A prophecy was given to the Realm of Valeera, but only one kingdom took heed to it and set forth a law that would divide the people into two groups. The Fair and the Strange. One group possessed a promise from the gods while the other is doomed for...
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Gris expected the girl's response to be as such. But deep down, he knew she was the chosen Fairest. He observed her reactions and noticed moments where she seemed doubtful, shocked, or reminisced on something he wished she'd disclose. Everything he suspected over the last two years aligned perfectly. Despite it all, he felt sick disclosing such information to her, as if it was the wrong thing to do. He shook his head to rid the doubt and began to undress.
Rasheem closed the entries of the curtain, and Gris grabbed a black pair of breeches from his messy bed.
"You wore that yesterday."
"Rasheem, I don't think anyone w-will notice."
The Master of the House snatched the breeches from his hands and went over to the wardrobe. He opened the doors and revealed an outfit that was already prepared. Gris frowned. Rasheem gave him a pair of breeches dipped in deep royal blue. Once he slid into them, Rasheem helped him into a white button-down shirt with gold designs falling from the shoulders to the end hem.
"You are reckless," Rasheem said. Gris scoffed and rolled his eyes as he buttoned his shirt. "Bringing that thief into your chambers. Bad move, especially if Eron finds out what you've done."
"If he does, what m-more can he do to me w-which has not already been done?"
"Not exactly what he'd do to you," Rasheem stated, "but what he'd do to the girl."
Gris sighed and snatched the deep blue and gold vest from Rasheem's hand. He hated wearing vests and fancy clothing. It made him feel silly, especially when most of the people within the palace saw him as a royal joke close to destruction.
"They can condemn you, of course," Rasheem noted.
Gris shook his head. "My father wouldn't allow it," he muttered, and a tremble of doubt shook through him.
"Best not taunt the bird or else it'll turn and attack one day."
"You sound ridiculous," Gris said.
He approached the wall mirror to freshen up his appearance. He brushed his hair back in a slick motion, patted his bare cheeks until some color flushed in, then squirted on his favorite warm spiced vanilla cologne. He turned to face Rasheem, who grabbed his vest to button it up. Gris groaned with annoyance as the servant took it upon himself to tuck in his shirt and tidy parts of his outfit.
"Rasheem, must you do that?" he groused, as if the purple-eyed beauty was watching.
"You may not care, Your Highness, but I want you to be presentable. You are the heir to the throne, whether you wish to ponder it or not. I will not have you attend such a royal event looking like a mad historian."
Gris thought about the way Lady Mageia had called him names. It surprised him how much it hurt his feelings. For most of his lifetime, he'd endured hundreds of name callings, which he easily dismissed and internalized as fuel to get through another day. But hearing how she thought of him made him question his own sanity and how he perceived himself.
