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 felt comfortable leaving Lord Hercones and Lord Maurice by Mageia's side.
"I need a full report," Gris heard his father demand as they stormed from the private rooms of the infirmary.
Gris followed with Rasheem on his heels. And with the help of the temple soldiers standing about the infirmary, they managed to escape the growing chaos of people seeking answers.
"How long do you think it will last?" Rasheem asked, staring at the purple star-filled sky.
"Hopefully, not long," Gris responded.
They crossed the royal grounds and entered the palace through one of its hundreds of entrances. As they traveled the long and bending halls and into the empty main foyer, Rasheem finally digressed.
"I cannot believe this is happening," Rasheem said. "Everything you've said, your theory, was correct. I couldn't be a prouder man to have you to serve."
"Rasheem, you are more than just a servant to me. You are my best friend, my only friend, actually."
"Gods, Gris," Rasheem said in great strength. He stopped, forcing Gris to do the same.
He faced the man and thanked the Fairest for healing him from his wounds. Yet somehow, he still had his limp. Nevertheless, it didn't matter. Gris couldn't even think about what he'd do if he lost him. But a troubled look crossed Rasheem's face, and he tugged on his vest like Gris always did when he was nervous or anxious. Once he gathered his emotions, he looked at him and sighed. "Forgive me."
"For what?"
"For not truly believing in your theory and in your studies," he said, "or believing in you."
Gris shook his head. "No need for that. You had your reasons. You wanted to protect me. I understand."
"Yes, yes. I wanted to protect you like I'm supposed to...." he trailed off, unable to continue.
Gris couldn't help but smile and embraced his friend. "You have nothing to be sorry for. I appreciate everything you do for me. And never forget that."
Rasheem cleared his throat and sniffled. When Gris released him, he turned away and wiped his face. Then he turned, and Rasheem's eyes hardened. Gris followed his gaze to the large portraits of the royal family hanging along the main hall's entrance. He assumed he was looking at his portrait from three years ago, but noticed his interest was in the king's.
"You're going to be a fine king one day," he said, voice dipping darkly. The hairs along Gris' arms erected. Something wasn't right, but he couldn't pinpoint it.
"I hope so," he managed to say.
Rasheem stood taller and faced Gris with an unreadable expression. Something mixed between assurance and hatred. "Come, I haven't seen a single servant since we entered. Something's amidst, and it's not good. I can feel it."
