A pair of black gloved hands tightened around his throat. With each second they increased their grip, pressing deeper against his vocal chords, making any attempt at a scream impossible. He should have been used to the feeling of choking by now, yet the sensation always stayed unbearable. His body simply did not agree with having a lack of oxygen, it struggled for life even as his mind knew resisting would only make it worse.

A pathetic cry left Quent’s body as he was released from the nightmare. He shot up, wishing his eyes would adjust to the dark faster so he could see if his pitiful yelp had awakened Oweahen. He squinted his eyes as he stared at the lavish bed, unable to discern any human shape in the pile of sheets. The fact that there was no movement was a good sign. It probably meant the prince was still fast asleep.

Except there was no sign of his presence at all. Quent couldn’t hear the regulated breath of someone who was dormant, nor the restless shuffling that kept him up at night when Oweahen was having bad dreams. Carefully not to cast too much light lest his feelings be wrong and he’d awaken the prince, Quent produced a small light source in his hand. It didn’t give off any warmth, it was purely light. A slightly difficult trick for most mages, who inherently imagined heat to be associated with light, thus creating a flame rather than something void of other sensory properties. The disadvantage of fire was that it could burn things however, so Quent preferred putting some extra effort in a more elaborate spell rather than setting the place on fire.

No sign of Oweahen.

Not lying in the bed. Not sitting in his favourite chair. No sounds coming from the bathroom.

Where could the man be? Quent shrugged off the remnants of the bad dream as best as he could. His first instinct was to go through all the places he and the prince had been but then he realised he had a much more effective method at his disposal: magic. Even though he had just cast a spell, he wasn’t quite used to relying on the arcane. After all, the mages at the Citadel were mostly taught the theory and practising it outside class or without an elder’s permission was prohibited. It was not in his nature yet to use his powers, or to consider them “his” in the first place. Especially not the slightly more difficult magic he was planning on using now.

Quent thought frantically. Some sort of tracing or locating spell would be best. Maybe tracing was better, he didn’t know the palace and its grounds that well yet.

He had never done this before, but he knew how it worked.

He walked to the bed, the place from where his spell would start. He got down on his knees so he could concentrate better on the spot where Oweahen had been lying earlier that night. Softly he reached out to the fabric. It wasn’t warm anymore but the prince’s energy still lingered there. Focusing his eyes, Quent visualised the prince asleep. He murmured the appurtenant incantation.

There, a spectre like image of the prince appeared. Or was it still his imagination?

The faint version of Oweahen sat up, looked around suspiciously and then got up. It tiptoed to the foot of the bed and studied the ottoman, the place where Quent had been sleeping. It lingered there just a bit too long to Quent’s taste.

The spectre was now sneaking towards the doors and disappeared through them. Quent quickly followed, trying to stay focused on the spell as well as his surroundings. He couldn’t have himself falling of a stairway right now.

No guards lined the walls of the path the ghost of Oweahen was taking. It led through narrow servant’s passages hidden behind wall scrolls and underneath staircases. Quent felt a drop of sweat trickle down his temple. He was extremely focused, if he lost the spectre now he wouldn’t be able to track it down again from this place. He would have to return all the way to the bed and right now he had no idea how to get back.

Quickly he whisked the thought away. Worrying would only distract him and cause him to loose focus.

The course Oweahen had taken started to become more and more difficult to traverse. At one point Quent had to open a hatch hidden beneath a table, which led down to some cellar. He didn’t know how the prince had managed to find his way without a light.

Suddenly the night air hit him as he opened a particular shabby looking trapdoor at the end of a ladder. The thing creaked heavily. As he emerged he noticed he was somewhere on a part of the roof.

A pair of hands tightened around his throat. With each second they increased their grip, pressing deeper against his vocal chords, making any attempt at a scream impossible-

He wasn’t dreaming. Quent closed his eyes and imagined a blast of invisible air coming from within him, pushing everything within a two feet radius away.

The grip around him was released and he heard his perpetrator fall to the ground. A strange feeling of victory washed over his rapidly beating heart. He turned around to see whomever it was that had attacked him, though he already knew. The energy was unmistakably that of the prince.

“What the hell? Mage?!” Oweahen was sitting on the flat stone floor of the roof, disbelief in his eyes. “How did you-?”

Quent closed the lid behind him, careful not to make too much noise. He didn’t want to alert the guards that were patrolling the walls.

“Who said you could follow me?”

“It is kind of what my job entails my prince...” It suddenly hit Quent where they were. “What are you doing on the roof your majesty? This place is dangerous! You could fall off! A simple gust of wind and you’d lose balance and fall and die-”

Oweahen was chuckling again.

“I really don’t think these things are funny! Do you even know the price of being reckless?”

“My, my, calm yourself mage.”

Quent couldn’t. This was unbelievable. That insufferable asshole was laughing like the repercussions of his actions were nothing. He wanted to say something but the anger was stuck in his throat and no words could come out. He hated this feeling, unable to manifest the rage within him. Was it because he hadn’t known real anger before? Or had he been suppressing it for such a long time that he had forgotten how to express it at all?

“Why… are you crying…?” Oweahen looked at him with a strange combination of confusion and disgust.

Was he crying? His hands shot to his cheeks. Yes. They were wet. He was crying. And he hadn’t even noticed it.

Quent hated himself more than ever. He was repulsed by his own pathetic behaviour. All he had wanted to do was show the prince that his actions were stupid and reckless and dangerous. Yet now he was crying like a little child.

“Were you that concerned…?” Oweahen asked baffled.

What? Quent looked back at the monarch, who for once looked like he was going to cry himself.

His tears hadn’t been the result of his concern for the prince. They had been tears of frustration.

But how could he possibly say that when the prince was looking so fragile right now? If this wrongly perceived concern managed to make Oweahen emotional, how badly had the prince been longing for it? What feeling of utter loneliness had he been living with?

“Please… My prince… Don’t worry me again like that.”

There was no lie in a request, and yet Quent couldn’t help but feel that he was manipulating the man by saying this. It made him feel extremely uncomfortable.

Whatever guilt he had felt disappeared as soon as the prince opened his mouth again. “You should know by now, mage, that I do as I please. Why, you may ask? Because I can. I’m the prince remember? I own this place. This is my damn roof. So if I wish to sit on it, I shall.”

The usual air of arrogance had returned. Quent almost sighed in relief. “Please notice me about it next time my prince. I will not keep you from doing what you want, but I have to...”

“Keep an eye on me?”

“… Well… By lack of better words…”

“And what if I want to be alone? Will you stop me from doing that if it is what I want?”

Exhaustion rushed over Quent. It really wasn’t necessary for Oweahen to go provoke him in the middle of the night, on top of a roof. He was just tasked with a simple job, which was to protect the man.

He really shouldn’t complain however. He was still alive. The prince was still alive. Quent was a patient man. He had been a teacher. His majesty was just like an unruly student.

The thought of that helped him get back to the situation at hand a bit. It also made him question himself. If he had been a teacher, how come he was able to maintain discipline in the classroom without the power to show his anger? If he had been crying in front of the students like he had been crying in front of the prince he’d been laughed away a long time ago. But then again, that all seemed to have been ages ago. Part of a different life.

Maybe the prince had noticed his tiredness. Or maybe the prince was tired himself. He didn’t demand an answer this time. Instead, he was patting the space next to him.

Quent sat down, slightly awkward but not in the mood to refuse. It was late after all and his body demanded some rest. Besides, what had resistance ever bought him anyway?