"I want you to marry me."

The Prince's words clawed at the boy's ears like nails on a slate. "What?"

After his little performance in front of the crowd, His Highness had dragged him away from the eyes and whispering mouths of the townsfolk, with his servant scurrying right behind. He could tell that the man was not pleased with his Master's actions, and was possibly extremely concerned, but strange as it might be, that helped him ease his worries: it meant that what was happening was out of the ordinary, sudden, and not planned.

Surely, the Royal could not be about to kill him, and he didn't seem like he was on a mission to imprison him — those two things would be normal, procedural, not something to be biting one's own nail in distress over. And after coming to that conclusion, he had tried to fight off the Prince's hand, but to no avail. His body was too weak after the flogging, his wounds still too fresh.

Once they had turned a corner and made sure that no one was in sight, the Prince had finally let him go, but not before planting himself in front of the alley's end, cutting his chances at running away.

"What do you want from me?" the boy said, now allowing himself to spit out some more of the blood that had pooled in his mouth.

"I'm not here to cause you any harm."

"I figured that. So, what business do you have with a peasant?" His eyes were hostile, with a flame of anger dancing in them. Much like in front of the guards, he was not scared. He looked like a feral animal that had been caged and then beaten, ready to attack whoever dared to get too close.

"Smart boy. Why don't you show us to your home first? Let us get a bit more comfortable." The Prince smiled, brief and sterile, not letting anything slip out. The boy knew he had good instincts, and he knew how to read people, but it didn't take long before the realization that the man in front of him knew how to do the exact same struck him.

"No way. We talk here, or we don't talk."

"Come now. Consider it a request from your future King."

The boy swallowed, the taste of metal burning in his throat. Of course, nobles are not able to accept denial of any sort. He thought for a second, and then his feet started to move. No matter how dangerous these people could potentially be, it was a known fact that they held grudges. And crushing someone from the Slums for a simple "no" didn't seem that unrealistic.

Lucian's fists tightened in quiet triumph, a gesture that didn't go unnoticed by Riven, who simply rolled his eyes, before both of them began following the boy. The servant hurried a little closer to him, enough not to be heard.

"What are you doing, your Highness? Why are we visiting this boy's home?"

"Fear not, Riven. I have an idea. Just bear with me, I promise Father will not find out."

Riven's shoulders fell — there was nothing in that moment he wanted more than to grab Lucian's shoulders and shake some sense into him, but instead, he kept trudging behind. With the years, he had learned to trust him, and despite getting burned more than once, he could still tell when something was important to the Prince. And this whole ordeal seemed to be.

"Tell me your name." Lucian's step grew wider, reducing the distance between them. He could almost see the cogs turning in the boy's head, trying to think of an answer, and a smirk crept onto his lips.

"Tieran."

"Sure." The Prince nodded, as he observed the boy furrow his brows at the remark. It was ironic, if anything. Little lord.

The rest of their walk toward the boy's house was spent in silence, with only the sound of their steps against the muddy road echoing all around.

Finally, they reached the outskirts of town, and Tieran stopped in front of a small building that looked moments away from collapse. The walls were visibly weather-worn, with patchy wood and brittle stone. The front door was crooked, hanging onto one single hinge, and the windows looked clouded with years of dirt — but at the least, they stood intact.

Tieran removed his bloodied boots before entering, and the Prince did the same, causing the boy to look back and scoff.

"I can't imagine you're doing it out of respect. What, you don't want your precious shoes to be covered in filth?"

Lucian ignored him. He would have answered with some sarcastic remark, but he knew for a fact that the statement would have been true for any other noble.

Once inside, he examined his surroundings, taking in every single detail: the place was small and cluttered, but he could see an effort had been made to keep it clean. There was a scent of dried herbs in the air, possibly trying — and failing — to mask that of mildew creeping in from the walls. A crooked table stood in the middle of the room, with five chairs all around it. On top of it, there was a cracked ceramic jar with a handful of flowers. He recognized them: they were the same flowers growing out of the sides of the road.

The floor creaked with each of their steps, and Lucian noticed an old wooden staircase in the corner, leading to the upper floor.

"It's... quite charming."

"Did you expect a mansion, your Highness?" The boy spat, analyzing their every move, ready to jump at any sign of danger.

"Are you always this lovely?"

"With people like you, yes. Now tell me what it is you are looking for."

Lucian sighed, but he couldn't help the corners of his mouth from curling upwards ever so slightly. He had picked the perfect person. Each and every one of the words he was saying were only proving it to him.

"I want you to marry me."

Silence fell in the room, broken only by the sound of Riven accidentally dropping a book he was inspecting.

"Your High–"

"What?" The boy suddenly walked closer, and Lucian couldn't help but notice he was limping a little. He grabbed the Prince's robe, his face just inches apart. "Are you mocking me? You make me take you to my home just to make fun of me in it?"

His hand was shaking, a mixture of anger and embarrassment. Not only did he have to bear with those insufferable Royal guards walking around like they owned the place and publicly punishing him every few weeks, not only did he have to force himself to steal just to survive — now even the person that was supposed to become his King and protect his people was making a fool out of him.

Lucian rested his fingers on the boy's wrist, firm but not menacing. "I am not. I do not like to mock people just for the sake of it. So allow me to repeat myself: marry me."

The boy let go of him, his face twisting in confusion. "Why would you ask me that? Why would you want to marry someone like me?"

"If you say yes, perhaps I will tell you my reasons. For now, just know you will never get another chance like this one."

None of them uttered a word for a few seconds. Riven's eyes were shifting rapidly between the two of them, and it was clear neither was willing to give in.

"And what's in it for me?" Tieran said, blunt and sharp like a blade.

"Excuse me?" Lucian couldn't help but let out a small laugh. "I dislike singing my own praises, but do you have any idea how many people in Paican would beg to be in your position right now?"

Then, it was the boy's turn to chuckle, bitter and forced. "And do you have any idea how useless it is to me? Do you believe I want your riches? Do you believe I envy your grand Palace? You might think us miserable, but this is the life I was given, and I've learned to adapt to it."

The Prince was about to reply, when his eyes fell on one object he had missed while inspecting the interior of the house. A small portrait, sitting on a mantel atop the rotting fireplace, clearly hand-painted by unskilled hands, but still exuding an air of affection. In it, there were five people: he could clearly recognize Tieran, and behind him, one taller girl and a young boy. Further back, a man with his arm draped around a woman's waist.

And it clicked.

"Very well. Then, if not for your personal gain, how about this: accept my proposal, and I vow to provide for your dear family. For the rest of your lives."

Tieran clenched his jaw, glancing in the same direction, and his heart dropped as soon as he understood what the Prince had seen.

"Liar. Why should I believe you?"

"I am a man of my word. You might not trust me, but I would not lie about such a thing. I could bet my honor on it."

The boy's gaze softened, the tiniest amount of indecision finally creeping in. It was useless for him to lie to himself: that offer was way too good to refuse. Indeed, he could not trust the Prince — but what did he have to lose? His whole existence had been focused on helping his family, and now he finally had the chance to give them a good life. Even if it was all a cruel joke, was it really worth denying?

Before he could ponder any longer, a voice came from the upper floor.

"Silas? Dear, are you home? Did you bring someone with you?"

Lucian looked at him, eyebrows raised in amusement. "Ah, Silas it is."

His body froze. "Mother! Please do not come!"

But the steps were already growing closer, and soon a thin woman emerged from the stairs. She was short, frail, with olive-colored eyes and tan skin just like her son, the only difference being her hair: much darker, with grey roots beginning to show right at the top. And as soon as she saw who the people standing in her home were, a tiny gasp escaped her.

"Heavens!" She rushed towards the Prince, kneeling down in the process. "Your Highness! To what do we owe this pleasure?"

Lucian tapped her on the shoulder, signaling her to stand up. He smiled warmly at her, and Silas recognized right away that up until that moment, he had not shown him such an expression. It wasn't exactly fake, it was more than that: it was royal. The benevolent smile of a noble, a future ruler, reserved for his people.

"The pleasure is mine. I am here to ask you a very important question."

"Wait, your Highness, don't—" Silas tried to move to stop him, but the sharp pain in his leg stopped him in his tracks. Lucian looked at him briefly, a spark hidden in the depths of his stare.

Don't, he thought, Don't fool her - but the words never escaped him.

"I would like to marry your son, Silas." He bowed, taking the woman's hand in his. "I'd like to ask for your approval."

It took the woman a moment to register those words, but once she did, tears started flowing almost instantly.

"Are you jesting, your Highness? Would you truly be willing to marry a son of mine?"

"Of course. I just hope he accepts my proposal."

They both turned to look at Silas, one of them with hope and pure joy in her eyes, the other with badly hidden satisfaction.

"Silas! Did you hear the Prince? Would it not be wonderful to marry him?"

And that was when all of Silas's doubts and walls came crashing down. He could no longer refuse, no longer negotiate. No longer ask himself what the best course of action would be. He had never seen his mother that happy, he had never seen her so relieved.

He had no choice.

All he could do now was smile, and pray that it would look believable to her.

"Indeed. I'd be delighted to marry you, my Prince."