"I am your highest, most trusted advisor, commander of your elite battalion, and the most loyal guard you could wish for. I am not, however, your maid." Feath flicked the sleeve of one of the robes Faolan was to be wed in. It swayed on its mannequin, limp from the weight of the fabrics and furs stitched at the hems.

Since the proposal, Feath had been quick to anger—even more so than usual. At every meeting Faolan called, he sat out and sulked, claiming to be undertaking an intense training regime or, at other times, suddenly taken by the urge to go for a walk. Anything, it seemed, to get away from Faolan. And even at this hour, the night before Faolan's wedding, Feath's attitude remained rigid, and Faolan practically dragged him to his quarters so that he may give some words of encouragement. Advice. Anything other than the silence he shunned his friend with.

"Feath," Faolan tore his eyes from the robes hung before him to study his friend, "I wanted your advice. As a friend."

"Well, you didn't heed it the other day. Down by the rock pools." He huffed his frustrations, retreating to a spot by the large window that gazed out upon the calm sea.

Faolan exhaled a breath of exasperation, perplexed by the meaning behind his words. "You advised me that it was the best time to take her hand, and I did everything in my power to do so. The conditions she imposed were not as strict as they perhaps sounded from her mouth, and so I thought it best—"

"You have hidden the last condition from me, and therefore I cannot confirm whether what you thought was best." The reason for Feath's discomfort now clear to Faolan, the concerns he held cooled like the melting sun: Faolan had never kept a secret from Feath. The trust Faolan had in Feath had never been higher than this moment, for all their childhood dreams were coming true and a huge part of it was down to Feath sticking by his side. Feath massaged his temples to calm his own anger, "I'm sorry brother, I just—"

"No, Feath. I should've told you sooner, and to be truthful, the last condition has kept me awake at the coldest hours of the morning, worrying about my future. You see, Freya is with child. The father is dead, murdered, and she willed me to use that information should she step out of line. She promised to raise the child as if it were mine, as long as she was able to keep it."

Feath's fingers caressed his parted lips as he absorbed this information. "You accepted this? Faolan, forgive me for mentioning the name, but Éala was of similar condition."

Faolan ground his teeth to hold his annoyance from his friend. "She succumbed to pregnancy, after agreeing to marry me, to some local scum by the tavern she frequented. A disloyal, trouble-seeking burden. One that you dealt with, on my behalf, truly admirably. I can never repay you, for you saved me from a life of unhappiness." Feath shuffled in his seat. "I have no attraction to her, no interest in making an heir of my own. To keep the child and her future safe, as a baby born out of wedlock, she will be indebted to me. To repay it, I ask for no more than public support and obedience."

Faolan searched his friend for a hint of understanding, Briefly, a shadow fell over Feath's eyes, but he shook it away and managed a small smile in replacement. "Good thinking, brother. There can be none more beneficial to rule by your side." Faolan caught the bitter edge in his tone, but Feath continued before the thoughts could develop. "There are celebrations singing your praises in town, Faolan. Gifts, for you, even."

Faolan squeezed his head for the right response. "Then I should... Provide more cake?" Feath's deep laugh rose Faolan's lips into a grin.

"Be with your people, brother. Celebrate with them. I can promise you, it's well guarded and safe. Let them dance with you. Feel the respect you have rightfully earned."

"Then I shall celebrate as if we won the war. With you, Feath."

Feath, cleared his throat and rose his collar around his neck. "Ah but the robes. You need your trusty advisor to decide—"

Faolan rolled his eyes, dragging his friend through the door. "Who cares what I wear tomorrow. The crown will sit prettily on my head, and they will not care. Let us go now, while we are free and happy."

Faolan marched him from the castle, and into the forest, roofed by a purple hue, as the sunset beamed it's last. As they walked deeper into the trees, the aromatic juices of venison meat, cooked in wild blazes that reached the sky, wafted through and grumbled their empty stomachs. Over the meadow, just past the treeline, they could see the fires tickling the stars, and a parade of dancers circling the root of the heat.

Feath grabbed Faolan's hand, eyes burrowing into him. "Faolan. Promise me you will not drink from the same poison she has brewed for the rest of the Kingdom. The spell she has bewitched them under. They follow her too boldly. Do not be the same." Faolan staggered under Feath's sudden sincerity and could do naught but nod.

"I promise." He gave Feath a curt nod, eager to quell his friend's discomfort and upset. Feath's expression eased into relaxation, completely replacing the hardness of his features as he gazed upon the town.

"Then, let's celebrate."

Further into town, the mature oak and aromatic blend of fruits seep into the air; an intoxicating mix of scent and taste. Whisky, ales and other strong, home brewed liquids adorned red faces with slurred smiles and cheers, as Faolan marched through the crowds. Feath left him to join a dance enjoyed by some of the guards that was supposed to be watching over the King, but their ruddy faces and excitable movements only drew laughs from Faolan.

Even deeper in, the music bled through cracks in buildings enticing the women to dance and the children to copy. The joyous faces, lost in the innocence of a village dance, barely caught the King as he passed. Their excitement in the moment, his moment, inflated pride into the King's ego, as he inhaled the celebrations; drunk on pure ecstasy.

Only a twinkle of doubt overrode his new contentment, a bold vein of jealousy that questioned whether they celebrated for the allocation of their Queen, more so than for their King. A feeling more potent than anger, it festered within and surged through his heart until he regretted the free foods and wine gifted to them.

A young child burst past Faolan and knocked the thoughts clean from his head. Faolan bellowed after the youth as he pelted under a table, quivering in fear. His nape length, mahogany hair bounced like a mop over his face, catching on the wetness of his lip. Another boy, a little older, grabbed him and yanked him from his hiding spot. Three matured children, all larger than the boy, snorted with abhorrent laughter as the boy yelped into fits of tears.

"I'm warning you. One day I'll be a royal guard for the King." The small one waved his fists as the others poked and prodded him scornfully, and at his words, they howled with laughter.

"Royal guard? You?" They continued to push until the boy fell into a nettle of thorns, drawing blood and whimpers from his trembling skin and lips.

"How are you going to see the enemy with a pair of squint eyes like that? Then again," the largest boy aimed a punch that landed perfectly in the boys face, bones crunching as it knocked him back further into the thorns, "maybe you do fit in with the King and his guards. A royal lack of talent and—"

Faolan froze despite the warmth of the fires, shuddering anger smoking through his fingertips. Even in the dark shadows towering him, Faolan could tell the boy was not of this land; his natural, soft tan and flatter feature shapes not resembling anything like those born of the Kingdom.

Ravaryn was not like his home Kingdom, Whist, where slaves were abolished and good natured friendships bloomed, for the richest few within this Kingdom had slaves bred, their lineage continued from generations before.

This boy, with a slender frame and painfully sallow cheeks, Faolan was sure to be a slave. Or at the very least a runaway. His tolerance for the agony he endured at their hands and the net of stingers below him, proved to Faolan he had grown his tolerance through his short lifetime of beatings.

They swept the slave's feet out from beneath him as he grabbed for a branch to stand. To defend himself. "Move." King Faolan hissed at the jeering boys through bared teeth. It threw the boys into submission, a bow, eyes glancing at Faolan's sheathed sword.

"Your Majesty."

"We didn't mean anything by—"

"My mother owns him, He's a slave, bred for the purpose." The last boy held his head proud, freckled cheeks glistening in the ember lights.

The King hesitated; how would the rich react if he protected what they deemed their property, interfered with their way of life. As fast as the thought crossed him, he shook it away—there are far more poor than rich in this Kingdom, and they are the ones he must aim to please.

"Then I shall make it clear to all, that under my rule, the idea of slaves, trade, or act of keeping humans in such a manner is abolished. Tell your mother, the King himself has taken this poor boy, and should she partake in this practise again, she will face severe consequences." Paler than the glance of the moon, the boys faces drooped to that of a broken hearted puppy, before all three of them scampered from Faolan's deathly gaze.

King Faolan plucked the boy from the thorns and eased him to his feet. Hands wrapped around the boy's arms, the frailty of his condition pulled on Faolan's sympathetic streak. He was, after all, but a young child.

"I'm sorry for causing you trouble, Your Majesty." The boy mumbled into a low bow, scratching hives on his legs as he bent. Faolan squeezed his shoulder, but the pain he felt within wasn't satisfied and so embraced the boy with a careful hug.

Despite the cold breezes of winter that bit at his shins, Faolan unpinned his cloak and fastened it around the boy's shoulders, the fastening it with a green tree pin that cost about the price to feed the boy for a year. "This pin is Whist's symbol. The evergreen willow. One day, I'll alter Ravaryn's flag to a similar style, but maybe in gold. Whist is home to the greatest army across the lands. Far greater than the ones in legends and fireside stories."

The boy's shoulder's relaxed to hold his tilted head, fixed gaze upon the badge now at his chest. With a scarred hand, he stoked the soft furs wrapping his neck. "Thank you."

"If you put the hood up like this," the King flicks the hood up to cover his face in shadow, "no one can see your face, and so none will question you when you help yourself to the free foods I've sent down for you all to enjoy. But I promise you, one day you won't need to hide your face from anyone. They will respect you." Faolan brushed a streak of blood from the boy's cheek.

"Why are you being so kind to me?"

The boy's breathless whisper held a hint of fear that Faolan wished to shake. With a hand laid upon his shoulder, the King recounted a tender memory, "A servant of mine, in my youth, he was once a slave. His loyalty to the Kingdom proved to everyone that it didn't matter where he was born or what features he possessed. This servant saved my life, and after that, Whist no longer took part in this trade. He was granted the same rights as all others, and won freedom for his people."

The boy straightened up, then bowed deeply once more. "One day, I'll be remembered in history as that man was. Do you think, one day when I'm bigger, I may join your guards?"

Faolan chuckled, ruffling the boy's straight hair. "I would be honoured to have a soul as brave as yours fighting alongside me. Put on some weight, train every day, and I'll reserve a spot for you."

The boy's eyebrows closed with concentration, inhaling every word the King uttered. With his hood pulled over his eyes, the boy hurried off to a food table, helping himself to a plate of simple bread, despite a mountain of rich oat cakes and honey spread freely for his choosing.

But a dark realisation tinted the innocent swelling in the King's heart: Sorin and the other advisors had just proposed that the King take up the trade deal that would see the Kingdom's children sold overseas—perhaps to people who would use them as slaves. As long as he remained King, Faolan vowed never to let this happen. He was no saint, and yet this level of pure evil was too much for Faolan to accept.

"Faolan," Feath's voice slurred from a distance, "there you are. I been searching everywhere. Come now. See this."

Warmed by the heat of the fires, Faolan let Feath guide him through the masses of people, a hand on his back. The burnt scent of brown liquor emanated from Feath's breath as he buzzed through the crowds. They reached a pile of wrapped gifts: pretty purples and vivid blue ribbons adorned on each parcel. Two men load them onto carts, pulled by horses decorated in colourful throws. "Ta-da—" a hiccup caught his expression short. "Presents."

Faolan snorted with laughter as his friend lay a hand on the pile, the pressure slipping the top few into an avalanche. "They're for the Queen and I to open together tomorrow, after the wedding. Not for you, Feath." Feath threw his hands to his hips, with a look of such disgust on his face that Faolan chuckles. "Though, you would make an excellent, audacious mistress."

The harshness of winter blew some of the candles lighting the streets to smoke. His wedding. Faolan gazed around at the happiness around him; hands full of food and drink, or locked graciously in each other's while they danced, their skins seemed unfazed by the lashes of cold. Faolan shook the frown forming on his face, and hoisted Feath's tiring body up.

"Come Feath. Let's go home. I feel queasy." Upset by the end to his fun, Feath's whines and complains continued all the way back up the hill and through the forest into the entrance hall of the castle, where one cartful of presents had already been delivered to decorate the castle. Candlelight, wavering in the wind, bounced over the sturdy, brown wrappings with apparent excitement.

"Can't we open just one?" Feath flung his arms around Faolan's neck, the stench of his breath a pungent kick to Faolan's nose. So Faolan gave in, if only to prevent another insult to his senses.

"One. And then I'd like a quiet night. Okay?" Feath nodded, watching as Faolan's hands trailed the many wrapped gifts.

For Faolan, it was a decision between two: a small, velvety purple box, surely gifted by some nobility, or an even smaller brown box with a bow tied around it's middle. He picked the latter, untying the delicate ribbon and creaking open the lid. A soft, sage hairband with a little flower charm sewed to it—a gift meant for Freya. Faolan gazed at the other presents, disheartened at the possibility that none of them may be meant for him.

"Oh. Can I pick one?" Feath pined to Faolan, hand drifting towards the velvet box. Faolan sighed, but let Feath take it and open it, stuffing the hairband into his pocket.

The snap echoed around the hall as Feath opened the box, Faolan hardly caring to look at what lay inside. Feath yelped, dropping the box and its contents to the floor. Blood trickled between the cracks in the stones. Heart leaping a thousand paces faster, Faolan picked the box up, and lain on the floor in a puddle of blood, lay a severed finger. A ring, tight at its knuckle, gripped the bulging flesh.

A thorn ring.