Logan found all draining. He saw no reason to recall another's tale upon request. Gemima's claim to the ordeal was her own, and he saw no point discussing it with strangers. It was not his business. Still, he often found himself speaking out of politeness, and so came to know the tale by heart.

They had suffered a road robbery earlier in the day, before the Thief King hit. Their jewels and wealth hidden, they had escaped relatively unscathed, until the second attack. The Thief King knocked Sir Weatherstone unconscious while Gemima feigned a feint. She had kept her eyes closed but felt him moving around before leaving the coin in her palm.

Beyond the fantasies and fallacies injected into the tale, it was quite boring. A few noblemen had asked Logan whether the Thief King had hurt his possible bride. One even suggested he wooed her.

During breakfast, luncheon, and now dinner, the discussion leaned to the future. What needed to be done to prevent such occurrences from happening again? Marshall Fourdin had barely looked up since the arrival of their foreign guests. He had doubled the Peacekeeper numbers, increased the patrol areas and placed palace guards on high alert. He now sat with a slope to his shoulders. Age was catching up with the warrior, and for the first time Logan could recall, it showed. All to maintain a charade. His father was baring his teeth to not only his enemies, but his possible allies as well. One had to put on a good show to guests welcomed in such an ill manner.

Even the dowager of Roche had been suspect to the ongoings—to her utter horror. Logan's grandmother sat opposite her son-in-law at the head of the table. The Cylindalian ambassador, Sir Dorian Qu'rup, sat to her left and Sophia to her right. If one were to look upon the old woman, one would think her waiting for the gods to open their doors. As thin as a skeleton, she walked around as if she wore a skin meant for a much larger woman. It sagged, hung and wrinkled, but speak to the woman and one would find a sharp mind and a fiery heart.

Logan watched as she slowly moved her food across her plate, her lips turned down and her brows cast high, forming even more wrinkles. Sophia noticed her grandmother's distaste and rested a hand on the spiked shoulder. The dowager jumped and smiled.

"Gods almighty, Sophia, you should warn an old woman before you feel a wave of sentimentality overtake your senses." The dowager's voice was that of all old, refined woman who still wished for another age. It shook and existed halfway between the nose and head. Father hated it. It was why he insisted his mother-in-law remain in the countryside.

He claimed it safer, but Logan—and his grandmother—knew he wished to be rid of her constant interference and opinions. However, she had shown up, unannounced, just after the Weatherstones in an unassuming coach.

"If one travels in gold, one cannot act surprised when magpies appear," the dowager had chortled. "Arriving in a coach fit for a funeral is by far the wiser choice. Nobody wishes to steal a corpse."

His father had kept his response to a thought. Turning from the woman before she continued.

"Grandmama," Sophia giggled. She was exceptionally pretty this evening. Her dark curls arranged over her shoulder in a fashion much like the woman next to her. Lady Weatherstone smiled at the exchange, her dark eyes as much an enigma as they had been the day of her arrival. Logan recognised the look of an internal monologue. He considered himself a picture of everlasting rumination.

"You seem unhappy with your supper, Ma'am," the Cylindalian said. His shaven head tilted forward as if he were bowing by just speaking to the dowager.

"Unhappy?" Grandmama chortled, dabbing at the corners of her mouth with her serviette. "In my day we would serve swine to those we considered the ilk."

"I'm sure no offense was meant," Gemima smiled and placed her cutlery down. "It is a rather fine meal with such unique spices. I am sure the ambassador can agree with me when I say such a meal is quite unique to the Southlands."

"Oh, I have no need to hear of the ambassador's agreement for I am in agreement myself. Such...customs are quite common in these lands. I dare say in my time one would think to serve anything but livestock. Game was always preferable. It proved a king fit for a hunt."

Sophia dropped her hand to her lap, looking rather abashed.

"Forgive me, Milady, but is it not dangerous to be hunting during the winter in Lethilian?" Gemima's blinked, her eyes as wide as a doe's. "As cold as it is, I would think the game far from here and further north where it is warmer."

Logan smiled and so did the dowager. There was one thing that Grandmama hated most and that was a man, or woman, unable to speak his or her mind.

"Poultry comes a close second in my opinion," she straightened, her smile gone as quickly as it came. "I hear the tales of your arrival, Lady Gemima. Surrounded in quite a lot of frill and faff, mind you, is any of it true? Assaulted by the Thief King, of all people."

"Grandmama, I do not think reminding Lady Gemima of her misfortune at the start of dinner a president for the evening. We have yet to finish the main course."

"Logan, my boy, if I wait any longer she will have the opportunity to excuse herself, and I will never hear the truth of it." She slid her gaze away from Logan and back to Gemima.

Gemima straightened her fork, studying her plate. She had chosen to skimp on the stuffed pork and favoured the greens and pot pies. "It is true, we were confronted by him, but not hurt."

"Lady Roche." Father must have heard the direction of the conversation and seen it prudent to interject. "Such topics have no place at this dinner table."

"No? Pray tell, what fascinating debate are the three of you embarking on. I daresay it is not the ladies' fashion at this table."

"If it were, it would be a notably short debate." Father's words were short and blunt. He took a long sip of his wine, never once dropping his gaze from the old woman's.

Grandmama's smile was a minute in the making but when it came, it was not directed at the king. "Sir Qu'rup...Am I saying it right? Coo-roop?"

"Very close, Ma'am," the ambassador smiled. "It is said ka-roop, with more emphasis on the second syllable."

Logan watched as his grandmother repeated the name until she said it right.

"Excellent, but please, call me Dorian. I feel uncomfortable with titles. In Cylindale we are far less formal when it comes to such traditions."

"Oh? How odd. How does one show respect if not by title?"

Dorian steepled his hands. "By behaviour and manners, Ma'am."

"Manners?" Grandmama snorted and looked towards the king, who had resumed his discussion with Sir Walter and Marshall Fourdin. "If only all men held such virtues in high regard."

"Grandmama," Sophia shook her head. "Would you like me to call upon the footmen. You could choose something other than pork to dine upon."

Grandmama waved Sophia away. "Sir Qu'rup, I am fascinated as to why you are here. As I am sure most of us are, but unlike my family I am not afraid to voice such questions. Being old has its advantages, you see." A familiar twinkle in her eye made Logan smile. "Why have you come?"

Dorian's smile was slow but amused. "It is not something I can discuss too openly. I still wait upon an audience with His Majesty, but the general reason should come as no surprise. Sir Rickard's replacement was always in the making and it comes in the form of myself."

"But I hear no letter was sent. No forewarning. I understand your preference for the lack of title but arriving unannounced is far from diplomatic, and or polite."

"Yes, I agree. The messenger must have been waylaid. I have sent word back to investigate his whereabouts."

"You think him lost? Is he mute? Could he not ask for directions?"

"Grandmama." Logan intoned, a silent warning in his eyes.

"I only ask these questions, Logan, in mild curiosity. For all we know the boy may be dead on the side of the road. Buried so no one may know of his demise."

"To what end?" Logan raised a brow. "And even if he were, it is none of our concern unless it happens on our soil. Forgive me, ambassador."

"Dorian, please, call me Dorian, and there is naught to be forgiven. I await word back from home, as soon as I receive the tidings, Ma'am, I shall inform you."

"Please do," Grandmama smiled. "I am always intrigued by a captivating mystery. In the meantime, what inn are you residing in?"

"The Silver Moon, Ma'am. A pleasant establishment, but no ambassadorial estate."

"Oh?" Gemima tilted her head, her lips rounding in a silent question.

"As I was not expected, the former ambassador's residence was not prepared for my arrival. Until confirmation of my identity and position arrives, no orders can be given to ready them."

A soft frown disturbed Gemima's flawless skin. "I hope confirmation arrives soon."

Dorian lowered his head in thanks.

The woman engaged in a soft conversation then, leaving Logan to entertain the ambassador. There was little Logan felt he could say to the man. Tonight had been but the second time he had seen the man. Tall, cleanly shaven from crown to chin, with the typical Cylindalian features of high arched brows, the man was something out of a bard's tale. His eyes were the shape of a thin leaves and his cheekbones as sharp and defined as a doorway. A long, arched nose dropped to a mouth that seemed to be always smiling.

The Cylindalian dress sense was also strange. Where Grey Mountain entertained bright colours and ridiculous patterns, the desert lands seemed to favour texture and layers that hung loosely on the body. Seeing Dorian in his draped, silk pants and wrapped shirt made Logan ponder on the women's attire.

"I hear talks of a possible betrothal to you and the Lady Gemima?" Dorian stated in a hushed tone.

Logan's eyes darted towards Gemima, who was laughing with Sophia at something Grandmama had said. She felt his gaze and looked at him, her laugh fading but her smile lingering. Logan faced the ambassador, a lump constricting his throat. He cleared it.

"It is a possibility, yes."

"Is it Lethilian custom to not speak to one another?"

"I...Not entirely, no. We cannot speak in private. We must always have an escort, whether it be a lady's maid or guard."

"Why? If you are betrothed, or could possibly be, one would think it necessary to talk to another in private? It is probably essential."

"I suppose it is the sign of integrity. For both parties."

Dorian made a faint sound that was either amusement or disbelief.

"How does it work in your culture?"

Dorian thought about the question, tapping his long fingers against the table's edge. "Well, to start, it is proposed by the parents, but the final decision is up to the two individuals in question. The courtship can be as brief as a few days and as lengthy as a few months. In such a time, one spends quite a period of time alone in each other's presence."

"Alone?"

"Of course. Such time is used to learn the other's habits and traits. To feel each other out, one might say."

Logan felt his jaw drop. "But what if after such a time, the couple finds themselves incompatible."

"Then they separate."

"And move on?"

"One would hope."

Logan pressed his lips together, stunned.

"Something is bothering you, Your Highness."

"It is less bothering me and more rendering me speechless. I suppose it comes down to priority. Purity being ours."

"And ours."

Logan closed his mouth, stopping what he was about to say. "Purity? Nevertheless, if one chooses to not marry a partner after the courtship you explained, one cannot be considered pure. Can they?"

Dorian's frown deepened and then his brows flew upwards. "Oh forgive me, allow me to rephrase." He let out a single, short laugh. "Courtship is held in public areas. Never locked away in a room or in places no prying eyes may witness a kiss or two."

Logan couldn't help but laugh. "I was about to commend your culture for its lack of propriety and custom."

Dorian laughed, shaking his head. "It is true we have far fewer rules than the Southlands when it comes to public behaviour, but our morales have yet to stretch beyond caring for a woman's integrity."

Logan smiled, filling his mouth with food.

"Is it something you would welcome? A marriage between your two households?" Dorian asked, his voice still low.

It was a question Logan had yet to answer and it took him by surprise. Again he looked at Gemima. She was looking at something in her lap, her lips in an upward tilt, her lashes fanning over cheeks, hiding her eyes.

"It's still too early to say I'd welcome it wholly. I can only speak of what I have seen and felt so far."

"And that is?"

"Far too little."

Dorian grinned and raised his voice. "Lady Gemima?"

Gemima's eyes flicked up and with a swan's grace, her neck straightened and her small smile widened.

"What have you heard of Lethilian? I'm sure the royal family is eager to show you about their city and show you all it has to offer."

Logan's eyes widened. There was little the city had to offer in winter. The gardens were too cold to walk through, the forests too dark and ominous without a hunting party, and the market was far too risky to visit these days. All one had to look forward to were the dinner parties, balls, parties, and libraries within the palace grounds.

"Very little I must admit. Mostly tales of heroic thieves and evil monarchs to be honest." Her fingers grasped at the dragonfly at her chest. "Tales told by the civilians I am sure." She thought for a moment and then spoke, her tone changing to a somber timbre. "I have heard of the...qualms of the city folk. It makes me wonder how dire their current situation is and what is being done about it."

Logan looked to his father who remained locked in conversation with his Marshall. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table's edge despite Grandmama's squeak of disapproval.

"Winter is always a harsh trial for the city."

"Cylindale has not seen rain in almost a decade. Showers here and there, but not enough to sustain the land. It is always the people that work off the land that suffer the most." Dorian shook his head. "I imagine disease runs rife during winters?"

"And the summers," Logan sighed. "The city cannot cope with the growing population, and it is the lower class that grows at rapid rate that is placing the city under considerable strain. There is not enough work for everyone."

"It's the strife of all major cities," Gemima assured. "Where there is wealth, there is growth, and where there is growth, there is demand."

"I cannot agree more. We are also dealing with a drug epidemic that—"

"Logan, please," interrupted Grandmama, her face a mask of unease. "Your elbows, take them off the table. It is most ill-mannered and I fear such sign of bad breeding may scare this young beauty away."

Logan flushed, dropping his arms to his lap. He shouldn't feel so embarrassed. Grandmama was never one to choose a more appropriate time to say what was on her mind. She spoke and cared as much for the consequences as she did a footstool.

"You need not fear such things, Lady Roche. There are far worse traits than misplaced elbows, would you not agree?" Gemima's smile mirrored on the elder face. "Prince Logan, you were speaking of an epedemic?"

Logan struggled to unclench his jaw. He felt trapped. Cornered in by judgement, disappointment and disapproval. He tired of his family's constant displeased looks and comments. He often wondered if he was not mistaken as a babe, and the true crown prince was actually the Marshall's son.

Bastian Fourdin succeeded in everything he put his mind to. Weaponry was his choice interest and he had subsequently developed into a phenomenal warrior. Logan's interest had lain within the books, scrolls and reports stuffed away in the forgotten libraries of the palace. He had trained with Bastian, and was a decent warrior, but nothing exceptional. He knew where to hold and how, but as Bastian often used to say: "When swinging a sword, one needs purpose. You cannot swing and hope to be successful. Fighting takes dedication and practice. Without those two pillars, you are just a man holding a sword."

They had grown up together, Bastian and he. They were often found shoulder-to-shoulder, one boy with his nose in a book, the other a dagger at hand. It was a wonder they had anything to talk about, and yet, it was their differences that gave them so much to discuss.

"Logan? Are you going to answer the lady?" His Granmama chirped, her chin wobbling ever so slightly.

"Ah...Err."

"Profound words, as always," Grandmama mumbled.

"Yes, it's known as cob on the streets. Have you heard of it?"

Gemima frowned. "No, I can't say I have. What are its symptoms? Perhaps I know of it by another name."

"Addiction is the main one, but it also blackens the teeth, rots them in fact. The addicts lose their appetite, leading to strength and weight loss. Deep, chest coughs develop after years of smoking the drug, but that is only if it indeed smoked."

"It's ingested in other manners?"

"Well, yes. One can swallow it, rub it in the skin or use as an eye drop. I have heard it's brewed as a tea or chopped up into fine pieces so that it can be sniffed."

Sophia's nose turned up, wriggling with distaste. The dowager looked far too close to collapsing from shock. Logan stopped himself from explaining further.

"How is it sold?" Gemima asked. She surprised them all by leaning forward and propping her elbows on the table. "Is it a herb or is it man-made?"

Logan hesitated. Such discussions were not fit for a dinner table and he felt that his Grandmama was about to say so.

"I cannot say for certain. Herb I would think. I have notes on it in one of my libraries."

"One?" Gemima's elbows dropped to her side once more. "You mean you have more than one?"

"Of course," Sophia beamed. Logan noted just how friendly and courteous his sister was being in front of the Weatherstones. Or was it Dorian? "Logan is an avid reader and far more intelligent than any of us give him credit for."

"Yes," Grandmama murmured, a trace of mockery tinging her tone. "He shall beat any enemy in trivia if it came down to it."

"It's a good thing we face no enemies." Sophia squeezed the dowager's sharp shoulders. "Do you like books, Lady Gemima?"

"I do." Gemima nodded as she stroked one of her jewel-encrusted bracelets. It was an action out of habit. Logan could tell by the way the strokes were evenly spaced, unhampered by any speech. Such pretty fingers the Lady Gemima had. Long and tapered with enameled pink paint covering the deep nail beds. Musician hands, and he could imagine them caressing ivory keys or plucking at a harp's string. He wanted to ask if she played any instruments. He had never been any good at the playing part, but he could read the sheets just as well.

"Logan?"

Logan looked up, startled. He had been caught staring at Gemima's wrist and felt another flush blossom. "Yes? Forgive me, I must have...my mind was elsewhere."

"Gemima voiced an interest in your books, boy." Grandmama took her time inhaling before sighing loudly, her eyes searching the chamber ceiling. "Bless us all for we may just be doomed."

"Grandmama!" Sophia scolded. "You cannot say such things."

Next to Logan, Dorian chuckled. Logan smiled at the man, meeting the dark gaze and finding it without scorn, judgement or disappointment.

"Sophia, I am old. I can say what I want and when–"

The doors to the private dining room burst open. A soldier jerked forward in a supposed bow. The lad attempted to keep the customary walk required when approaching royalty and failed considerably. The footmen and butler behind him looked utterly distraught at the intrusion and misconduct, going so far as to try to stop him.

Marshall Fourdin stood, meeting the soldier away from the table. Short words were exchanged before the soldier left the room with another bow.

"What is it?" King Warrick asked. "Something has happened."

The Marshall nodded, looking at Sir Walter and then Gemima. His gaze settled on his king. "The Thief King, Sire. He has killed again."

**Author's Note **

I don't usually do author's notes but I do so wanna know what you guys think :) What assumptions and theories do you have? What characters do you connect most with? Hope to hear from you and thanks SO much for reading up til now. And of course, a vote is always appreciated ;)