The King with Six Friends

A Royal Stranger

Zar strolled through the bustling dock market, occasionally peering at the vendors' goods.

"Sale for the morning's catch!"

"Imports! Imports!"

"The best rum money can buy!"

Pigs grunted, chickens screeched, and traders shouted bargains. Manure was covered up with straw instead of being addressed. One particular wooden stand was heavy-laden with jewelry; some faux, others genuine. The ice under a load of salmon and cod steamed in the sun.

Being in the midst of the organized chaos was therapeutic for one reason and one reason alone: nobody knew who he was.

He passed at least three groups of people preaching about how the infamous "King Zar" was an traitor and an outcast of his own kingdom.

It had been over a month since he'd been attacked by the assassin, but it was just that morning he was finally allowed to go outside. Before then, attendants had fussed over him every minute of every day about the most insignificant things. Servants wanted to dress him, even though he was perfectly capable. Advisors would ask him if he preferred one beef roast over another identical beef roast. It wasn't completely unbearable, it just made him realize how much time he had wasted before his exile.

He wore his dusty old traveling clothes to blend in with the people better. Today had been his first day of freedom from scrutiny and cleanliness and he intended to take advantage of it.

Zar also needed time to gather his thoughts. Since King Invictus' trials for the throne, he'd felt conflicted. Was a ruler like him going to be any good to the South Kingdom? At least he had proven himself in some way.

King Invictus had hinted that Kiera, the princess, needed a husband, but that felt wrong too. He didn't want to force her into something she had no say to. All that besides, she was nice and interesting to be around, but did she think the same of him? They could only talk when they were alone- which was hardly ever.

He found himself wandering the wharf of the river. It's funny how when you're deep within your own mind that your legs carry you to the strangest of places.

Spindly ships paddled up the river to an offshoot port. Their billowing, swollen sails rippled with the morning sea breeze. Zar hadn't ever seen a ship up close, being raised in a landlocked country. He'd only heard stories and seen drawings of the magnificent watercrafts.

The moor's sea-rotted planks creaked and bent under his weight as he walked along one of the vessels. Zar ran his hand along the barnacled hull. It felt so old and worn. The deck groaned as the crew unloaded its cargo. Zar stepped out of the way of a sailor rolling a barrel down the dock.

"Do you need any help?" Zar offered. The man side-glanced at him but continued past. Another sailor was hauling a coil of heavy rope. "Do you need any help?" Zar tried again. This time, the sailor stopped.

"You shouldn't be out here," the man grumbled, "It's dangerous."

The sailor's meaning could have been that the dockyard was hazardous to be around when ships were unloading. Barrels and cannon balls were typical falling-object hazards.

Zar heard the sailor's message as something of a threat or a warning. Perhaps the sailor was really warning Zar of the coming danger. Perhaps the omen of the message was a precursor to the terrible events ahead.

Or perhaps the sailor had drunk too much rum that morning.