The sun was low on the horizon. Lasura shifted his weight as he sat atop a nondescript bay colt waiting for the trackers' return, trying to find the best position to save his behind from this torture device of a saddle. He had been trained on military and traditional Shakshi saddles, both of which offered more comfort for a long ride. That afternoon's ride may not have been considered long, but after two hours, Lasura decided he would find out the person responsible for its creation and see to it that the prick sit on this thing for three days straight.

Next to him, Azram seemed to be suffering no discomfort on his white stallion, or he was but had been too used to enduring such instrument of torture. Azram's saddle— complete with gold studs and stitchings as if the pain of sitting on hard, embossed leather wasn't enough—was a display of status more than anything else a saddle was supposed to be. Status was everything in the Black Tower. As far as Azram was concerned, no son of the salar should ever be seen riding on anything less, especially as a part of his grand entourage. And so, thanks to his kind regards and thoughtfulness, Lasura had also been made to ride on this princely thing that was going to make him sore for the next two days.

At least mine doesn't come with studs, he thought wryly. You have to be thankful for the little things, especially if you were born into his position.

The summon had come without a warning shortly after midday. The instructions had been precise, demanding him to show up at the royal stable within the next half hour—an amount of time that didn't allow one to do much considering the distance from one point to another in the Black Tower and the steps to be climbed between them. He'd simply put on a robe and a pair of riding boots, grabbed himself a bow and a half-empty quiver and went. The mounts had already been picked and saddled by Azram's stable boys when he arrived, and there had been no time for him to have the horse or the saddle changed to his liking, not that he thought Azram would allow it in any case.

It had been done deliberately, however, if not planned well in advance. The obvious difference in his more subtly designed saddle and Azram's extravagant black and gold was there to differentiate, to bring attention to the right son. With rights to the throne being fair game, one did what one could to gain the attention of the salar by trying to stand out one way or another, and discrediting competitions was one of them.

The ridiculous thing about it was, that he wasn't even competition, not where the throne was concerned. It just so happened, that to the public's eyes he was the son of his favorite Shakshi wife and therefore an obvious target above which other sons should try to rise. Still, such attention had remained manageable until the day the salar decided to tag Lasura along during one of his a hunting sessions two years ago. He hadn't done that often, but the fact that he'd so far taken no other sons but that of his Shakshi wife hadn't gone unnoticed by the princes or their mothers.

Which was likely why prince Azram, the only son of the salahari, had demanded that he join the hunt that afternoon in the Black Desert mountain area near Sangi fortress where the salar had been expected to pass through on his way back to Rasharwi. Many advantages could be gained from this event if all things were to go as planned. A fox hunt that deep in the desert, if successful, would give him a chance to offer their father a rare and exquisite trophy of ringed-tailed black fox only found in the area as a welcome home present. It would also prove Azram a capable hunter and a friend to his father's favorite son, giving him a chance to be included in future hunts where other sons might not. Hunting sessions were the only opportunity where one could spend almost the entire day with the Salar, getting to know him, or being recognized by him—the most direct path to the throne, so to speak.

A brilliant move for the prince, he had to admit, so brilliant that Lasura wondered if it had been his or the salahari's. Azram, with his wrong choice of saddle and garment to prove it, would have never been observant or thoughtful enough to come up with such a plan. It would be interesting to see if he could carry it through, and even then, no one in the Black Tower had been able to predict with any certainty whether an attempt to impress the salar would end up being considered impressive or manipulative. The latter usually meant being thrown off the Tower that same evening, princes included.

Had Azram been any less arrogant, he might have thought about seeking the so-called favorite son's advice on how to do this right, and Lasura might have even given it if only for the sake of saving his behind from the agony of this goddamn saddle. He supposed he could also be kind and offer some advices without being asked, but he would rather entertain himself watching them fail miserably over ignorance, given how often he'd been dragged around like a goat to be humiliated and physically tortured by these princes.

It was exactly why he'd neglected to mention the suspicious shadow behind a rock he'd picked up along the way before the trackers had been sent out. The salar, being an excellent tracker himself, enjoyed tracking his own game. He usually brought with him a small party to any given hunt, or he brought none when the ground was considered safe. It had given Lasura enough opportunities to observe and learn these skills quite closely from his father, to the point where he could now aid the salar in spotting a prey.

These lessons had never been taught, however. To his father, wisdom and skills were to be acquired through experience and keen observation, and those who failed to acquire them were considered a waste of time to teach. He was as far from being a caring father as possible, but Lasura had come to realize that it was in this way that he tested the capabilities of his sons—by removing himself as an influence completely. It would, however, be a serious mistake for any of them to think he wasn't watching everything they did. Very few things escaped his notice whether or not he chose to address them.

Perhaps he should have said something about the shadow, Lasura thought wearily. He was beginning to regret that decision after having waited for the trackers to return for almost an hour now. Azram would surely try this again if the hunt were to fail that day, and Lasura wasn't looking forward to yet another outing on this saddle.

To his relief, the two trackers they'd sent out returned shortly after. Two young males had been spotted just east of them.

Azram snapped a command for the guards to secure the area as he prepared to pursue them on foot. The Black Desert was a region filled with boulders and obsidian-covered hills that made it near impossible to hunt on horseback without risking injuries to one's horse. They had to track and sneak up to the fox to shoot them. Lasura had expected this and was rather glad to be out of his saddle more than anything else.

The two foxes were feeding on a rabbit when they arrived. One a deep red with a splash of orange along its back, the other an exquisite silver with a black mask, both sporting rows of clear, characteristic black rings around the fluffy tail from tip to rump. Rare and difficult to hunt, the pelts of these foxes were something only royalty and the truly elite of Rasharwi could afford. A pity, Lasura thought, given how beautiful they were alive, and how ugly the men who wore them dead on their shoulders often were.

These two foxes, however, were considered easy targets, as long as they could remain unnoticed and didn't fail the first shot. Lasura prepared his bow as one of the trackers handed Azram his, arrow already nocked and ready. From what he knew, Azram was a decent archer, and at that range he wouldn't miss.

Lasura, however, would be expected to miss. An easy enough thing to do, and one he didn't mind doing. Hunting for sport wasn't really his thing, especially not when it was being served to him on a plate. The salar, who sometimes returned with no kill at all, seemed to agree. During those sessions, the difficult climb, the effort taken in tracking down an animal, or the test of how close he could get to any given prey without being noticed had been what excited him.

They spent three days tracking a mountain cat once in the high forest of Cakora, and stumbled upon a den full of cubs. The mother had turned to face them then, her golden eyes blazing as she made herself ready for the attack. His father had smiled, lowered his bow and ordered the men to stand down. The creature had been, 'too magnificent to die by an arrow,' he'd said, turning back the way they came empty-handed. Those who'd accompanied him on that hunt would agree, that the salar's mood coming down that mountain had never been more pleasant. They would also agree, that it had also been the case on the way up. He'd grinned like a boy being given a new toy every time they lost track of the cat. It was one of the most memorable hunts Lasura had experienced with his father, which, in turn, was making that hunt with Azram more boring than having to babysit a goat—if not also undermining where skills and pride were concerned.

The tracker gave a hand signal, telling them to be ready. He would have to wait for Azram to shoot first out of etiquette before trying to shoot the second fox himself and fail. The two trackers also had their bows to hand, in case Azram's arrow missed the target. It hadn't been issued as a command—Azram would never say it—but that was why one brought extra bows to the hunting ground. They knew their jobs, and so did Lasura, who understood that while the trackers were counted upon to finish the job, he was never to bring down Azram's fox under pain of death or it would be considered an insult of epic proportions. The same act, done by a different man, could mean an entirely different thing.

The first arrow from Azram hit the silver fox on its shoulder rather than the neck. Still able to move freely, the fox leaped up onto the rock in an attempt to flee. At the same time the two trackers shot their arrows, Lasura loosed his at the red as it ran toward the bush to the left and missed it by a hand. It got away, of course—that was the whole point. Azram's target fell to the ground soon after with two more arrows closely embedded in its neck. The trackers had been good, but Azram's arrow had somewhat ruined the kill, considering that there was now a hole in the best part of the pelt. A beautiful animal, wasted even after death by the hands of an incompetent, egotistic fool, Lasura thought, frowning at the dead fox.

Azram, grinning as if the two arrows in the neck had both been his, handed his bow to one of the trackers and turned to him. "I thought I'd left the easier one for you."

"Indeed, you did," he lied. "It was a difficult shot." It wasn't, really. "Father should be pleased." He wouldn't, not with that hole in the shoulder.

"Too bad he couldn't have two." Azram shrugged and mounted himself back on the horse they brought for him. The dead fox was collected by the trackers who then removed and took back their arrows after returning Azram's to his quiver. The prince, in his dazzling blue and gold tunic, didn't want his hands dirty or his clothes soiled from handling his kill. "Come, he should be close to Sangi."

At least he has enough sense to watch the time, Lasura thought, picking up his misfired arrow and climbing back on his horse. He was glad it was about to be over, more than anything else.