The swift slashes of the blade were impossible to follow to an untrained man like Quent. Up it went, and down, clanking constantly as it blocked its opponent steel.

Prince Oweahen was a good swordfighter. No, that would have been an understatement. Prince Oweahen was an excellent swordfighter. Right now Quent was wondering why the man even needed a guard at all when he handled the blade with such finesse. Then again, not all magic could be stopped with an ordinary sword, no matter how exceptional the wielder. A sword was usually faster though, and much more useful in close range combat. But someone as good with a blade as the prince was just as rare as someone gifted with magic.

The morning sunlight shone harshly on the small training yard. The two men in combat didn’t seem to be bothered, but Quent felt last night’s lack of sleep taking its toll on him. He had to remain vigilant, that was his job, but his thoughts strayed each time he didn’t intently focus on the movements of the blades.

How was Timoth doing? How were his students? Who would teach them the difficult conjuration circles that were so necessary for a young warlock?

His body had been at the palace for two days now, but his mind still hadn’t quite fathomed the change yet. He had been so overwhelmed by all the impressions of the outside world that he hadn’t had a moment to actually stand still and think about how his life had changed. How it would never be the same again.

This thought scared Quent. Only now did he realise he had been suppressing this fear with all his power. Surely there was enough that scared him around here: the guards, the mages, the prince, death. But these were not things that mattered on the long-term. Even death didn’t matter on the long-term for it meant there simply wouldn’t be a long-term. Yet this feeling of irrevocability nagged at Quent. It haunted him, catching up with him as soon as he had a moment to think.

Well, it was quite simple then, he would simply have to stop thinking.

As if his wish had been heard by some unseen power, one of the swords flew through the air and landed on the ground with a dull thud. Prince Oweahen had defeated his sparring partner. He took off his protective mask and gave it to the other before shaking hands and exchanging a quick word of thanks.

Quent was at the prince’s heels before the man could even turn around. He took this job very seriously and his wish for immaculateness caused him to seem almost eager to be back behind the prince, holding the position of escorting guard.

“What, did you miss me?” the prince scoffed as he pulled a hand through his hair in an attempt to reorganise it. Beads of sweat ran down his neck.

A colour rose to Quent’s cheeks. The prince didn’t have to know that he was the one thing that kept Quent’s sanity together right now. Oweahen was a beacon to hold on to, his safety was priority and as long as Quent kept that priority in mind there would be no room for troubling thoughts about a life he had left behind.

His blush hadn’t gone unnoticed to the prince, who raised his eyebrows. “You’re eager.”

“I’m just… My thoughts are in disarray my prince.”

“Didn’t know you were capable of thinking.” The prince pulled off some protective padding from his shoulders and dumped it in Quent’s arms. “I’ve only seen you follow other people’s commands.”

“I am capable of thought, your majesty.” Quent tried not to look too clumsy as the prince casually dropped more light armour into his arms to carry.

“Then what do you think of me?” The man turned around and started striding towards the bathhouse that was adjacent to the small training court.

“Uhm…” what was he supposed to answer? He couldn't possibly say that he thought the prince was an arrogant, spoiled little sadist.

“Well?”

“I think you’re uhm very… wise.”

The other turned around abruptly and Quent bumped into him, dropping some of the armour. The prince’s tone was furious “I should strike you for telling a lie.”

Quent turned red. “I-I’m sorry I didn’t-“

“No you didn’t mean it. Tell me what you think mage. And no lying. You’re terrible at it. Tell me what you truly think.”

The gaze of the prince was unbearable. A pair of dark angry eyes pierced right through all Quent’s defences. He couldn’t lie now. Yet the truth…

The prince grabbed him by the arms and shook him. “Tell me!”

This act of physical contact only caused Quent’s mind to shut down more. He froze. It was like yesterday all over again, when the guards had attacked him. Movement was simply impossible. The fear of… was it touch? Pain? Failure? It didn’t matter, the fear, wherever it stemmed from, was paralysing.

He fell to the ground as the prince let go of him. Clouds of dust arose where the pieces of armour hit the ground. Some of the dirt made contact with his eyes and he closed them, pressing his palms against his eyeballs, his retina going crazy with colours and patterns.

He waited for whatever would come. A kick, an insult, or maybe the iron of a blade.

Nothing happened

It stayed awfully silent.

Carefully Quent tried to open his burning eyes, his vision blurry from pressure, dust and tears.

The prince was still standing there, looking at him with an expression he couldn’t quite place.

“You’re broken already.” Oweahen spoke softly. It was a statement, neither disappointed nor triumphant.

Quent looked up at the man standing there, possessing every trait he lacked. This person was emitting strength and vigour as he looked down at what grovelled in front of him, a worthless mage. His composure encompassed all the virtues that Quent missed. Pride. Power. Courage.

Suddenly the prince bent over, and for a moment Quent thought they would touch again. Prince Oweahen however was picking up the pieces of armour he had dropped. Their faces were close as he spoke. “Why did she send you?”

It was almost intimate, secretive. As if these were the first actual words spoken to him by the prince.

“I… I don’t know…” Quent stammered. “I don’t know why they would send me…”

The prince looked at him attentively, his brow furrowed. This wasn’t a façade, this was the actual person behind the haughtiness and nonchalance. This was a man who knew what it was like to be paranoid. Someone who didn’t crack a joke without purpose. A man who was maybe just as scared as he was.

“I don’t know why they would send someone as incompetent as me… I’m scared. I freeze whenever violence occurs. I have nightmares. I’m everything but a guard. Like you said, I’m broken-“

The prince swept him up and held him tight against his chest, his strong arms keeping the mage from the ground. Quent could feel the warmth of the other’s body. Was that a heartbeat?

The chin of the prince rested softly on his head as he spoke. “Maybe you’re just what I asked for.”