As the place he had known for the majority of his 32 years of life faded behind him, Quent, in some attempt to regain some control over his stormy mind again, rummaged through the leather bag he had taken with him, containing his few earthly possessions.

He had packed it yesterday night, after Timoth had come to his room all sobbing about how he didn’t think he would survive without Quent’s ‘everlasting friendship which had always offered him support in difficult times’ and blahdeehblah. Quent had reassured him with some wishful thinking and had then promised to say a last goodbye in the morning if Timoth would now finally go to bed.

He had left without saying goodbye. It was better that way. When he had faced himself in the foggy mirror yesterday night he had been scared. Even tough he had always seemed slightly older than his age, he could now barely recognise himself. Decades seemed to have been magically added to his brow. In front of him stood a ragged man, his raven hair unkempt, a stubble starting to almost grow into something more. There were dark pools beneath his even darker eyes. He had always been considered a moderately handsome man by the people around him, built just slightly thin but with dark brooding eyes that seemed to make up for it. For some reason those eyes had always been the focus of attention when he received love letters by students in his desk. He himself couldn’t see anything darkly wild yet dreamy, as one particular badly poem had once described them.

There were none of those silly anonymous (and sometimes not so anonymous) love letters in his bag. He had always destroyed them immediately. Better not to get into trouble over something as trivial as that.

What little possessions he did have consisted of a used writing set, a set of underwear and an oval shaped, emerald stone slightly radiating with magic. He touched its cold surface and felt the energy pulsing through his veins. It had been a parting gift of Timoth. Quent just hoped there wasn’t a soul entrapped in it or anything else sinister. His friend was known for his passion of enchanted gems and his slight interest in the occult.

He shouldn’t be thinking of such matters however. Remembering only hurt. It was just that throwing the gift away would hurt even more.

For the first time that morning Quent dared lift the curtains of the modest carriage he was being transported in. He hadn’t wanted to see what was outside. Wide and open planes gave him an uncanny feeling. He knew that they were leaving the marches of the Citadel behind however and peeked to catch a glimpse of sunlight, which made him shut the blinds again immediately. He decided that he would just keep them closed for now, until they would arrive in the capital. No need for looking at things that didn’t concern him.

What Quent hadn’t expected upon his arrival at the palace was the total disregard of his basic needs as they dragged him through all sorts of checks. He couldn’t remember seeing anything of the capital at all upon entering it because by the time they arrived he had been fast asleep.

Quent was hungry. He was sore. And he really longed for the trusted confinement of his four-walled cell back at the Citadel. These were the thoughts and feelings that went through his head as two armed men and one magic wielding guard led him to the entrance. It wasn’t fancy like he had expected. He didn’t recognise any of the architectural features the royal palace was famed to possess.

Then he realised it was just a back entrance they were leading him through. What had he expected? A welcome committee awaiting him under the great arches of the Royal Palace?

Later he wouldn’t remember much of what followed. They tugged at his clothes, undressed him, searched him and forced him down a cold bath. All of this happened in badly lit, moist rooms. It was a wonder they didn’t accidentally cut his throat when some lady gave him a shave.

Usually being treated so shamelessly would have embarrassed him. Surely, this was not much different from his washing routine when he had been a young student at the Citadel, but that was nearly two decades ago. Quent would have dug a hole in the ground had they done this to him now. Yet he was too tired to care and the rooms were dimly lit anyway. There was little to expose.

Next they tossed him a bunch of clothes that really didn’t deserve to be tossed. As he tried to make up what went where on his body he noticed the high quality of the fabric, the dark blue sheen in its patterning and the modest embroidery decorating its sleeves.

There was little time for admiration of his new outfit though. He was now in someone’s office, which in contrast to the previous rooms, was heated and properly lit. He squeezed his eyes trying to make out who was sitting behind the big mahogany desk, but the light was too stark to his eyes. They would have to adjust first.

“For God’s sake Myriam, this is to be his majesty’s guard?!” The person behind the desk shouted.

The woman named Myriam laughed. By listening, Quent knew she was to the left somewhere. When he turned his head to look he saw a shape sitting on a drawer like it was a sofa, legs crossed, head falling back with laughter. A sorceress, he supposed.

The man behind the desk had to be some high ranking guard. There were flashy badges pinned everywhere on his chest. They were hard to look at, reflecting the light without mercy, making Quent’s eyes watery.

“Those fourty goldpieces are mine Fredereck.” The woman chuckled. Great. They had bet on his stay already.

“Mage. Mage! Look at me while I’m speaking.” The military man commanded angrily. With difficulty Quent opened his eyes a little more. The light was more bearable now.

“I’m Captain Fredereck Tyrr, head of the royal guard. You may address me as captain or sir.”

“And I am Myriam Ikheart, the actual head of the royal guard. Just hope I don’t ever address you.”

Captain Fredereck clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Please shut your mouth. I need to teach this... man how to behave. Now do you understand mage?”

“Yes sir, captain.” Quent replied.

“What? Speak up when you talk to me!”

“Yes sir!” He shouted. “Captain!”

The man behind the desk nodded in satisfaction. “Now before you meet his majesty or her grace the Archsorceress you need to be taught some manners. I suppose they don’t teach you etiquette at that hellhole of a Citadel.”

No they don’t really expect you to come even close enough to his majesty or her grace the Archsorceress to even know how to adress them, Quent thought. Just falling to your knees and keeping silent would suffice. He knew sometimes the Archsorceress would come check on the Citadel but she would always be under a disguise of some kind so none but the highest-ranking mages actually knew who she was. A visit from the prince would be completely unimaginable. There was no reason for his majesty to show any interest in the insignificant inhabitants of the Citadel.

“Now what are you supposed to do when you face his majesty?” The head of the royal guard asked, though it sounded more like a demand. Quent hadn’t been listening at all. Luckily he had already received a quick lesson in etiquette by Headmaester Goodwyn, who was familiar with the ways of court.

“Bow upon entering. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Always say ‘my prince’ or ‘your majesty’ at the end of a sentence. No eye contact. Don’t turn your back to his majesty unless commanded. Don’t leave without being dismissed.”

Captain Fredereck was silent for a moment, probably not having expected the exhausted mage to recite him so well. The captain wasn’t a cruel man, just a practical one, and nodded satisfied. The sorceress on the drawer seemed somewhat disappointed but kept to herself. As the clocks of the city struck midnight and the ringing of a their bells joined in a cacophony that even penetrated the walls of the palace with their sound, the captain adjusted one of his badges and looked at the mage in front of him.

“Then it is time to meet your master.”