Your Majesty, prior to the winter rains drowning the roads, here are the numbers for year 919 to accompany our taxes.

Sebastian lay sprawled on his belly across the sill, his body resting on a pile of his favourite cushions. Outside the sun was sinking slowly behind the distant line of trees, their shadows casting grand silhouettes on the meadow. He heaved a deep sigh. "But, Lady Viviane, I don't see why I have to change into another uniform." 

"It's a ball, My Lord. You'll be wearing something else. Plus, you've been running around, sweating." Lady Viviane placed something on his desk with a plonk. He didn't care enough to get up and see what it was. "You don't want the Lords and Ladies of our kingdom to think you're a sweaty pig, do you?"

He shrugged. "So what if they think I am?"

"It would displease His and Her Majesty, My Lord. Can you please come down from your sill so I can dress you?"

He pressed his face deeper into the cushion beneath him and groaned. With every movement, his muscles ached more from his tumble down the fourteen steps of the throne platform. It was all Uncle Tom's fault anyway. He should have let him go to the fair, then they wouldn't have battled with swords, he wouldn't have fallen, and then he wouldn't have hit his uncle in the ear. Now everything was ruined.

"My Lord, must I really ask again?" She raised her voice, slightly, yet still noticeable. Prior to the ceremony, she had clung to Patience far longer, but it had been a long day for her as well.

And he had no energy left to oppose her anyway. In the end, it had all led to nothing but frustration at both ends. It wasn't her fault that this country had complex and unneccesary traditions. "Give me my uniform. I'll do it myself."

"As you wish, My Lord."

While she rummaged through his bedroom, he kept staring out the window. The shadows of the trees were moving towards the edge of the River Faith, where they would soon blend with the reflection of the crescent moon. It was such a peaceful sight; the perfect antidote for the dreadful, bustling feast a couple of floors down. 

Oh, how he wished he could stay in this spot forever.

Behind him resounded the plonking sound against the stones. His neck protested as he turned around. He was getting sorer by the minute, but he wasn't some weakling. 

On the sill now laid a freshly ironed uniform, the jacket now with a stiff collar and unnecessary silver shoulder pieces, but that wasn't all. His simple black belt had been replaced by a broad cross strap with a crown-shaped buckle that would poke his bruises all evening.

He rubbed his forehead before gathering his courage to get changed. A headache was creeping up his neck, his mouth all dry and bitter–the result of biting his cheek until it bled.

He pulled off his shirt and threw it over the bag Alex had left behind. Stupid marbles. No matter how sophisticated they were, they could never replace the fun he and Fox had had crafting their own. She should have known that before wasting gold on something he was never going to play with.

While Lady Viviane picked up his toy soldiers from the floor, he changed into his fresh clothes. On his first day as King, he would change the dress code for these lame celebrations. The regular uniform would have to do; there was no reason why he should attend the ball wearing a jacket that wanted to choke him.

Just as he picked up the belt designed in the Seven Hells, the door flew open and Uncle Tom came in with a frown crossing his brow. "I require a private moment with my nephew. Thank you for your services, Lady Viviane. You're dismissed."

"Of course, Your Majesty. I will take my leave. Have a joyous feast." With her head held low, she grabbed his dirty uniform from the sill and exited the room.

As the door fell shut, Uncle Tom approached him, his face predicting a fierce Wrath-filled storm. "Get down from there. We need to talk."

Keeping the belt in his hands, Sebastian slid down from his sill. He remained with his back against the rough stones of the wall at a safe distance from Uncle Tom. In a matter of seconds, he would be at the receiving end of a scolding, and it wasn't going to be pretty.

To his surprise, his uncle plopped down on the couch and crossed his legs. "Come here with that. Stand in front of me."

Sebastian staggered forwards, the ten steps between them not nearly enough time to think of the right thing to say. The God of Patience whispered that he should apologise, but Wrath didn't want to go down for crimes He didn't commit. 

Hesitantly, he handed the belt to Uncle Tom. "Are you still angry?"

"No." Uncle Tom unclasped the strap at both ends and placed it next to him. "What you did was reckless, selfish, and irresponsible. I'm disappointed in you."

"It was just a prank." He stiffened as his uncle wrapped the band around him, pulling it tight. "Payback for what you did to me when you hid and I thought you had died. I didn't think it through. I didn't mean to..."

"Yet you did it anyway." Uncle Tom winced, the right part of his face grimacing in pain. He still rearranged the belt until the heavy buckle pressed uncomfortably on his belly button.

Sebastian moaned. He wasn't going to leave it at this. "So did you. It wasn't very nice to disappear like that, Uncle Tom. It was like I was standing back in a deserted Laneby, all alone and with nobody to help me. I was really scared."

"And I was scared that I had lost you. You mean everything to me, Sebby." Uncle Tom hooked one end of the cross strap to the left side of the belt, then stood up to yank it down his shoulder loop before fastening it on his back. He sighed. "But I guess I made a mistake too. The Gods of Wrath and Pride once again got the better of me."

"And of me too." He fidgeted with his fingers. If there was a good moment to ask about Father, it was now. "Uncle Tom?"

Uncle Tom pulled at his collar, as if to stretch it even further. He laid his hand on Sebastian's free shoulder, his eyes scanning top to bottom. "Hmm."

"You said my father did that to you–your ear. Is that why he got banished?"

His hand moved to his ear, rubbing it. Midway, his eyes lit up, and he lowered his arm again. "Bran did many things in his younger years. It wasn't the first incident, but it was the one too many. He was better at being Lord of a small village than he would have been at being King of The Greenlands."

"Did you ask him to step down?"

"No." As the short answer had made a definite end to that conversation, Uncle Tom squeezed his shoulder. "Looking all good, Seb. I'd say we're ready to go."

"But I'm not wearing any weapon."

"Do you see me wearing one?"

"No."

 "Come on then. Let's go."

Sebastian let out a grunt. His attempt to stall time had failed. He was well aware that ceremonial swords weren't worn during balls. Lana's etiquette teacher had taken him aside for four evenings in a row to teach him the sliding and chain dances that would be performed. A sword would be a hindrance and deemed too violent by the Ladies present. As Crown Prince, it would be his duty to entertain the guests while Uncle Tom and George conducted business with the Lords.

He hated it already.

As he and Uncle Tom were walking down the stairs, he reached for his uncle's hand. Four evenings with the most stuck-up hag in the five kingdoms and he remembered nothing of the moves, nor the names of the visitors, or the masks they would be wearing. 

Or where his own mask was.

He was everything but ready. If only he had Father's dagger, he wouldn't be so nervous. His father would be watching over him, even if he couldn't physically save him.

"There's no need to be scared, Seb. The women will admire you, and the girls are gonna be more afraid of you than you of them. Everybody's gonna wanna to be in your favour."

"I'll favour those who leave me alone."

"Oh, Sebby." Uncle Tom chuckled, his hand brushing over his back. "You still have so much to learn."

He halted in front of the large door from behind which resounded a cheery tune accompanied by a mixture of droning voices. Glasses clinked. Heels tinked against the marble floor. An inch of wood between him and the world that craved his attention.

Lieutenant Patrick approached them with a cushion on which their masks were lying. With that problem solved, Sebastian grabbed his and pulled it over his throbbing head. The music stopped as the doors were opened and Lieutenant Stephen put his thumb up.

"Ladies, Gentlemen," George bellowed. "Bow for His Majesty, King Thomas, third of his name, Lord of Sundale and the Great Jade Sea, son of King William the Diligent. And your Crown Prince, Lord Sebastian, first of his name, Lord of Regal Sun Wood, Laneby, and Doe Hill, son of Lord Brandon the Stubborn."

Pushed forward by his uncle, Sebastian marched in. For the occasion, the dining hall had been darkened, the only light now from the countless candles on the long tables that had been placed in rows down half the length of the hall. Left and right, men in army uniforms or colourful robes were standing with their heads low. The ladies bowed even lower, lifting their dresses in warm autumn colours from the floor.

He gazed straight ahead to the table at the far end, behind which Aunt Crystal, Lana, and Alex were standing. Their masks were familiar, their matching green dresses with multiple layers outshining everyone else's. His mouth dropped open as he studied the unexpected shapes of Alex's body; the bosom she normally hid inside baggy garments and the waist he wouldn't mind putting his arms around.

The thought was almost too insane to occur, but it was the truth, the only real light in this twisted world of royal affairs: she looked absolutely stunning.

As he sat down next to his uncle, the guests shuffled back into their seats. A pleasant, floating melody emerged from the small platform that had been erected on the left side of the room. Three men in black clothes, wearing white masks, were plucking at the strings of their harp, fiddle, or lyre. One woman in a long black gown and a red mask that only covered her eyes blew a thin flute.

From out of the kitchens appeared dozens of servants with silver platters carrying pies and other minor dishes that he would stuff himself with all evening. He reached out to his already filled goblet, the content deep ruby, and sniffed, the sour smell indicating disgusting wine instead of the expected grape juice.

He put down the goblet and tapped his uncle's arm to capture his attention, but he didn't get it. Uncle Tom kept his good ear away from him as he continued a hushed discussion with Aunt Crystal and Lana about his cousin having to dance with George.

While he waited for Uncle Tom to finish, a grey man wearing a mask with a red arrow in a field of green approached them. He shook hands with George, who addressed him as Lord Ormond.

Sebastian flipped the pages of his mind, but couldn't recall if he was the Lord of Whitepeak or Easterbridge. It couldn't be Rabbitpaw because they had an actual rabbit's foot for a crest. Lady Victoria wouldn't be pleased, like all her hard work had been for nothing.

If only Nick had been sitting on his left instead of the General. He would have whispered all the good answers.

"So you're Lord Sebastian." The man nodded at him. "Aren't you the perfect mix of your parents? Typical Greenlander black hair with your mother's deep blue eyes. Let's toast on them, young Prince. May they live in our hearts forevermore."

Reluctantly Sebastian reached for the goblet of wine. It would be indecent to refuse the Lord. "Forevermore."

Wine gushed over the edge as they clanked. Sebastian nipped, the vile taste touching his lips and tongue, but he discretely spat it all back out.

Lord Ormond didn't notice. He had already moved on to Uncle Tom, who was smacking him playfully on the arm, reciting a whole bunch of names that sounded familiar but he still couldn't place the man on the map of The Greenlands. There had been so many to memorise.

"Life is good in Harthby, Your Majesty. We've had a good summer with a good harvest. The only noteworthy event was a pickle with some bands up on the road to Pathford, but my warriors chased them away before they did any damage in the village."

Uncle Tom leant forwards. "I remember reading about that in a report of Captain Philippe. A western patrol captured them. The leader was a Scorian Earth Magician. They've been dealt with accordingly."

"It pleases me to hear that, Your Majesty. That scum tramples our beautiful country on their way north. Harthby doesn't see much of them–we don't have an inn–but Lord Elias has slain four this autumn alone. He says they have started crossing the Jade Sea during the storm moons too."

"Then the waves will swallow the fools for us." Briefly, Uncle Tom touched the jewel around his ear. He grabbed his goblet and raised it to the Lord of Harthby, a farming town not too far from the western coast. "May the Gods know what to do with them."

"Aye."

While the Lord made Aunt Crystal laugh, Uncle Tom and George exchanged a few looks. Relief from this tense political situation came as one of the serving girls placed a steaming pheasant pie on Sebastian's plate. With the green mask on, he couldn't tell if the brunette was Anna or Christina. It couldn't be Nadja because she was too small.

He placed his hand on hers anyway. "Can you arrange juice for me? I don't like wine."

"Of course, My Lord. Right away." She grabbed the cup and left.

Where she had stood popped up a blonde-haired girl, hardly any taller than the table. Her face was covered in a mask of gold with long black whiskers on the nose. Whiskerhall–not a hard one at all.

The music changed, the flute producing an eerie, almost haunting melody that left him light-headed.

"Hi, Lord Sebastian. How are you?" Her soft voice was muffled by the strings mimicking the flute.

"I'm..." He took a deep breath, his heart beating against his bruises. He suddenly felt hot. "Good. How are you?"

He blinked rapidly but nothing could stop the girl's bare arms from shrivelling like grapes that had been lying in the sun for too long, scorch marks appearing out of nowhere. Her brown eyes darkened, their spark dying.

When she opened her mouth, a shrill screeching shivered him to the very core. "Dance with me," said the ghost of Abby's voice, "or I'll tell Nick the real reason why I'm dead."

No, Nick could never find out that he had wasted too much time looking for his parents in the forest. He slammed his hands on the table, his breath rapid and harsh in his throat. "I'll dance with you."

The girl threw her hands in the air. Gone were the burn marks; her skin had turned back to their original rosy colour. She giggled in a high pitch, tugging the sleeve of the man chatting to Uncle Tom. "See, Father, Lord Sebastian does wanna dance with me."

"That's lovely, dear," he responded. If he was Lord Christopher of Whiskerhall, then the girl's name was Tiffany. Sebastian was nearly sure.

He rose from his seat and walked up to the free area between the tables of the guests and their own. He had no time to come to his senses; Tiffany already came running towards him. She placed her small golden shoes on his feet and wrapped her arms clumsily around his waist. Even on her tiptoes her golden hair barely reached his chest.

"You're tall," she remarked.

"Or you're just small."

She huffed. "I'm already three and a half."

He clenched his teeth to refrain himself from saying something that would insult her. Lord Christopher was still talking to Uncle Tom, and even George had joined in the conversation. Distract the wife or daughter, and let them seal the deal–that was what Lady Victoria had repeated endlessly.

The music twirled around him, his sore legs seamlessly gliding on their own. In a strange way, these steps were not so different from the ones Master Paul had taught him to outsmart his enemy. Swooning women was a struggle too; perhaps a tougher task than disarming another man.

The toddler girl was but the first of a whole string of women who wanted to dance with him. Lady Mathilda of Beggarpool was the first to lay her wrinkled hand on his shoulder. "Twenty-five years ago, I danced in this very spot with your father. Let's see how well his boy fares. You're quite as handsome as he was."

The lyre-player tapped the platform twice, the music picking up to a faster pace. Sebastian embraced the more pleasant rhythm and the woman who so desperately wanted to share this moment with him. The evening was young, but the remarks already stale. He wasn't Father, nor would he ever be.

"Your father was a real gentleman, not quite unlike yourself, but it was such a shame that the Goddess of Lust controlled him." Her orange dress billowed as she spun around. "He could have had the riches of a Scorian wife, but sealed his fate when he kissed your mother on the eve of his own engagement party, shattering the dreams of the Great King William. No union with Scoria and no expansion of the trade fleet. Or so the rumours say anyway. The truth is that the sibling wedding never occurred, and your father disappeared shortly after. I said it back then, I'm saying it again–those events were connected. What do you have to say about that, Young Lord Sebastian?"

"My parents loved each other very much." Sweat was turning his hands clammy. He wasn't too sure how to react to that story, other than that he needed a serious talk with Uncle Tom. Hearing stories from strangers was not the way he intended to find out about his father's past. Uncle Tom had to tell him the truth, just once, and then he would never ask again.

But he didn't get a chance to head back to the main table and confront him. Women in all sizes and colours of dresses begged for one dance with him, so he danced with them all. Uncle Tom wouldn't be able to hold that against him. He had done he had been asked to do.

Lana and George had joined him as well. It was an odd sight–the way the otherwise stiff General gracefully moved across the dance floor. His cousin swirled around him, their bodies closer than he dared his partners to come. They were feeding the rumours of their impending marriage.

And quite successfully so. The ladies pointing and giggling fell for their performance. The topics of conversation shifted to them, instead of him. Sebastian didn't mind. Dancing wasn't so bad if he only had to nod and smile.

By the time he finally had a moment's rest, his aunt and uncle were gone. He took a gulp from his goblet, the refreshing apple juice gliding down his throat. Lady Victoria had explained that they never stayed long at the ball, but he hadn't expected them to have left already. The hours of business were over; it was up to him and Lana now to steal the show.

His cousin and George were already doing that. He shambled to the far end of the table, where Alex was sitting, poking her fork into the piece of roast beef of her plate. It had been an eternity since they had last chatted one on one, and he craved her companionship.

"If this is you asking me to dance, the answer is no," she grumbled as he sat down on Lana's chair.

He took another gulp of apple juice. "I'm tired of dancing, and seeing people."

She sniggered. "Then why are you talking to me, Muttonhead?"

"Because you're not people."

"You're the worst, Seb."

He pushed his elbow into hers–a favour which she returned immediately. A colourful dress, silver jewellery, but Alex was still Alex. The normality was calming, soothing even.

"So what do think of the ball so far?" he asked, not allowing silence to settle between them.

"Strangely fascinating." She turned her head towards him, lowering her voice to a whisper. "But I'm not gonna lie. I miss Laneby. Your parents arranging a feast in the Great Hall with less food, but all the tastier, and then the bonfire with Fox jumping up and down all evening, adding more branches to the already high flames."

"Until he fell asleep on the pile, his hands clutched around one or more sticks. Remember last year when Nick tried to yank it out, and Fox startled and pushed him to the ground." Though Sebastian laughed out loud, his throat tightened. It was the only time Fox had ever beaten someone. "I can't stop thinking about him, Alex. These talks about magicians, it gets to me. I don't want him to be dead, but I hope that wherever he is– even if it's the Seven Hells –that he is celebrating too today, lighting up the biggest bonfire in the world."

"Hmm... yeah." She stared into the crowd, where dozens of people had joined Lana for a chain dance that involved changing partners when the musicians drummed the platform twice. "Seb, do you think we were mean to Fox–that we teased him too much?"

"They were jokes... pranks. They didn't mean anything." He scratched his hair, his headache reminding him that tomfoolery had consequences too. It wasn't unthinkable that his bantering had hurt Fox, but there wasn't anything he could do about that anymore. "Why do you ask?"

"It sprung to mind."  She shrugged. "Forget about it. It's nothing."

He narrowed his eyes. Alex wanted something from him, but he couldn't quite figure out what. She continued eating, taking small bites so they'd fit through the mask. Until he had joined her, she had been sitting all alone at the table. He didn't recall anyone talking to her. Maybe she was lonely, and it was his job now to make her smile.

"Do you wanna talk about something else?"

"Like what?"

"I dunno." He stretched his legs under the table, his muscles sore but finally relaxing. "I still haven't heard all about Nick and how he got himself imprisoned. I bet it's a really funny story."

"There's nothing funny about it, Seb," Alex snapped. She sighed. "I'm sorry. It's just this day–it's hard and I'm tired, and these heels are trying to kill me. I'm not pleasant company."

"Neither am I," he murmured. It would be a matter of minutes–seconds maybe–until another Lady decided it was her turn to dance with him. Bad mood or not, he would rather stay with Alex. She was his real friend, all the other chats were fake and wouldn't matter anymore after today.

 "And poor Nick, he hated him for not wanting to spend it with us, but he's in a dark prison cell right now. He shouldn't be there, Seb. It's mean, especially on a day like this."

"Do you want me to get him out?"

"Yes, it would mean the world to me if you and I–"

"I'll do it." He snapped his fingers, capturing the attention of Lieutenant Stephen, who was chatting to a bald man with four sycamore leaves on his uniform–a Captain whose name he didn't remember.

The Lieutenant looked up and put his hand on the Captain's shoulder, excusing himself. With long strides, he marched up to the table. "Yes, My Lord?"

"You oversee Nick's legion, don't you? The General arrested him this afternoon. I want you to get him out of there. The joke lasted long enough–it's no longer funny." 

Lieutenant Stephen crouched down. "You don't need to worry, My Lord. His Majesty has already ordered his release."

"Then why isn't he here?" Sebastian cocked his head.

"That I don't know, My Lord."

He snorted. The answer was evident; a perfect evening for Nick would be one spent with his nose in a book. He dismissed the Lieutenant and smiled at Alex. "So, now that that's solved, can't I persuade you to dance with me?"

"Not until your uncle eats vegetables, Puddingbrain." 

The comical words didn't match the snarlish tone of her voice. Why he didn't know. He hadn't done anything to insult her, had he now?

Girls and politics. He was good at neither of them. 

How could he ever be a good ruler?