"So Risken," Bazel walked beside the prince, "What is your class, anyway?"

"They have given me a most prestigious profession as is only fitting for a man of my stature," Risken flourished his hand, "I am a Poet!"

Samara nearly tripped, then looked over her shoulder, "I'm sorry. Did you say you're a Poet?"

"Indeed!"

"Neat!" Bazel said, "How does that work?"

"Poet is actually a very powerful support class." Paris said as she walked next to Samara, "They have skills just like every other class, but the skills are enhanced if they recite poetry ahead of using them."

"The lady Paris speaks true," Risken nodded, "Give me enough time to recite a whole stanza and my power becomes nigh overwhelming."

"But wait," Bazel stroked his chin, "How would you use that to fight?"

"It is not a simple matter," Risken shook his head, "I have been using my cutlass to cut down foes, only assisted by my class skills. Two skills in particular are of great use. One called [Vicious Word] makes the enemy hesitate to attack, while [Song of Hermes] increases my Agility and therefore my attack power."

"That's a clever way to use those skills," Paris said, "since a cutlass is a slashing weapon, using a skill to up your Agility makes it do more damage."

"We're here," Samara pointed to the apartment building in front of them and turned around, "I don't have enough room for all of us, though."

"I would not dream of troubling you with such a thing, my Lady," Risken pointed to the building next to hers, "and as it so happens, I have my own apartment. Master Bazel can stay with me."

"Really?" Bazel asked.

"Of course!" Risken slapped Bazel's shoulder, "Not only shall we be friends, but bunkmates as well!"

"Looks like it's all settled." Paris turned to Samara, "Mind if I crash on your couch?"

Samara glared at Risken for a moment, then turned and walked towards her apartment, "Fine."

"Good night guys!" Paris said before jogging after her.

Bazel followed Risken up the stairs to the second floor of the building and to his apartment. Inside, it looked almost identical to Samara's, except for a different color scheme in the decoration.

"You can have the bed, Master Bazel," Risken gestured to it, "I'll take the couch."

"Oh, okay."

Bazel was glad he met Risken, but something was bothering him about the prince. Not one to mince words, Bazel decided to come right out and ask him about it.

"Why are you being nice to us?"

Risken sat on the couch and started removing his shoes, "Why not? Is it not common decency to be kind to others?"

"I suppose so," Bazel pointed to himself, "but I'm a beggar, and Samara is a mercenary. Not really the kinds of people royalty should associate with."

"That is the problem, right there," Risken finished removing his shoes, put them at the end of the couch and leaned back, "In my life, people are always telling me what I should or should not do. It rarely has any bearing on what is right or wrong, and is always calculated behavior based on my station."

Bazel lifted an eyebrow and Risken quickly caught on that he was confused. Risken nodded and indicated that Bazel should sit with him.

"You are a beggar," he said as Bazel sat on the other side of the couch, "so I suppose you do not care much about how others view you?"

"There aren't many people that have a high opinion about me anyway," Bazel shrugged, "so I do my best to ignore them."

"That does make sense, although I find it to be a bit sad. In my world, it is the only thing people care about, that is, what others think of them." Risken stretched out his arms, "It is so tiring to always have to curry favors with others by appealing to their tastes!"

Risken shook his head, "Do not misunderstand, I am a sociable person, but I just want to be myself, not what others expect me to be."

"So you felt trapped by their expectations?" Bazel asked, "Is that why you ran away and came to the dungeon?"

"Indeed!" Risken smiled and nodded, "My father and older brothers cannot bother me here, and I am free to pursue my own path."

In many ways, that's the same thing Bazel was doing. His life had been dictated by others for as long as he could remember. He was never allowed to hold a job or chase his own passions, because he was forced to live a particular way. He couldn't even have friends, because it was socially unacceptable to associate with beggars and outcasts.

However, in the dungeon, everyone was equal. They all needed to do the same things and advance in the ranks based on their talent and ambition. The only thing that could keep someone from success in the dungeon was themselves.

"So, you ask why I am nice to you?" Risken said, "It is because I want to be. My family would not even allow me to have friends if they were not other members of royalty. I am expected to treat everyone below me as dirt, and that has never sat well with me. I will judge others by their merits, and I have judged you as someone worthy of my attention."

"So you truly meant what you said about wanting to be my friend?" Bazel scratched his cheek, "Even knowing what I am?"

"Of course I meant it!" Risken nodded, "You seem like an interesting fellow, and I hope we can be friends for many years to come."

Bazel didn't know how to respond. He found he was happy to be acknowledged by Risken. It had nothing to do with the fact he was a prince – Bazel never cared about political standing like that. But, it was more to do with the fact that Risken just seemed like a good guy.

"Now let us get some rest," Risken said, "Lady Paris said she will work us like beasts of burden tomorrow."

"She's not all that bad," Bazel shrugged, "but I am pretty tired."

Bazel walked over to the bed and fell on it face first. The events of the day made him more tired than he could ever remember being.

It had been a very long day, but it ended well.

■■■

Samara walked over to her bed and fell on it face first. The events of the day had made her very tired.

It had been a long day, and it ended terribly.

"Something bothering you, girl?" Paris asked from the couch.

Samara mumbled into her pillow and punched the headboard, making it rattle.

"I didn't understand what you said," Paris leaned over the armrest and kicked her feet behind her, "but I'll take that as a 'yes'. Do you want to talk about it?"

"No." Samara rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, "It's just of all the people we could meet in here, why him?"

"Risken?" Paris asked, "Yeah, I noticed you weren't into him. I think he's nice, if a bit strange with how he talks. He's kinda cute, too."

"He's the third prince!" Samara put an arm over her eyes and groaned.

"So you have a problem with him because he's the prince?"

"Yes!" Samara groaned again, "Well, no. It's not him, it's other people in his family. I never met him until today, but I always thought the whole royal family was rotten to the core and I hated them for it."

"But Risken…" Paris urged her to continue.

"He's just so nice!" Samara all but growled, "It's infuriating!"

Samara sat up and sat cross-legged on the bed and scowled, "He's even making friends with common people like merchants and beggars! For the gods' sakes, he calls me Lady! Do I look like a blasted lady to you!?"

"Okay, there's clearly something you're not telling me," Paris pointed at the angry woman, "why all this hatred for the royal family?"

Samara looked away and sighed. She didn't ever share about her past, and hadn't planned on doing so now, but she felt like she needed to get it off her chest.

"Well, it's mostly just his brother." She said, "The first prince. He's the bastard that killed my sister."

"Oh, really?" Paris got off the couch and sat next to Samara on the bed, "Spill it. What happened?"

Samara put her hands in her lap and fixed her gaze on them, "I come from a small town in the mountains to the north. My father died in a hunting accident when we were really young, and my mom passed from a coughing disease a few years later. From then on, it was just me and my sister, Tessa."

"The people in town looked after us, so we never went hungry or anything. When I turned twelve, I got a job working a loom for the tailor. My sister got a job at the tailor's shop as well, but she actually helped with the sewing. She was really good at it."

Samara brought her hands up and covered her face, "Tessa had just turned fifteen when the prince rode through town. He had been on a trip in the mountains and tore one of his shirts, so he brought it to the shop. Tessa mended it for him and that's when he made a move on her."

"He said he wanted her to be his concubine, but she had no interest in him. The bastard became furious like he had never been told 'no' before, and stormed out of the shop."

"We thought that was the end of it, but later that night, he came to our house with his guards and tried to take her by force."

Samara balled up her fists and punched the mattress, "Tessa was never very strong, so she couldn't resist them, but I could. I tried to fight them off and actually hurt a couple of them. That made the prince even more furious."

Tears began forming and rolling down Samara's cheek as she remembered the events, "The spiteful bastard wanted to punish us for defying him. He said he wanted to 'teach us a lesson', so instead of taking Tessa…"

"He killed her." Paris put her hand on Samara's back, "I'm sorry."

"He– he said he didn't want to kill me because it was more fun to make me suffer for my insolence." Samara shook her head, "I even tried to fight them more in the hopes they would kill me, but all I got was this scar."

Samara ran her hand down the scar that dominated half of her face. It went from her forehead, over her eye and down to her chin. It was a reminder of her weakness, of her inability to protect those that she loved.

It was also a reminder of her hatred for the royal bastard that killed her sister.

Like a child who was told he couldn't have another child's toy, and then broke the toy so no one else could play with it. He never cared about Tessa, he just wanted to own her.

The worst part of it was that she had no recourse against the prince. His family made the rules, and they were blessed by the divines. Nothing they did could be considered "wrong", so they could do whatever they pleased.

Samara vowed she would never let something like that happen again, and she made herself strong enough to fight people like him. She didn't concern herself with politics or religion – if someone tried to hurt the innocent, she would hurt them.

When Risken had approached them earlier, all the feelings of hate and anger welled up in her again. She had been prepared to strike him down where he stood if he so much as looked at her wrong.

She wanted him to be like his brother so she could have an excuse.

But he wasn't like his brother. The third prince was a genuinely nice person, and that only frustrated her more. He instantly made friends with a beggar of all people, and offered to help them. And he didn't act like he was better than any of them, either.

Just knowing who he was made Samara angry. Just being near him made her want to hurt someone.

"I don't know if I can work with him," she said.

"I get it." Paris continued rubbing her back, "So why did you say he could join you guys?"

"Bazel." Samara chuckled despite how she felt, "He looked so happy to make a new friend, and I didn't want to take that away from him."

"Still, who would think a prince would be so quick to befriend someone like that?" Paris shook her head, "I guess you can't judge someone by their upbringing."

"Maybe not." Samara went back to scowling at her hands.

"You should tell him." Paris said, "If Risken knows his presence makes you uncomfortable, he would probably just leave on his own."

But then I would be the bad guy.

Samara knew Paris was right. If she explained things to Risken, he probably would leave them alone, but then she would deprive Bazel of a friend, and he needed friends.

Or worse yet, Bazel might decide to go along with Risken.

Samara still felt an urge to protect Bazel. She felt that if she could protect him, she would make up for failing to protect her sister. She didn't want Bazel to go, she wanted him to be dependent on her. She would never admit it to anyone, but she was aware enough to see it herself.

"No," Samara shook her head, "I'm not going to tell him. And I would appreciate it if you didn't either."

Paris sighed, "I'll keep my mouth shut, but if it becomes a problem–"

"It won't."

Samara didn't think she could ever bring herself to like Risken knowing what scumbags his family were. But she was sure Risken was going to make it difficult by being insufferably nice.

Why does he have to be like that!?

■■■

"Why does he have to be like that!?" Tarken roared.

The first prince had just discovered that his brother – the third prince – was missing. Tarken knew where Risken had gone, however.

"He went to that blasted dungeon!" Tarken shouted, "He's been obsessed with that place!"

Hargal nodded, "That was my suspicion as well. What will you do?"

"I'm going to go get him, of course!" Tarken said as he put on a coat, "I'll drag him back kicking and screaming if I have to. I won't allow him to make us look bad."

"What should I tell your father?" Hargal asked, "If he finds out–"

"Don't tell him anything." Tarken put on a cap to hide his red hair, "Just keep him busy with building this army of yours and leave it to me."

"Very well, your highness." Hargal bowed.

Tarken walked out of the castle and took the fastest horse from the guard stables. Under the cover of night, he fled the city and made his way to the dungeon to retrieve his rebellious little brother.