Timoth was speechless. Had it been any other person of the Citadel who had made the remark, he would have laughed. But not when they came from his friend Quent. Jokes didn’t come from Quent. At most some disdainful sarcastic sneer. But not a joke. Especially not one about being appointed personal guard of the prince.

Quent glanced at his thunderstruck friend. He had at least expected some theatrical repetition of his words. So Quent repeated them himself. “I got appointed as personal guard of the prince.”

“Yeah you just told me!” Timoth cried out in his normal hysterical volume.

“I thought you’d react… different…”

“How am I supposed to react?!” the minor mage protested by raising his arms to the sky.

This time Quent turned to face his friend. Averagely gifted, sincere and imparted with hyperactivity. He would miss the man he grew up with so closely. The anger inside him rose for a second time this day and he had to squeeze the skin of his left hand to restrain himself.

“You’re mad.” This action had not gone unseen by Timoth, who knew what it meant.

“I’m not.”

“Fine, you’re not.”

They continued walking the endless corridors from the dining room to their particular offices in silence. Sometimes Quent would glare strictly at a group of boys running and shouting along the pillared hallways, playing tag. They would quickly regain formation until they thought to be out of the mage’s sight, just to continue their frolicking around the corner. Other times the two men would stand still to respectfully greet their superiors with a short nod and bow. It was only after a while one of them spoke up.

“Surely you must a bit happy to get a position like that.” Timoth looked at the other, who kept walking with his eyes fixed at some non-existent dot on the horizon, the clenching of his jaws only visible to those who knew him best.

Quent wasn’t a bit happy at all. He was absolutely horrified. This day, which had started off so normal, so lovely and beautifully normal, had turned into a twisting nightmare just before luncheon.

He had been summoned to Headmaester Goodwyn’s offices. This was nothing uncommon. The two, even though their significant difference in age and position, were on amiable terms. There was a mutual understanding about the world that bonded them. And of course it was difficult not to be acquainted with the Citadel’s leader when you were the most talented male mage of the entire known population of male mages.

He had known something was awry when he had set foot in the spacious office of Goodwyn. The old man was sitting at his desk with a beaten look on his face, seeming a decade older than his 67 years. He had just returned from the High Council, an obligation he was to endure as overseer of the Citadel.

The old mage awoke from replaying yesterday’s scene at the palace upon hearing Quent enter. He quickly sat up, trying to regain his dignity, but failed when pain shot through his back from riding a carriage all day and he couldn’t help but let a soft groan escape. Quickly Quent walked up to the desk. “Sir, are you ok?”

“Yes, yes… no. Sit down please…”

Swiftly Quent swept a chair and sat down. This could only be something bad.

“I attended the High Council yesterday… and…”

Even though patience was usually one of Quent’s virtues he wished the old mage would just hurry up and tell the bad news already. Something had happened. The prince was dead. The High Sorceress was dead. The entire Citadel was to be massacred discretely. He didn’t care what it was, he just wanted to know the calamity already so he could accept his fate.

“You’ve been appointed as the prince’s personal guard.”

That was the fate he had least expected having to accept. And he couldn’t accept. Him and the prince didn’t fit in one sentence, not in relation to each other. The entire concept of them being somehow connected was completely incomprehensible. He didn’t want to understand. This was not what he had asked for. This was everything he hadn’t asked for.

Apparently the panic on his face was clearly visible, for the Headmaester rose from his seat to offer him a sedative drink of some kind. Quent politely rejected.

He was to be the…? No, he couldn’t think that sentence. Not again.

“You will be holding a position of great power…” the Headmaester tried to assure him. It only made Quent feel more sick.

“The palace is really beautiful… and maybe you’ll finally be able to read those tomes you’ve been wanting to read… you’ll become the most powerful male mage to have ever exi…”

Quent’s entire life flashed before his eyes. He automatically dug his nails into his left hand as he thought of everything he had worked for. All he had endured. The things he had denied himself. All for peace. For silence. For simplicity. That was all he had ever wanted. Just to live a simple, plain life. To practise low-key magic, to be completely insignificant, unknown to the big scary world outside.

Ever since Quent could remember, that was what he had wanted. Being special only got you in trouble. For that very reason they had taken him from his parents. For that reason he had been followed and checked by the guards for years when he first became part of the Citadel. Calamity was around every corner when you were special. He had realised this at a very young age.

Just because he was cursed with a tremendous gift for magic he wasn’t going to let it ruin his life. Denying it was impossible, hiding it too. All the maesters and guards already knew he was talented. If he wanted peace he would just have to lay low.

And thus Quent had laid low for his entire career at the Citadel. He had displayed his magic, but always in service to others. He had been atop of his class every year and was only fourteen when he graduated and got the title of maester, but he never bragged. When they offered him positions he always refused. He knew it was bait. If he showed interest in power whatsoever he would be a danger and they would take him away again, probably not to a prison half as comfortable as the Citadel.

He had seen others fall for it. They had been boys, not nearly as talented as him, but always in possession of some special quality. Each and every one of them had made the same mistake: desiring power. They accepted the offers to hold this or that position and within that same year they would be gone.

All sorts of doom scenarios raced through Quent’s mind. Was this bait too? And if it wasn’t, wouldn’t that be even worse?

“I’m sorry Quent…” Maester Goodwyn sincerely felt bad for his favourite pupil and employee. The young man had been an excellent teacher. Even more, he had been an excellent trustee, a friend.

“You would have been Headmaester one day…”

It was not as if that thought comforted Quent, but it was still better than being at the centre of the world, in the midst’s of the spider web that consisted of politics and power. As he envisioned the big spider crawling closer to devour him he snapped back to the present.

“But why?” He asked.

“Because they want a man this time.”

“Why?”

Headmaester Goodwyn sighed. “His majesty’s old guard died in a battle, she gave her life for him. Now they tried to assign a new guard but he… his majesty isn’t pleased with any of them.”

“And what makes them think he’ll be pleased with me?”

“I don’t know Quent. The order came directly from the Archsorceress herself.”

The mentioning of the most powerful person of the realm made his head spin again. Surely he would faint. He wished he would faint. A shivering sigh escaped his mouth, which had gone incredibly dry. His tongue felt like a piece of parchment.

“An envoy to escort you to the capital will arrive in three days. It’s all the time I could buy you. So you can say goodbye to your friends… to the Citadel…”

Three days to escape. Three days to wake up from this nightmare. Three days to accept his fate.

Not having had any other choice but to accept his fate in life before, and definitely not used to disobeying a command, the most talented male mage of the realm closed his eyes. If it was a decree from the Archsorceress there was no use resisting. He would just do as he was asked. Surely he could keep low profile at the palace. He was just going to be a guard. If he kept the prince safe and pleased all would be well. That was going to be his plan. Keep the prince safe and pleased and lay low.

No chaos. No dishonour. No scandal.

Not for him.