“Why don’t you take off your robes.”

The prince was lying on the warm grass, his hands beneath his head, staring at the evening sky. He had kicked off his boots and socks and was just lying there, knowing he was handsome, and not afraid of showing it.

Quent was sitting awkwardly on the ground, shivering in his drenched dark blue mage’s robes. He gladly absorbed the little bit of warmth that the sun bestowed on his cheeks. He knew prince Oweahen was right, that it would be a lot more comfortable without wearing that heavy garb all cold and wet, clenching around his body. He wouldn’t take it off though.

“Don’t ignore me.” The prince turned his head to look at him.

“I’m fine my prince,” Quent answered coolly, keeping his gaze fixed at the horizon.

This part of the palace gardens was covered with large neatly trimmed patches of grass that were absolutely not meant for lying on. Here and there fountains would mark a crossing of the cobblestone paths that were lined with cypresses. The fragrance of summer flowers hung in the air, making him drowsy and long for one of the better vintages that were stored in the Citadel’s dungeons.

“Don’t be a proud idiot.”

Quent had to press his lips together to keep himself from letting out a chuckle. If one of them was a proud idiot, it would be the prince.

“What, you think that’s funny?”

“No my prince, I’m just not keeping my robes on because it is a matter of pride.”

“Well then it is a matter of idiocy. Take them off.”

Quent really didn’t like how insistent the prince was getting so he took off the mantle part of his garments and laid it in the sun to dry. He wrapped his arms around himself and chose to focus on a particularly beautiful agapanthus that was growing a couple of feet away from them.

“Take off your robes.” The prince still wasn’t satisfied and the tone of his voice started to become dangerously annoyed.

Quent swallowed. He had hoped that this would be enough and that Oweahen would let go of the matter, but clearly the man wanted to see his naked upper body. The mere thought of it made Quent want to put his mantle back on. It was not like the prince would like what he was going to see.

“I-I’m sorry your majesty, but I’d prefer not to.”

“It doesn’t matter what you want. It’s an order.”

“Really,” Quent said pleadingly, “I beg you not to. It’s…”

“What do I have to rip it off you? Get the guards to pull it off? You better take it the fuck off or you’ll regret it.”

Oh no, the guards weren’t going to have that pleasure. “My prince, please, it is for your own-”

The prince already sat up.

“Please! I… It’s… It’s not a pleasant sight!”

“I’ll decide for myself what is pleasant and what is not, mage.”

All hope at keeping the ugliest part of his body undiscovered was quickly fleeting away as Quent saw the determination in the prince’s eyes. They were beyond reasoning; any further objections would only put oil on the flame of Oweahen’s aggressive curiosity. He looked around to see if there were any people currently passing by. If they would see it they would think he was feeling sorry for himself, or maybe that he was showing off. He didn’t know what was worse. Right now there were no people in sight but the guards patrolling the walls. Quent reluctantly pulled his shirt over his head, revealing what he himself couldn’t see but knew was there.

On his back there were many thin horizontal scars, extremely old and nearly faded, but still visible to anyone within a couple of feet of him.

And then there was the mark, burned into his right shoulder blade with binding magic. The symbol of the Citadel, The ugly seal of his fate, binding him to the institution for as long as he would have skin on his back. He knew it possessed magical properties, though he wasn’t completely sure how and what.

“You’ve been branded...”

“...”

Before he knew what was happening the prince was sitting behind him, scrutinising Quent’s back. He flinched, not willing to share this part of himself with anyone who did not know the burden of carrying it.

“So the Citadel really is as fucked up as they say… isn’t it…”

“I… I don’t know what they say…” Quent had his eyes closed, biting the insides of his cheeks, really hoping for this to be over soon.

“Those scars… Did they do that too?”

The mere mention of them brought memories racing back to life and he quickly opened his eyes again, trying to reconnect with reality. The present was still better than the memories of that particular part of the past.

“Uhm yeah… When I was still very young… T-they don’t do that for no reason, I mean it was two decades ago, I didn’t know the rules and-”

“You’re justifying that shit?” the prince looked at him in horror.

Quent was silent for a moment as he let the comment of sink in. He wasn’t justifying anything, he was stating the truth. Or was he?

The prince had moved back to his spot on the grass, sitting back now, leaning on his arms. “Hell, you’re trembling like crazy. Here, take this, it’s better than that cold circus tent you people wear.”

Prince Oweahen softly tossed him his shirt, the one he had pulled off before jumping into the water. Quent caught it automatically. The fabric was so soft he felt like it would slip through his fingers. The collar was decorated with golden embroidery and tiny gemstones, so small that he wondered how they could have been polished in the first place. He looked at Oweahen, trying to hide his disbelief. Was this a test? Another cruel joke?

“You don’t have to put it on, but I supposed you were cold.” The prince was staring at the distance pensively. For the second time that day, Oweahen had dropped his act of the obnoxious monarch.

Quietly, Quent put on the shirt. It was too big for him, and he had never worn white before. He felt like a different person.

Oweahen chuckled. “It suits you.”

He wasn’t sure whether the compliment was genuine. At least the gesture seemed to be. And for now, that was enough.