Oblivious that a similar event was taking place in a kingdom not too far away, Jurauk slouched on his throne, tipping an empty goblet back and forth.

    It was too difficult to breathe amongst all the false smiles and ice-cold eyes. Jurauk felt like he was being asphyxiated. His throat was constricting and the embroidered gold tunic he wore squeezed his chest.

    His clothing was much too flashy. He was golden like the sun, radiating light throughout the room. He even avoided looking at it for fear that it would blind him.

    The room itself wasn't too bad. The servants had placed colored balls over the flickering candles to cast eerie yet beautiful polychrome lights across the obsidian floor. Only the elite were here. Anyone lesser would be exploited and found crying in a corner.

    A strong, steady hand laid upon his shoulder. "You should stop sulking and go out to make some friends," chastised the Imperius. Jurauk's father was tall and regal, clothed in billowing blood red robes decorated with intricate obsidian designs. His brown beard was neatly trimmed, and the silver-rimmed spectacles brought out the green flecks in his black eyes

    "Nobody will really be my friend," mumbled Jurauk, slouching further. "Those females just want my name and money. And maybe me."

    The Imperius let out a hearty chuckle. "Don't say that, son. I'm sure there's one girl who'd like you." Wisely, his father didn't bring up Elisabelle.

    Suppressing a yawn, Jurauk rose. "I'm sick of sitting around. I guess I'll walk around, get some fresh air." The Imperius nodded before turning to answer the question of a pudgy minister.

    Unfortunately, Jurauk couldn't take one step off the dais before he was swarmed with fluttering silks and fans. He was besieged by false eyelashes and piercing giggles.

    "Oh Prince Jurauk, it's nearly midnight, yet you still have not granted anyone a dance!" cooed a girl with long black tresses. Jurauk -out of necessity- vaguely recognized her as Vika, a baroness in her own right. She was a slight girl dressed in puffy ballgown that showed off her slim waist. Before he could get a better look, a bosom was thrust into his view.

    Shocked, he quickly looked away, feeling the duchess Katya's sultry gaze searing into him. She leaned closer, a hand trailing up his arm.

    Oh, she was married too. Gently but firmly, Jurauk slid her hand off. "Greetings, ladies," he mumbled. "How are you this fair evening?"

    "We're just fine," they chorused, shooting each other dirty looks. There was a bit of shoving around.

    "So, to whom of us will you offer a dance to?" squeaked Ingrid. Helplessly, Jurauk glanced to his father, but the Imperius was nowhere to be seen.

    He wanted to say, Neither of you! But alas, that would not bode well with their fathers, who would sure be outraged that a Nefarian Prince dismissed them so casually.

    Hm, which poison would you like to die by, Jurauk? Poisonous, more poisonous, or the most poisonous of all?

    Thus, he declared, "Vika, will you do me the honor of being my first dance?" Her face flushed with giddiness and she stepped forward to take his hand.

    She never did, for at that moment, a blur of red and black swept between them directly into Jurauk's arms. Slim, pale hands gripped his own, and he was pulled into a quick waltz in three-four time. There were protests from the women he left behind, but they quickly faded as the mystery woman yanked them into the floor's center.

    "What the hell?" snapped Jurauk, pulling away. He'd expected to see Elisabelle in all her foxlike cunning, but instead he was met with light brown eyes framed with bright red hair.

    Jurauk was tall by anyone's standards. She was nearly up to his forehead. Her painted black lips quirked with amusement. In a voice a tad bit deeper than one would expect from a female she said, "I figured you needed help. You were quite uncomfortable back there."

    She didn't seem like the others. Jurauk's tense muscles visibly relaxed. "Thank you for that. They were quite –" he searched for the right words "–lively." He noted that she couldn't be much older than him; she looked to be in her early twenties, like Soren.

    The woman threw back her head and laughed. It wasn't the tinkle of a nobleman's daughter. It was the laugh of something much more wild and free. The room was spinning as they danced.

    "You're much too kind, Your Highness. Perhaps the word 'vile' describes them better." Jurauk blanched. Who was she, to so lightly insult women of high rankings?

    As if she heard his question she replied, "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Velzeita Kazamanov, your new second in command of the Zaalkorvsh. It's your birthday, and now Vlad can retire."

    Ah. So this must be the original reason why she sought him out. "Right. Is there a handbook I can use?"

    Velzeita snorted. "You wish, princeling. We will be able to start tomorrow." They waltzed between a couple who protested as they were broken apart. "Vlad informed me about those parasites. It's bad. The whole kingdom depends on us for flesh."

    "Fun. Now I'm quite hyped. So all we do is go out and kill?" Velzeita shrugged, tightening her hand on his shoulder.

    "Precisely." The clock began to toll. It was twelve. Velzeita curtsied.

    "Thank you for the honor, Your Highness."

    "It was a pleasure."

    Velzeita made a shooing motion. "Now, go to the dais. Impriessa Lebony is waiting for you. Remember that you're seventeen now. The priests need to perform rites."

    He remembered, and for some reason, an odd, squeamish feeling overcame his stomach. Velzeita waved as he left, the sparkle in her eyes gone.

    Lebony was tapping her foot impatiently, arms crossed. When she spotted Jurauk, she beamed. It was very un-Lebony like. "Jurauk, sweetheart," she crooned, sliding her arm into his. "You're here! The Imperius is already waiting for you. We'll be performing the rituals in a place far from here. It's less noisy there."

    Jurauk spared a glimpse backward. Velzeita was watching them go, her brow furrowed in an emotion he couldn't place.

    His stepmother led him down the winding halls. The blue torches cast enough light for them to see, but everything else was shrouded in gloom. As they stopped before a door, Lebony turned to Jurauk. "You understand what the rituals are supposed to be, no?"

    Jurauk frowned. He didn't. Lebony began to explain.

    "It's nothing much, really. Some old monks crawl out of their temples and say a bunch of random words. Then they finish, and you'll be free to go."

    He shrugged, feeling a yawn coming in. It was getting late. He might as well get this coming of age thing done with. They entered the windowless room, which was lit by a single candle. Writhing shadows danced along the walls. There were five hooded figures encircling a single marble altar in the middle.

    "Where's the Imperius? I thought you said he would be here."

    "Father can't make it. He apologizes," said Soren, stepping into the light. Jurauk scowled, confusion ringing a little bell inside him. Lebony brushed a stray red curl behind Jurauk's ear.

    "The priests are ready," she murmured, pushing him towards the altar. "Lie down, and they will prepare you."

    It was unnervingly quiet as Jurauk slid onto the altar. The priests came closer. One -presumably a woman due to the slight build- asked him to strip to just his undershirt and trousers. Raising an eyebrow, he did so and laid down. The icy marble bit into his back through the cotton shirt.

    Against his will, he shivered. A priestess lightly draped a ribbon of silk over his eyes, obscuring his vision. He could still see movement through the thin fabric, but no definite shapes.

    They began to chant ancient words that were of an ancient tongue. Not the Common Tongue he used. He droned out the sounds, getting extremely bored.

    That was his downfall.

    Jurauk heard a whistling sound and his reflexes kicked in. Even with years of training, it was too late. A steel blade which had been aimed at his heart punched into his side. He gasped, agony shooting through his abdomen. The ribbon fell away.

    There was a muffled curse. The Nefari's hoods fell away. There wasn't a bald head in sight. A false priest yanked the dagger out of Jurauk's flesh. Somebody grabbed his arms and pinned them above his head. He bellowed and thrashed, trying to free himself.

    A vial of liquid was forced down his throat. He tried to throw it back up, but Lebony's fingernails dug into his wound. Jurauk screamed, but it was covered by Soren's hand. "Don't struggle!" he hissed.

    "Dammit!" barked Lebony, face twisting with rage. "I said aim for the heart, you idiots! It should have been a clean kill, but thanks to your stupidity, our cover's been blown! We'll have to get him to the forest."

    Sure enough, the sound of thudding footsteps could be heard from beyond the door. Jurauk bit Soren's hand. He cursed but held firm.

     Everything was spinning, and his moves were sluggish. He bucked and one of his legs came free. He whipped it into a Nefari's face, sending the male toppling down. Then something heavy hit his head, and before the world spiraled away, he murmured, "Why, Soren? I'm your brother..."

Soren looked away. "Half, Jurauk. Half."

     Jurauk lost his grip on the tiny thread of consciousness.

don't kill for the cliffhanger bwahahahahaha. happy thanksgiving everyone! be thankful for everything you have :) sorry i haven't been updating lately. i had a huge writer's block for the beginning of this chapter.

Discussion Questions: Did you expect these turn of events? What do you think will happen to Jurauk? What was your reaction?