccompanied past the castle gates on his own (and any request to do so was able to be promptly denied). Despite having surpassed her in height long ago and being a man of good stature and physicality, Mairwen interpreted Griffin’s adventurousness as an invitation for misfortune no differently as though he were still the same young child.

In her eyes, it was only a matter of time until something, or someone, snatched the opportunity to harm the Prince— and, by proxy, threaten to shatter the lineage of the King. After Griffin had grown through his adolescence and past the need for a constant nanny or basic chaperone, it became abundantly clear that independence and personal freedom was at the forefront of his desires as a young adult coming into his own. Even now, at twenty four years of age, there was still turbulence and discord over what freedoms and permissions Griffin was granted under the rule of his father, who still had the utmost authority.

It was at this point when a palace guard had caught up to where Mairwen and Griffin stood, having spent some better part of the last half hour in search of the Prince and was somewhat winded in his attempts to locate him. The guard cleared his throat as a formality before speaking, bowed to both the Prince and nodded to the head Stewardess so that each individual was addressed appropriately.

“Good afternoon. Highness, your Father, His Majesty requests–” the patrol guard began, but was promptly cut off by Mairwen with a sigh and a flit of her hand to indicate that the spiel was unnecessary.

“He has been informed already,” the Seneschal said flatly with an edge of exasperation. She turned her eyes back onto Griffin, one brow knitted upwards and lips pursed ever so slightly. It was a subtle yet signature look that was often reserved for Griffin whenever he was summoned by King Thorne, and while she often disapproved of the Prince’s intrepid nature and free spiritedness, she did prefer to forewarn him if and when Thorne was particularly vexed by Griffin’s antics.

“Your father did not say the nature of the meeting,” she told Griffin before there was even a question as to what the briefing was about and whether or not Thorne was potentially displeased with his son (or simply that the King merely wanted an ear in which to prattle).

“Now that his Highness has been made aware,” snipped Mairwen to the guard, “Perhaps you may escort him to his Majesty’s study. I behoove that it is done sooner than later.”

The guard nodded curtly, if not obediently to the Stewardess. He repeated the same dutiful gesture to the Prince, and extended his arm in the direction of their destination.

Mairwen’s pinched features were so familiar to the Prince. In his younger years, the stewardesses’ disdain had been best avoided and he would often dread the very look she fixed him with as he returned to the castle. That subtle disapproval transcending her features by osmosis, her wrinkled lips a sharp line etched across her weathered face. The Prince levelled Mairwen’s gaze with his own, unrelenting in the presence of her not-quite-maternal concern. She was loyal. Hardworking. Dedicated. Griffin did, beyond the mild irritation at her attempts to tame the wild in him, respect her implicitly. But Mairwen was his father’s Seneschal. She answered to him, first and foremost. This made her relationship with Griffin naturally strained, his free-spiritedness so juxtaposed to her love of order. But the two of them had an understanding, an unspoken agreement formed over her many years of service. Mairwen had aided Griffin, albeit incredibly subtly, in navigating the complexity of the King’s demands. She understood the formalities, the expectations of the King’s sole heir and the committed stewardess always managed to guide him when it came to official summons.

This time, however, Mairwen did no such thing.

“His Majesty would like a word, at your earliest convenience.”

She was terse. Clipped. Griffin’s amber eyes scanned her face for the whisper of a tell. Alas, Mairwen’s face remained the picture of neutrality. Just the shadows of disapproval cast over her shallowed gaze. The Prince resented every summons. His Father never sought him out, never left his throne room to find him personally. They didn’t share that kind of proximity. Instead, the ever-noble King sent his royal subjects to do his bidding. All of them, Griffin included, often utterly ignorant as to the purpose of his calling. This occasion was no exception.

Mairwen dismissed the Guard in her most withering but professional cutting tone. He’d approached the pair of them, puffing obscenely, with the already-relayed message that the King called upon his only son. Griffin’s brow furrowed. He bit down on his lip quizzically, turning his attention back to the hardened castle Seneschal. Lip opening and shutting like a goldfish, Griffin went to ask her what this summons was regarding. She almost held a hand up to stop him in his tracks.

“Your father did not say the nature of the meeting.”

The Prince closed his mouth abruptly and folded his arms across his chest. He watched Mairwen’s face again, wishing she’d at least hint at what lied ahead of him. But still, nothing. An exasperated sigh huffed from his lips, chest moving with the effort of the hefty exhale. Griffin abhorred any exposure to his Father, even at the best of times. His energy, his aura, it eroded at Griffin’s sunny disposition. Leaving the King’s presence left him drained from the efforts of being muted. The part of his spirit that shone with a zest for life? For people? It was locked away in the King’s company. And this time would be no different.

Rolling his shoulders, Griffin readied to follow the Guard whose laboured breaths caused the Prince’s mouth to twitch in amusement. He turned to Mairwen, forcing a polite smile, and inclined his head in a respectful farewell.

“Mairwen. The pleasure is all mine, as always.”

And with that, Prince Griffin took his leave. Passing the Guard whose arm was extended, gesturing onward, his strides were purposefully lengthy and confident. Those intentional steps left the Guard trailing, somewhat lagging, behind him. For a moment, all that could be heard were the echoes of footsteps through the castles main chambers, heading toward the Throne Room. Griffin pushed any anxiety as to what he was walking into far down into the pits of his stomach. He didn’t waste energy on the hypotheticals. Instead, the Prince focused on schooling his expression, smoothing his facial muscles into false neutrality.

Arriving at the looming double doors to the Throne Room, Griffin lifted a dismissive hand to the Guard, relieving him of his escorting duties. The Prince placed his palm flat on the heavy door and pushed, grunting at the effort, and revealed the familiar grandeur of the room his Father spent so much of his time. Candelabras flickered, framing the walkway on approach to the throne. Griffin strode through the centre of the room, his eyes fixed on his Father’s face. Next to him stood Hywel, Head Guard, his physical presence inferior to the gravitas he exuded. The Prince continued along the walkway, immune to the palpable tension that rippled through the castles airwaves. Halting at the foot of the stairway to the Throne, Griffin bowed. He leant deep, keeping his back rigidly straight as he had been raised to since he’d first learnt to stand.

“Your Majesty,” Griffin purred, slights of facetiousness dripping from the words. “You summoned me?”

Mairwen nodded, but otherwise wasted no time of the Prince’s, their goodbyes were often hasty yet no less insincere. Once again, she receded down the hall opposite to the direction of where Griffin had been escorted. It was a brief encounter, yet it weighed on Mairwen’s mind nonetheless to have shared the summons. To call upon Griffin on behalf of the King was a task that harbored no true pride for her as a stewardess, the only comfort in doing so was in the subtle warnings she was able to offer him regarding his father’s state of mind.

As Griffin grew out of his childhood and into young adulthood, the Stewardess was almost always privy of Griffin and King Thorne’s strife and had witnessed firsthand the verbal lashings cast upon the young Prince on many occasion. She was not unaware of Thorne’s ill temper, and while she was admittedly compliant to his whims and upheld his irrational standards, there was a softness and quiet compassion reserved for Griffin that was otherwise absent for his father. Perhaps an ounce of pity, though none of these sentiments were ever worn on her tight-lipped face but rather through unspoken pardons she’d granted Griffin over the years.

After all, she had on more than one occasion allowed the Prince to sneak back into the castle without stirring up a fuss directly to Thorne, who made it explicitly clear to report any type of insubordination or opposition to his commandments as both a king and a father. At the time, Mairwen merely stood tall over the adolescent, arms crossed and surly eyes narrowed at the boy to drill him on his whereabouts no louder than a whisper. She’d huff and say her piece about the necessity to be wary beyond the castle walls, and always made a point to chastise him on the state of his return, especially if he had been jaunting about the meadows or pastures unattended.

But Griffin was older now, and while he had acquired certain autonomies and privacies, he was not fully exempt from the King’s attempts to stifle the rebellious streak in him. So long as he was King, Griffin’s father saw to it that his word be made law, and the more the Prince resisted the more bitter Thorn had grown, resentful that his only heir dared to challenge his authority so publicly. They still had not recovered since Griffin’s last outburst in the royal courts, as however many weeks ago it had been.

Thorne had tried his best to impose curfews, to double Griffin’s studies, and he’d even call upon his advisors to propagate favor towards his regime through bribery and incentives, if only he’d pledge allegiance to both the Crown and their forces loud enough to the courts — yet nothing managed to persuade him.

So when the heavy doors had been pushed open and the Prince strode obstinately into the belly of the throne room, Thorne was already anticipating whatever little mutiny his son had planned against him, and instinctively his expression soured.

“Seeing as I had tried to summon you hours ago only to be told you were nowhere to be found, what choice did I have but to wait out your woolgathering? Dare I even ask where you have been since the morning?”

Thorne skipped any attempt at pleasantries. He did not stand from his throne to greet his son, he merely rapped at the edge of the armrest with impatient fingers before he held up his hand altogether so as to silence any excuses or argument.

“I am still making reparations from your last outburst at council, so do not push your luck today and listen to what I say. You may throw a fit on your own time.”

The King did not rest his hand down, but merely redirected the gesture to the man standing beside him at his right shoulder. Hywel, the King’s head guard and right hand stood all but perfectly statuesque, one hand resting idly on the hilt of his sword and feet planted firmly on the polished tile. His militant posture did not falter when Thorne spoke his name aloud, and all the while his two dark eyes surveyed Griffin from the moment he stepped into the throne room.

The guard wore no emotion, nothing aside from the vigilant and signature stare that often bore down on whoever moved to approach the King, be it a foreign diplomat or his own son.

“I am appointing Hywel to you, as well as a new curriculum. This time I intend that it be followed. He will be at your side going forward, not just to serve but to mentor you as well. Do not try and squander this arrangement, Griffin. He still reports to me.”

“…Dare I even ask where you have been since the morning?”

Griffin stared back at his Royal Highness, gaze flicking to the drumming fingers that thudded against the hilt of the throne. The repetitive taps of his father’s fingers grated on Griff like nails down a chalkboard and his eyes narrowed critically. Persistent, repetitive noises like that did something inexplicable to Griff’s nervous system. It set him on edge, made him unable to focus on anything else. But at the King’s line of questioning, the image of the beggar boy flashed into his mind; Those dampened, heavy eyes laden with pain and suffering, cattle-branded on his psyche. And here was the culprit, draped so ignorantly over his Royal Chaise on the raised platform. This here was the man responsible for such divide amongst his beloved subjects. The person responsible for children, like the one Griffin had met today, living in such squalor. It should be him, rubbing shoulders with the people of Alaria, offering a hand and resorting faith to those living in darkness. Instead, it was Griffin who went out amongst the people. Listening to their sad stories, buying them loaves of bread, offering them coin… Anything to counteract the neglect of his father.

“Gone are the days where I must report my every breath to you, Father-” Griffin replied coolly, his gaze shifting up to hold his Father’s steely stare. The King rose a hand, silencing any further retorts that may be coming his way.

Words devoid of any true remorse for his disappearance, the Prince’s tone was bored and tired. He’d grown weary of his Father’s inability to relinquish control. With anything, really, but in this case his son’s freedom. This father/son relationship was far less paternal and far more about exerting control over yet another person the King viewed as beneath him. There was no concern for Griffin’s well-being, no genuine desire to ensure his son’s safety. No, the King’s questioning came about purely to answer an unanswered question.

“I am still making reparations from your last outburst at council, so do not push your luck today and listen to what I say. You may throw a fit on your own time.”

A stifled smile threatened to break free on Griffin’s face. The meeting his father referred to had taken place a few days prior. As the Prince and heir to the throne, Giffin’s presence was mandatory at all Council meetings, much to everyone’s dismay. Council members nor Griffin himself were pleased for his inclusion but God forbid they challenge tradition. So week by week, Prince Griffin would begrudgingly attend Council, mostly appearing fairly bored and irritated. But when topics that directly involved the Alaria people were raised, his ears pricked up and he would offer his mostly unwanted opinion. Subjects such as bartering for land, building applications and royal gossip earned exaggerated yawns from the Prince at best. Occasionally, he’d even roll his eyes. Such behaviour would never be tolerated from anyone else. But Griffin was Prince. He was a force unto his own, his spirit only bridled by his father’s reprimands. On this specific occasion, King Thorne had resorted to using his more explosive scolding for his son. The topic of unsanitary drinking water in Alaria was being discussed and, perhaps more importantly, dismissed by the Royal Council. Griffin had boldly expressed that Alarian people had the right to drinking water, that this would only worsen the diseases that already spread below the castle. But, as always, his concerns were left hanging in the air, cold and abandoned. Though this was not unusual by any stretch, it was a day where Griffin struggled to swallow the rejection. Why did his Father’s gravitas and self-importance not apply to him? Why did the Prince of Alaria’s words fall on such deaf ears? The explosion that followed was fuelled by injustice and anger on behalf of Alaria. The Council meeting was derailed and Griffin had exited with a kick of his chair and a slam of the door.

“I am appointing Hywel to you, as well as a new curriculum. This time I intend that it be followed. He will be at your side going forward, not just to serve but to mentor you as well. Do not try and squander this arrangement, Griffin. He still reports to me.”

The shock and insolence that awashed Griffin’s expression was not unnoticed. He stared back at King Thorne, bubblings of protest brewing in his guts. A babysitter?! And the Head Guard, no less?! The Prince swallowed the bile that garnered in his throat, his inner adolescent roaring in his soul. A flurry of questioned flooded his consciousness, a stream of anarchic rebuttals threatening to projectile vomit from his lips. Hywel remained deathly still, his posture and expression ever-the professional. Though the Prince was an only child, Hywel was an honorary older sibling. The unofficial prodigal son. He’d served King Thorne with unwavering loyalty and blind obedience, something Griffin lacked completely. The King’s preference for Hywel was clear. In his approving nods, the swells of pride in his eyes… A seal of approval Griffin would never receive but that Hywel was granted regularly.

The Throne Room suddenly felt like a broom cupboard. The cold brick walls closing in, the tiles swirling before him. Heart thumping, pulse leaping, Griff ran a hand through his thick, blonde curls and felt his teeth grind as they gritted together. Hywel looked on, expressionless in his neutral stare. The two of them were, quite literally, one another’s counterparts. Two sides of very different coins. Strangers to one another, despite spending so many years in parallel lives. Like two cars on the same freeway, one weaving between lanes at breakneck speed and the other carefully humming along at the legal limit.

“My liege,” the Prince gritted out, his voice trembling slightly beneath the pressure of withholding the waves of emotion that ebbed beneath his surface. “To what end will Hywel be appointed to me? Surely the King’s Head Guard has other more important Royal Duties to tend to? Is he not a little overqualified to be taking position as a babysitter?”

The other guards dotted through the Throne Room shifted uncomfortably at their postings. The air became charged with the electricity of a brewing argument between Royals. Griffin’s feet felt like lead in his boots, fixing him in front of his Father like the gargoyles that sat atop the castle’s fixtures. Unmoving, yet riddled with the compulsion to scream, Griffin imagined his daily routine under the watchful gaze of Hywel. No more solo escapades into Alaria, no more frolicking through the Castle grounds, no more hour hacks in the saddle of his favourite steed… Hywel’s infuriatingly unflappable demeanour would be his new shadow. The idea felt like shackles on his wrists. Was this his punishment for the outburst in Council? A message that he’d finally stepped too far out of line?

The King didn’t rise from his seat. For a moment, Griffin’s protests hung in the air like unanswered prayers. The heavy silence rung out in the Throne Room and a stalemate formed; Griffin in the trenches, his father and Hywel atop the hills, peering down on him knowing his demise was inevitable.

“One would need to act like a child to need a babysitter. If that’s how you would like to conduct yourself, then you would be correct,” quipped the King, who leaned forward in his seat, fist gripped atop his knee and fingers practically twitching at the insubordination. The king was not inept in sensing the tension swim through the room, a dreadful sensation of insecurity with which Thorne was becoming all too familiar. It was one thing to clash attitudes while they were alone, that is if one excluded Hywel and the smattering of silent guards and maids at the ready, but to lack decorum and order before the members of his courts only served to make Throrne’s blood boil. Never did he account for his only son to grow into a delinquent in his eyes.

Each irreverent gesture, each roll of Griffin’s eyes, every wayward comment that Thorne considered as a revolt to his rule was like one cut after the next, each one stinging more than the last. Thorne believed foolishly at one point that Griffin might outgrow the incessant need to oppose and contradict him once he cleared into his twenties, but by then the Prince had only learned how to sharpen his tongue in newer, craftier ways to insult or mock his authority.

Even now, as Thorne had practically gifted Griffin a beacon of protection and survival in the form of his head guard, a gesture that should have earned him the highest respect and reverence, was reduced down to nothing but a punishment in Griffin’s eyes. It was a typical reaction, one that didn’t surprise Thorne in earnest, though his agitation over Griffin’s immediate resistance was always searingly fresh regardless of how many times he’d displayed such a strong opposition to his father’s whims and demands.

“To what end?” Thorne asked in a manner that mocked the audacity of his son’s question, his voice echoing throughout the grand throne room, and he narrowed his eyes down upon the Prince with an all too familiar rancor. Each guard lining the great hall dared not to glance over to the pair of them, their eyes militantly focused ahead despite the tension clouding the room, the strife between the Prince and the King was practically palpable, though no less expected.

“I am loaning you my most esteemed soldier and already you act ungrateful. I have lords offering me hefty bids for him, all of which I have denied and will continue to deny. You act as though it is a chore to be so privileged.”

Without a moment to allow for rebuttal, King Thorne motioned his hand curtly in the direction of his son. It was a minute gesture, nothing more than a flick of his wrist, but it was as if by instinct Hywel knew the cue. He bowed his head wordlessly to his master and left the side of the King before descending the steps in but a few long strides.

If Griffin did not want to approach his father’s throne any further, then he’d have his head guard meet him at the starting step where his son had paused, as though to cross the threshold beyond Griffin’s boundary and impose himself through Hywel by proxy.

Hywel obeyed and observed every command no matter how subdued with a credence and devotion unlike any other soldier under Thorne’s command. He positioned himself beside the prince automatically, scanning his stare downward at Griffin. There was a levity to the look, an idle amusement that was not worn on his lips but rather in the depth of his eyes. To those who could identify the subtle smugness behind the expression, it was perhaps more infuriating than an outright grin.

Thorne sighed, “Times are contentious, Prince Griffin. I have it on good authority that there are traitors lurking amongst our neighbors, treaties and alliances be damned. I can’t afford to be negligent and allow you to parade about. You can leave any… philanthropic adventures to our patrons. Hywel will mentor you in the art of defense and offense so that you may develop a stronghold unto yourself. Consider this a worthy investment of all of our time.”

Griffin felt himself hone in on his breath, using the gentle rise and fall of his chest as an anchor. Rooting himself in his rhythmic breaths, steadied and slowed, the Prince regained control over the irritation that prickled at his skin. Hywel’s obedience threatened to reopen the wound, his graceful descent to the starting step was equally obedient and foreboding. King Thorne looked down the bridge of his nose, those steely eyes slowly flicking between his Head Guard and his son. Griffin wondered what his Father saw as he looked at the two of them, side by side. Did he wish, as Griffin suspected, that Hywel was the one who carried the burden of the bloodline? He would be the easiest choice. Brave, strong, noble, obedient, loyal… All that Griffin proudly resisted, Hywel wielded like the true soldier he was.

The air still thick with tension, the Prince eyed his father with narrowed lids, crinkling at the corners. The news that there was mutiny brewing amongst the Alarians and beyond was unsurprising. Alaria had not won favour from the neighbouring continents nor had it garnered beloved patriots. King Thorne was an infamously well-protected ruler, the easier way to erase the Thorne bloodline was by targeting his son. Foolish the Alarian enemies would be to overtly declare war on the continent. Armies thriving with plenty soldiers, Alaria was known for its strength in numbers. Overthrowing the omnipotent King was a ruse best planned insidiously.

“Surprising that the beloved Thorne Crown is under threat -“ Griffin sniped. “After all, we do so much for the people of Alaria and beyond. It seems so unjust that there are whisperings of betrayal…”

The Prince arched a groomed brow at his Father, knowing in his gut that he was pushing his luck. King Thorne’s patience was wearing thin and Griffin could sense it. From the ticking vein at his Father’s temple, to the fist gripped atop his knee, the King was displaying all the classic signs that the restraint he was practicing would soon dissolve. Hywel remained still at Griffin’s side, his face devoid of any emotion, expression ever the professional. His large, battle-worn palm, was rested upon the hilt of his sheathed sword. The Prince pictured, albeit briefly, the Head Guard quickly slipping the blade from its scabbard with practiced efficiency. Griffin would face Hywel with the determination of a scorned child with something to prove. Yet Hywel did not draw his sword. He continued to stand obediently, watching something that resembled acceptance spreading across the Prince’s face.

“I can see my opposition to this arrangement is a waste of time and energy,” Griff gritted out, his shoulders slumping slightly in defeat. “Though you may wish to consider that, although appointing protection to your successor is a necessary precaution, there would be less likelihood of opposition if Alaria worked to change it’s reputation amongst continents.”

Inclining his head in punctuation, Griff took a slow step backwards, retreating from the Throne. He wouldn’t leave without being excused. He’d tested his Father’s patience enough. But the young Prince jabbed a thumb in the direction of the exit.

“Unless you have anything further to add, Your Majesty, I’ll be taking my leave. Seems I need to change into my armours and fetch my blade.””

Combat and swordplay had never been Griffin’s strong point. He hated the adrenaline that poisoned his veins when engaging in battle. Heart too vulnerable, violence was an unnatural state for him. He didn’t think tactically, no thirst for retribution, no hunger for winning. The burden of taking a life from another was a weight the young prince was unwilling to carry. Griffin preferred to weaponise the art of articulation instead of swapping his tongue for the tip of a blade. Many Alarian men spoke with clenched fists and the clang of steel whereas Griffin wielded his ability to speak. The Prince had of course been to many a training session as part of his upbringing, a Royal incapable of fighting was unacceptable. But in spite of all the hours spent mastering footwork and combination attacks, Griffin allowed his sword skills to gather dust. He preferred to negotiate, to barter his way out of a situation. Hywel would have his work cut out for him, that’s for sure. The potential to be artful with a weapon was within Griffin but his resistance to violence was the true hurdle to overcome.

The Throne Room witnessed Prince Griffin’s low bow, dismissing himself from the summons. Without another word, he vacated the room with a slam of the doors. Feeling the eyes of his Father boring a hole into Griffin’s back, he ignored the Guards awkwardly adverting their gaze. The sound of retreating footsteps echoed in the chamber of the Throne Room. Heart beating, Griffin pressed his back against the closed doors, the cool wood seeping through his tunic as he slumped against them. A dull thud reverberated as Griffin let his head roll back. Eyelids fluttering shut, the Prince’s lips formed a hard line across his face. He felt his freedom being pried from his clutching fingertips, those adventures through Alaria’s market square quickly torn from his grasp. King Thorne was apprehensive enough of rumoured threats to sacrifice his best soldier, placing his one and only heir under the watchful eyes of Hywel. If only Council had taken heed when Griff had warned them of their selfishness. Perhaps then these threats could’ve been avoided. Instead, they ploughed on with their elitism and mistreatment of their subjects. Now Griffin had to not only suffer the consequences but endure punishment for acts committed against his best advice. And in lieu of reflecting, contemplating that perhaps fighting violence with violence would only indite further violence, they’ve decided to strengthen the barricades with Hywel at the helm.

As Griffin traversed the castle, staff bowing and curtsying in his wake, the Prince took the time to himself to gather his thoughts. His inner voice spoke loudly, crisp and clear in his mind.

“You are Prince Griffin Thorne of Alaria. You are the next in line. The rightful heir to the throne. It is your blood rite. Yours. This is merely a stepping stone. A footnote in your epic sonnet. Be gracious. Be fair.”

His chambers welcomed him with the scent of this mornings bathe; Mint and lavender. His bed had been made; Pillows plumped and neatly arranged, duvet folded back exactly in half, thick woollen blanket placed ever-so precisely at the foot of the four poster frame. Priceless artwork hung on the walls; Battle scenes, hunting scenes, meadows, idyllic landscapes and the obligatory royal painting of King Thorne and Prince Griffin. They hadn’t posed together for this particular artwork, instead the artist had painted them separately and simply spliced them together for the sake of tradition. As Griffin clicked his bedroom door closed, his eyes hovered over the family portrait. The artist had accurately captured his Father’s disdainful gaze, a regally raised chin frozen in time. But what Griffin’s portrait lacked was the life that danced behind his own eyes. Even the Royal portraiture rejected his free spirit. With a brief exhale, the Prince crossed his chambers to the wardrobe that housed his fighting gear. He’d head straight to the Practice Fields and begin warming up. Hywel’s training regime was bound to be regimented and exhausting… He was wise to prepare accordingly.

Griffin felt himself hone in on his breath, using the gentle rise and fall of his chest as an anchor. Rooting himself in his rhythmic breaths, steadied and slowed, the Prince regained control over the irritation that prickled at his skin. Hywel’s obedience threatened to reopen the wound, his graceful descent to the starting step was equally obedient and foreboding. King Thorne looked down the bridge of his nose, those steely eyes slowly flicking between his Head Guard and his son. Griffin wondered what his Father saw as he looked at the two of them, side by side. Did he wish, as Griffin suspected, that Hywel was the one who carried the burden of the bloodline? He would be the easiest choice. Brave, strong, noble, obedient, loyal… All that Griffin proudly resisted, Hywel wielded like the true soldier he was.

The air still thick with tension, the Prince eyed his father with narrowed lids, crinkling at the corners. The news that there was mutiny brewing amongst the Alarians and beyond was unsurprising. Alaria had not won favour from the neighbouring continents nor had it garnered beloved patriots. King Thorne was an infamously well-protected ruler, the easier way to erase the Thorne bloodline was by targeting his son. Foolish the Alarian enemies would be to overtly declare war on the continent. Armies thriving with plenty soldiers, Alaria was known for its strength in numbers. Overthrowing the omnipotent King was a ruse best planned insidiously.

“Surprising that the beloved Thorne Crown is under threat -“ Griffin sniped. “After all, we do so much for the people of Alaria and beyond. It seems so unjust that there are whisperings of betrayal…”

The Prince arched a groomed brow at his Father, knowing in his gut that he was pushing his luck. King Thorne’s patience was wearing thin and Griffin could sense it. From the ticking vein at his Father’s temple, to the fist gripped atop his knee, the King was displaying all the classic signs that the restraint he was practicing would soon dissolve. Hywel remained still at Griffin’s side, his face devoid of any emotion, expression ever the professional. His large, battle-worn palm, was rested upon the hilt of his sheathed sword. The Prince pictured, albeit briefly, the Head Guard quickly slipping the blade from its scabbard with practiced efficiency. Griffin would face Hywel with the determination of a scorned child with something to prove. Yet Hywel did not draw his sword. He continued to stand obediently, watching something that resembled acceptance spreading across the Prince’s face.

“I can see my opposition to this arrangement is a waste of time and energy,” Griff gritted out, his shoulders slumping slightly in defeat. “Though you may wish to consider that, although appointing protection to your successor is a necessary precaution, there would be less likelihood of opposition if Alaria worked to change it’s reputation amongst continents.”

Inclining his head in punctuation, Griff took a slow step backwards, retreating from the Throne. He wouldn’t leave without being excused. He’d tested his Father’s patience enough. But the young Prince jabbed a thumb in the direction of the exit.

“Unless you have anything further to add, Your Majesty, I’ll be taking my leave. Seems I need to change into my armours and fetch my blade.””

Combat and swordplay had never been Griffin’s strong point. He hated the adrenaline that poisoned his veins when engaging in battle. Heart too vulnerable, violence was an unnatural state for him. He didn’t think tactically, no thirst for retribution, no hunger for winning. The burden of taking a life from another was a weight the young prince was unwilling to carry. Griffin preferred to weaponise the art of articulation instead of swapping his tongue for the tip of a blade. Many Alarian men spoke with clenched fists and the clang of steel whereas Griffin wielded his ability to speak. The Prince had of course been to many a training session as part of his upbringing, a Royal incapable of fighting was unacceptable. But in spite of all the hours spent mastering footwork and combination attacks, Griffin allowed his sword skills to gather dust. He preferred to negotiate, to barter his way out of a situation. Hywel would have his work cut out for him, that’s for sure. The potential to be artful with a weapon was within Griffin but his resistance to violence was the true hurdle to overcome.

The Throne Room witnessed Prince Griffin’s low bow, dismissing himself from the summons. Without another word, he vacated the room with a slam of the doors. Feeling the eyes of his Father boring a hole into Griffin’s back, he ignored the Guards awkwardly adverting their gaze. The sound of retreating footsteps echoed in the chamber of the Throne Room. Heart beating, Griffin pressed his back against the closed doors, the cool wood seeping through his tunic as he slumped against them. A dull thud reverberated as Griffin let his head roll back. Eyelids fluttering shut, the Prince’s lips formed a hard line across his face. He felt his freedom being pried from his clutching fingertips, those adventures through Alaria’s market square quickly torn from his grasp. King Thorne was apprehensive enough of rumoured threats to sacrifice his best soldier, placing his one and only heir under the watchful eyes of Hywel. If only Council had taken heed when Griff had warned them of their selfishness. Perhaps then these threats could’ve been avoided. Instead, they ploughed on with their elitism and mistreatment of their subjects. Now Griffin had to not only suffer the consequences but endure punishment for acts committed against his best advice. And in lieu of reflecting, contemplating that perhaps fighting violence with violence would only indite further violence, they’ve decided to strengthen the barricades with Hywel at the helm.

As Griffin traversed the castle, staff bowing and curtsying in his wake, the Prince took the time to himself to gather his thoughts. His inner voice spoke loudly, crisp and clear in his mind.

“You are Prince Griffin Thorne of Alaria. You are the next in line. The rightful heir to the throne. It is your blood rite. Yours. This is merely a stepping stone. A footnote in your epic sonnet. Be gracious. Be fair.”

His chambers welcomed him with the scent of this mornings bathe; Mint and lavender. His bed had been made; Pillows plumped and neatly arranged, duvet folded back exactly in half, thick woollen blanket placed ever-so precisely at the foot of the four poster frame. Priceless artwork hung on the walls; Battle scenes, hunting scenes, meadows, idyllic landscapes and the obligatory royal painting of King Thorne and Prince Griffin. They hadn’t posed together for this particular artwork, instead the artist had painted them separately and simply spliced them together for the sake of tradition. As Griffin clicked his bedroom door closed, his eyes hovered over the family portrait. The artist had accurately captured his Father’s disdainful gaze, a regally raised chin frozen in time. But what Griffin’s portrait lacked was the life that danced behind his own eyes. Even the Royal portraiture rejected his free spirit. With a brief exhale, the Prince crossed his chambers to the wardrobe that housed his fighting gear. He’d head straight to the Practice Fields and begin warming up. Hywel’s training regime was bound to be regimented and exhausting… He was wise to prepare accordingly.