Quent woke to the sunrays that had finally found way to worm themselves through the little window of his cell. He stretched, yawned and was tempted to turn to his other side but instead forced himself up, opening his eyes, as years of discipline had taught him.

Except there was no tiny window and the surface beneath him was way too comfortable to be his bed. For a moment Quent was completely oblivious to where he was. He realised it was the reflection of the sun on a golden can that had awoken him from his sleep. Another cause for confusion. He had never seen a golden can. There were definitely no golden cans in his cell.

Quent jumped up as if stung by a wasp. He had been lying on an L-shaped sofa in the corner of some magnanimous room. No, it couldn’t be called a room. These were quarters. Everywhere he looked his eyes met something interesting.

The walls were covered by tapestries depicting epic battles of old. He had no time to name and date them for next his eye was caught by one of the many piles of books scattered around the space. He couldn’t make up any titles, but his inner scholar woke and he would have liked nothing more but to pick up the first and best volume if it wasn’t for the enormous bed in the middle of the place demanding to be looked at. It was the probably six times the size of his own bed and was decorated with ornate exotic draperies.

Whenever things were too much for Quent he would look at the floor. That was always a safe place to direct your gaze at. It implied modesty and obedience, two virtues. The floor however didn’t reflect any of those virtues. It was covered in rugs and carpets of all sizes, delicately woven into patterns that looked so complicated they almost resembled arcane drawings. Quent’s head spun.

“If all male mages are like this it’s no wonder they lock you up in a tower down the marshes.”

Quent looked up to see where the voice was coming from and directly met the mischievously twinkling eyes of a man not much younger than him sitting in an armchair on the other side of the room. It took only two seconds for him to realise.

His knees hit the soft floor covered in rugs. With his chin on his chest Quent frantically tried to remember how he had ended up in this nightmarish situation. Maybe it was a nightmare? Maybe he would open his eyes and see that tiny, well-known, little cell window…

“What, does your kind live on the ground?”

He didn’t know how to answer, what to answer, simply to answer at all.

“I bet you’d love to know how you ended up on my sofa, seeing as you probably don’t to remember judging by that look on your face. Hey, I’d like to see it again. Look at me.”

Oh dear, this man was just as Quent had expected. A spoiled provocateur who took delight in other people’s pain because he already owned everything else in the world. Someone who possessed power. And liked using it.

He knew there was nothing to do but raise his head and undergo this entire trial like he underwent everything. By simply enduring.

Quent lifted his head again, not meeting the prince’s gaze as he looked up. Instead he stared at the golden sash that was wrapped around the other’s middle. The fabric danced in the light that fell through the ceiling high glass windows, as if it had been made to be met with the morning sun, so stunningly spun.

“That’s not the same. Now you look like some sour plum. Give me that surprise again.”

Quent tried to fake the shock he had felt just a few moments ago. He was a terrible actor and he knew it.

“Try looking at my eyes. Maybe a shameless act such as that will bring your expression back.”

Except it wasn’t shameless. As Quent met the eyes of the prince the calmth of following an order embraced him gently. He could now study the man’s face a bit. Eyes and hair that matched the colour of his sash. More human than the gravures made of him, more real. Quent thought he liked this face better, even though it was full of arrogance. It actually suited the prince, he wore the expression like some kind of grotesque jewel and even managed to pull it off. He couldn’t help but admire that.

Apparently his look still didn’t appease the prince, who sighed in annoyance. “What, you’re not even going to blush?”

“No my prince,” Quent answered truthfully. Why would he?

The prince narrowed his eyes and Quent realised that this answer had been a mistake. His majesty was offended. He had wanted Quent’s face to turn red in embarrassment of meeting eyes with such a mighty person. He looked at the floor again. Better to show he knew his place. This was why powerful people were such a pain.

The prince walked up to him, grabbed his chin and forced it up. It kind of hurt Quent’s neck but he used all his force to move his pupils down to the extent that it made him dizzy and gave him a headache. The prince’s grip forced his head from left to right and right to left again. This wasn’t really helping him. What did the guy want?

Apparently the prince also didn’t seem to know what he wanted for he roughly let go and Quent nearly fell on his back. The other quickly turned his back and commanded him to get up.

“What do they call you, mage?”