Years of practicing how to alter his gait on a whim helped Bram to walk straight on his way to the tavern’s entrance, despite the world seeming to tilt slightly to the left.

“Phoebus’ cock,” he cursed. “Remind me never to try grog ever again…”

“I’ll do no such thing,” Ser Anthony chuckled as he walked beside Bram. “It was good to see you relaxing. If only for a while.”

“That wasn’t relaxing. It was torture,” Bram protested. Then, glancing over his shoulder, added, “That poor barmaid…I hope you gave her a large tip.”

“Of course,” Ser Anthony replied. “One might argue, however, that mopping a prince’s vomit will be the highlight of her—”

Ser Anthony froze. So did Bram. He noticed what his prince felt, the strange heat suddenly pressing against the back of Bram’s neck.

They both turned around and caught sight of the guard who’d accosted Bram earlier. He was creeping nearby, glaring suspiciously at the prince with eyes that glowed with the telltale signs of sorcery, though seeing Bram’s molten gaze staring pointedly back at him caused the coward’s spellcasting to falter and sent him scurrying into the safety of his fellow guards.

“Was he actually trying to place a curse on me?” Bram asked incredulously.

Ser Anthony’s hand flew to his sword’s hilt. “That brazen bastard tried to hurt his liege.”

“He doesn’t know who I am, though, which is what we wanted,” Bram reminded his knight.

Atlan’s seventh prince had been visiting Bastille’s Lowtown district for several days while in disguise, proving to Ser Anthony that he could conceal himself thoroughly with no one discovering his identity. It was the only way to get the old knight to agree with his daring plan. Though secretly, Bram just enjoyed visiting Lowtown. He relished the company of commoners far more than the nobles who plotted behind his back.

“Still,” Bram smiled impishly, “a man should know his master’s face.”

His impish smile vanished suddenly, replaced by a clenching jaw that held back the bile climbing up his throat.

“I can’t get this gods-awful taste out of my mouth…”

Bram didn’t need to be cursed by a foolish guard since the grog had already sufficiently cursed his innards. He took a moment to regain his composure before leaning toward Ser Anthony, who still smelled of the weed that he loved to smoke.

“Remember those guards’ faces and have the Commander of the Guard flog them for dereliction of duty tomorrow,” he whispered.

“You’re not usually one to enjoy such a spectacle,” Ser Anthony noted.

“Luckily, I won’t be here to witness it,” Bram pointed out. “Besides, I may cringe at scenes of cruelty, but there are some things we can’t avoid.”

For seventeen years, Atlan’s seventh prince had lived knowing few moments of kindness. Despite this disparity, and mostly thanks to Ser Anthony, Bram had learned to be patient and compassionate. He had learned to forgive when the situation called for it. This wasn’t one of those times, though. Bram could forgive the tavern’s patrons for their treasonous thoughts because the commoners of Lowtown didn’t know any better. The guards were different. They who wore his colors and served as soldiers of his household should know better. These people who spent the afternoon in revelry when they should’ve been manning their posts needed to be disciplined, so the others who served the prince learned not to betray their oaths to him.

“I’ll do it myself,” Ser Anthony promised.

“Get the commander to do it. We pay him enough,” Bram insisted.

“You aren’t paying him anything, Your Highness. You fired the man after he’d let the north’s spies ransack your office three days ago,” Ser Anthony reminded Bram.

“Right, that minor mishap happened.” Bram tapped the side of his temple. “Luckily, they found nothing, because I’m crazy enough to keep all my plans in my head.”

He patted the old knight gingerly on the shoulder.

“I’ll rely on you to mete out the punishment…and Ser Anthony, make them hurt, and let everyone know why, especially the Captain of the Watch…I hear he’s friends with these guards.”

“I’ll make good examples of them.”

The prince and his protector stepped out of the old tavern and into the late afternoon, feeling pleased with themselves. To these two men who endeavored to raise the Forest Kingdom of Lotharin from the squalor forced upon it by the Imperium’s other kingdoms, there was nothing more important than weeding out corruption in the ranks. How could growth occur if the soil were rotten?

“Lowtown’s surprisingly clean and lively…it’s a beautiful neighborhood,” Bram observed.

Few of Bastille’s nobles would claim this of Lowtown, which, unlike the wide avenues of Hightown with its lavish mansions and manicured lawns, was a district of tightly packed old buildings, narrow streets, and rough-looking commoners whose fraying clothes were at least three seasons out of style. Still, unlike most other city slums, the white paint of Lowtown’s old buildings hadn’t wilted, there wasn’t a single bit of graffiti in sight, and the cobblestone streets were well-maintained enough that the children playing nearby need not worry about tripping on a pothole.

Bram watched these thin waifs launch spurts of water at each other from the tips of their fingers using a well-known spell taught to children learning the sorcerous arts for the first time.

If only I’d managed a simple ‘Water Finger’ spell when I was young. I wouldn’t be having such a hard time now…

He shook his head.

With his gaze fixed on the children, he couldn’t help but notice their gaunt faces as if it had been a while since they’d had proper meals. Their clothes were raggedy, though their smiles while fooling around were much brighter than any smile Bram could give.

He sighed.

His woes seemed inadequate in the face of the citizens’ poverty.

Turning away from useless thoughts, Bram breathed in the scent of earthy fragrance and fresh linen, and then he ran over to the corner of the tavern so he could vomit out the remaining grog that refused to settle inside his stomach.

Ser Anthony chuckled. “If Princess Camilla saw you like this, she’d laugh you out of town.”

The old knight stood guard behind his prince.

“D-Don’t mention that drunkard’s name…” Bram breathed hard. “Just hearing it is making me more nauseous.”

He would puke his guts out more on their way to the stables, with the last of the grog leaving him right as Ser Anthony brought him the hart he’d purchased from the stables’ proprietor.

“Did you…” Bram wiped the spittle from the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand. “…pay him double the asking price?”

“To keep his mouth shut,” Ser Anthony replied, but, with a warm smile aimed at Bram, added, “and because you’re too generous.”

“What’s the point of being royalty if I can’t flaunt it every once in a while?”

“You flaunt it all the time.”

Bram winked. “As a fool should.”

He walked over to inspect the hart Ser Anthony bought him.

It was an enormous beast, with glossy black fur and a fierce look to it. Its antlers were a muddy ivory hue, but with few enough branches to suggest its young age.

“How did you find a creature this beautiful in Lowtown’s stables?”

“No one else wanted it.”

One of Bram’s eyebrows hitched upward.

“Why not?”

“The stableboy who cared for it said this hart has the blood of a blackheart stag.”

“Not a purebred but a hybrid…Is that possible?”

“The fell beasts of Sundermount are known to mate with harts from time to time.”

As if to prove the stableboy’s story true, the black hart pulled against its reins. It refused to follow Ser Anthony, who tried leading it out of the stables’ front yard. It bucked against the old knight’s hold, though his strength was more than enough to suppress it. Just not to calm it down.

“That’s not how you make a new friend, Ser Anthony.”

His heart softened for this hart the moment he learned it was unwanted, like he was.

“Here, let me try.”

Bram moved to stand next to the defiant hart and placed his hand on it. Softly, while he caressed its neck, fingers gently brushing its fur, Bram sang to it, willing the beast to serenity with his dulcet tones.

“Dark as the wings of a raven in flight, and swift like the tides of the river Rhyne’s might,” he sang. “O’ mighty hart, won’t you brighten up, banish away the night with your antlers’ light?”

Bram’s song carried no magic in it, but such was his talent that his voice was enough to calm the hart’s temper.

‘Ping!’

Once more, he heard the otherworldly tone, and again, he ignored the otherworldly message. He had his reasons. Mainly, he didn’t want to feel discouraged…not on the eve of a new adventure.

“Wouldn’t you rather travel in a comfortable auto-carriage?” Ser Anthony asked, and not for the first time.

“Hush,” Bram covered the hart’s ear, “we wouldn’t want him to get jealous. Does my new friend have a name?”

“The stableboy called him Renfri.”

“Renfri…I like it,” Bram grinned. “A fierce hart should be named after a hero of the Imperium.”

Bram climbed up Renfri without difficulty and sat upon its saddle as if he were born to ride it.

“I should go with you, Your Highness…”

“The nobles of Bastille would notice if you were gone from the city, Ser Anthony, which would make this secret journey a lot less secret.”

“You think they won’t notice their new governor is missing?”

“I’ve spent years pretending to be a recluse. So, it wouldn’t be such a surprise if we let it slip that I’m in hiding because I’m weary of the responsibility placed on my incompetent shoulders.”

Bram laughed out loud. Ser Anthony didn’t share his humor.

“You are far from incompetent.”

“Yet I’ve had to pretend to be…” A wan smile flashed on Bram’s face, though it was far from a look of defeat. “…To stay alive.”