The bard left his post by the hearth, making his way quickly toward a corner of the tavern where the shadows grew thickest. Although, before reaching his destination, he felt a hand grope the back of his trousers.

“Bloody hell…”

Maintaining his smile, he turned around but found no randy, middle-aged seamstress ogling him. He was a man; an unsavory-looking fellow with an unshaven face. He wore a stained, padded jacket the bard recognized instantly for this teal-colored gambeson was the new uniform of the city guard who manned Bastille’s parapets and gates.

“Where you heading off to, pretty lad?” he asked in as gruff a voice as his appearance. “Want some company?”

His cheeks were red from drink, his eyes dazed and wandering—seeing this evidence of intoxication, the bard’s smile faltered.

“Sorry, Bruv,” despite the other man’s leering, the bard kept his faltering smile, “I’m not interested.”

The guard came forward, flashing him a grin of yellowing teeth. “Nights in Bastille can get cold without someone to snuggle with.”  

Finally, the bard’s smile vanished, replaced by an exasperated sigh.

It wasn’t the man’s lewdness that annoyed him for he was used to such propositions. Over the years, many high nobles in the Sovereign’s court had been enchanted by his appearance, believing his looks to be his only redeeming quality. In exchange for lewd favors, they offered him many things—some quite enticing for a boy without real power or influence—but he’d declined them all, the men and women both. No, the bard’s hackles were rising due to a more pragmatic reason; this guard had done nothing while the patrons of the tavern slighted his lord. No doubt, he’d sung that rebellious tune along with them.

He wears the prince’s colors, takes his wages from the prince’s coffers, but shows no loyalty to his liege…

“Come on now,” the guard’s hand reached for the bard, “why don’t we get better—”

The guard stopped suddenly, his eyes widening in confusion.

As if he’d been an illusion all along, the bard vanished from view and was replaced by someone who lacked the delicateness he’d shown earlier. Sorcery played no role in his transformation, however, for it was one of simple misdirection.

The purple-haired man who shrugged off his bard’s disguise stopped slouching like he’d been doing since stepping foot into the old tavern. He stood to his full height, his shoulders widening, causing muscles hidden underneath loose-fitting clothes to expand, and revealed himself as a tall muscular youth who towered over the drunk guard.

“No offense, Bruv, but I don’t swing that way, yeah.”

Though he still spoke kindly, his voice had lost its gentleness.

“So, if you’re insistent on a little snuggling,” he placed a hand on the guard’s shoulder and began to squeeze, “I know one or two moves that’ll literally take your breath away.”

Despite the thickness of the guard’s gambeson, he felt the pressure of the young man’s fingers tightening around his shoulder. Such monstrous strength sobered him up pretty quickly. Then, reminded of his job, he was about to yell for the young man to let him go or suffer the consequences, but then the guard locked eyes with his opponent’s, and his courage faltered.

Eyes the color of molten gold gazed imperiously at him, and for a moment, it seemed like he was in the presence of one of Bastille’s nobles. No, so intimidating was the young man’s gaze that he might even be one of the royals of the imperium.

“I’m someone who values the service you provide our fair city,” with his other hand, the young man slipped several of his hard-earned griffins into the guard’s pocket, “So how’s about I pay for your meal, and we leave it at that, yeah?”

He’d just given the guard a good reason to back off, but just in case the fool thought to press his luck, the young man pressed down on his shoulder, causing the guard’s legs to buckle so that he fell back into his seat with a thud.

Gazes all around the table snapped toward the tall figure, and he, noticing that they all wore the same teal gambesons, slapped several more griffins onto their table.

“Next round’s on me, brothers,” he inclined his head, “in honor of the brave men of the city guard.”

He placed enough coin on their table for them to send him off with cheers, and, while the lewd guard looked on in confusion—clearly unsure why he’d felt so intimidated—the young man slipped away before anything else occurred. He moved quickly, dodging more unwelcome advances, and claimed his seat beside a table in the corner of the tavern that was half-veiled in shadow.

The hooded man who’d been waiting for him expelled the smoke he’d inhaled from his long pipe, sending a musky aroma into the air that caused the young man’s nose to wrinkle.

“Why do you love weed so much, Ser Anthony?” he asked, his voice changing, losing his practiced commoner’s drawl to the speech of a noble. 

“I’m old now, Your Highness,” the hooded man answered, chuckling afterward. “This herb keeps the aches and pains of old age at bay.”

“Well, you reek of wet grass and mud,” the prince teased. Then, suddenly curious, he asked, “I heard weed makes one calmer?”

“It does indeed,” Ser Anthony replied.

A wry grin flashed on the prince’s face. “Then why are you still holding your sword?”

Ser Anthony’s other hand had indeed been holding tightly onto the pommel of the sword resting against the tavern’s back wall.

“Stay your hand. The matter’s settled. No need to shed one fool’s blood and draw attention to us,” the prince insisted.

“The matter’s far from settled.” Reluctantly, Ser Anthony let go of his sword. “And you drew attention to yourself first.”

“My ears wrung so badly from all their biting commentary that I thought a song might help stop them from calling me names.”

“And has your song changed hearts?”

The prince glanced over his shoulder and listened in on the conversations around him. 

“They’re still spitting on my name, though they’re doing it with a merrier mood. So, let’s call this a draw.”