He heard and saw everything. Standing behind the group of nobles in the shadows of the side doors, his eyes were fixated on the purple-eyed beauty who spoke so boldly against the king. He wanted to give an encouraging cheer to her witty responses and knew he'd only make her situation worst.

He shifted anxiously, sweaty hands fumbling with the gold buttons along his coat vest. He had heard for years the disgraceful stories of the strange thief with purple eyes. She was rumored to be a pest with a horde of sticky little fingers who needed to be caught and done away with. Some stories were brave to note her beauty, yet the majority scolded her existence and impurity towards the gods.

"Gris we should leave," his close friend and confidant whispered.

"Not yet Limp," he said.

Limp was the man's entitled nickname. His real name was Rasheem Hanias, a man born with a disfigured right leg shorter than the left that gave him a bit of a gait in his step. Unfortunately, he was born during the times when the laws were going through an amendment phase and was taken from his parents to be a slave in the royal palace. Since the age of ten, he worked nonstop to gain the favor of the royals and nobles and was honored with the title of Master of the House. This position did not give him actual authority over the palace, but its maintenance.

He gave a gesture for him to wait, ears attentive to the King's final words.

"Do the judges agree with the decision?" the King said.

All raised their hands except old crooked Criily and Judge Solise.

"The Crown has spoken. Lifetime in the Dungeons with possibility for appeal under two deals. Mageia Unknown, you are dismissed."

Gris couldn't believe despite the girl's snippy rebuttals; he gave her mercy. Still, he wanted an audience with the Purple Thief.

A guard grabbed her arm, but Eron grabbed the other, stopping her in place. Gris scrunched his nose wishing he could hear what the Fiisen whispered. Whatever it was, the girl grinned and yanked out of his grip with a nasty force.

"Bring in the next prisoner," the King bellowed.

"What if she's a witch, Gris?" Limp said.

"She's not," he said.

There was more about Mageia Unknown than what met the eye, and Gris had to confirm them. The only way to do that was to get permission to see her.

"Orlan, go," he gestured for one of his higher-ranking servants to do as he was told. He approached the royal knights by the throne with strong confidence and handed his father's favorite knight a note.

Ser Garret Slan scrunched his nose as the young servant gave his request. With a slight huff of annoyance, the royal escort approached the throne as glasses of water were distributed amongst the family. Gris' shoulders tensed as he rose a conversation with the King and handed him the note. The King read it with his wife nosily trying to peek over to read it too. When he was finished, the King sharply returned it into Garret's hand and shook his head no.

"Gaw," Gris growled and did not wait to hear the no. He turned and slipped out the side doors with Limp on his heel.

"Whatever you are thinking, do not think it. Rebuke it."

"Limp, I need to do what I am th-thinking or else I will dr-drive myself mad."

"You are already mad, Gris," he grumbled. "Saving that girl will not be smart."

"If you were her, w-would you not be grateful for the assen-tance?"

Limp's thin mouth opened then closed and his long brows wavered. "Assistance. It's assistance, Gris. And I don't know."

"Mmhm," Gris said swiveling pass noble officials, knights, soldiers, and guards littering the Grace Hall seeking the relief of fresh breezy air. He lowered his head to avoid any unnecessary eye contact despite the scrunching noses, scrutinizing eyes, and chuckles casted in his direction.

He shielded his eyes the color of honey from the sun piercing her rays through the Grace Hall archways. Birds chittered beyond the bridge within the flower garden, fluttering into the air as people violated their territory. With feet pressed for action, he led them away from the hordes of people and the watchful eyes of his slaves to the rear of the throne room, where the entrance to the dais was located.

The Grace Hall had now converted to the Justice Hall, which possessed the many offices, lounges, and the Library of Records. No one was allowed in this area except officials, assigned workers, and the soldiers standing on patrol.

"I doubt she is who you think she is."

"She doesn't kn-know what she is, but I-I know exactly what she is."

"She is a thief, a criminal. She means nothing to the gods."

"You say this because-oh-elousy or-or spite because I did not let you finish your br-breakfast?" he said hating how his voice and breath would die out at random causing words to splurge together.

"It's jealousy, and no and no."

Gris shook his head, tugging on the buttons and the collar of his vest until one popped off and rolled somewhere. Limp cursed and went scurrying after the button, which gave him the upper advantage of dashing through the doors of the Doomed carved with the symbol of a sharp star of daggers for Dawnis, the god of life and death. His friend was not allowed in this part, nor was he, but he had beaten this specific knight owed him a huge favor.

"Your Highness," the dark-skinned soldier said stumbling up from his stool. He gave a waist bow.

"Dargany, how are you this evening?"

"Good, Your Highness," he said.

"Do you 'emember what I did f-for you?" he said scolding himself on the inside for the slur but thanking Wise Rasaal that Limp was not around to correct him.

"I do, Your Highness, your recommendations allowed me to join Gideon's escort," he said with wide eyes. The soldier was stocky, especially with his full armor on, and a head shorter than Gris. Gris being almost six feet, but he knew height was nothing for the nineteen-year-old to slash him down where he stood.

Gris cleared his throat and made sure to say every next word slow and direct so to pronounce them properly. "That means you owe me a favor."

"I suppose so..." he said but Gris could hear the slight moan in his tone.

"Escort me to the holding cells for the appearances today."

Dargany Hale shifted feet, hand fumbling with the hilt of his sheathed sword. Gris read this and narrowed his eyes.

"Dargany?"

"Look, man. I know we have history, but we were reassigned here for a reason."

"W-what reason?"

"The Commander wanted the best-," he said doing air quotes, "-to make sure no one enters the Doomed for today. Of all days."

The Purple Thief, Gris figured.

"But you know who I am. I have au-author-," he said tongue suddenly deciding to go limp.

"Authority," Dargany finished to his disapproval. The soldier nodded. "Yes, Your Highness. I know. But the Commander... actually he wants us to report any visitors."

The soldier simply glanced at his companion who had too jumped up from his nap to stand in respect for their royal visitor. Gris glared his eyes with his head tilt down just a bit, a useful action he had learned over time that gave his piercing eyes a dangerous appeal. It worked, as usual. The soldier swallowed hard before bopping his head in every direction.

"You were not here, Your Highness."

"No, you were not," said the companion who looked close to pissing his loins.

"Good. Thank you. However, this does not c-cover your favor."

"Really?" he said with a hint of disappointment.

Gris gave him a closed smirk knowing exactly what the soldier could do for him. Once he asked his companion to join Limp in the hall, he gave Dargany his daunting plan. Despite Dargany's weariness and doubt and the repercussions if they were caught, Gris had to assure him that he would take all the blame and consequences if anything were to happen. Which it wouldn't because he was known for his sly and clever tactics about the Royal Grounds.

Gris exited from the Doom with a proudness in his step and dashed off down the hall towards the palace's main house.

"What did you learn?" his friend said limping hard and precise as he tried to keep up with Gris' wide strides.

"Nothing. But I have a plan."

"Grace me with it."

"No."

"You are a troublesome boy, you know."

"Yet you haven't unfriend me."

"Unfriended."

"Whatever," he said nodding to his slaves deep in their tasks.

"I wish you would put your investigation and research on hold and try exploring a bit with some female companions."

"No," he simply said entering one of the palace's foyers designed in shades of green and sprinted up the winding stairway.

"You are Grisonce Arlon, the Prince and the rightful heir to the Ardanian throne."

"I know that, Limp."

"You need a princess - a wife, so the people would love you."

"The people will s-still hate me. And a Strange will n-never have the throne."

"Because you won't prove to them that you are more than a defect."

"I don't need to prove anything," he said, "They will believe what they w-want to believe or hear in this matter, w-whether I am kind or diss-soshee-tated. Ugh."

"Dissociated. It's dis-sociated."

"I know!" He growled wanting to speak faster but it only made his stuttering worst. He quickened his pace though, but his friend was a natural limp walker.

Limp continued. "And that is the more reason to put yourself out there again. You once were the life of the family."

"I never had a family, just royal acquain-," he stopped himself to take a breather then resaid hard and direct, "acquaint-tan-ces."

"You should spend more time with Gideon."

"Uck, Limp. Don't embarrass yourself."

"But he is your brother."

"S-stepbrother. And I don't want to be around Gid and his company of whores."

"But have you ever considered-,"

"Limp, I thought you were my friend. My father gave you to me, not to help me in my social life, but to s-serve me."

"I have been serving you, by helping you with your social life. I've served you honorably. I just do not approve of you isolating yourself."

"It's not like I have a choice, or-or like anyone cares."

"And correction, your so-called father wasn't the one who gave me to you, but your late mother."

Gris gave a sharp scold. He halted at the top of the stairwell and spun to face the man with his glare. "Please, watch your tongue," he said voice falling deep with warning.

Limp's mouth opened and closed until his wanted rebuttal turned to pure regret.

"Forgive me for bringing her up."

"Never bring her up unless you wish to join her," he scolded.

The Master of the House bopped his head which only made Gris' gut churn with his own regret. The man was 38 years old, old enough to be his father - who had learned to embrace obedience whether the cost or drastic age difference. However, being under Gris' care who was Master of the Slaves, gave him some privileges which many masters would consider highly disrespectful.

"As you wish, Your Highness. Forgive me," he said eyes dropping to the floor.

Gris didn't know what to say so he continued walking. This time they were in silence, a silence he did not like because he knew Limp always had something to say.

So, he quickened his walk through the decorative halls of the inner palace's second floor. They passed large windows giving beautiful views of the kingdom and guards half asleep on their feet. As they drew near to the bridge that extended to his chambers, Gris took notice of the difference in decorations.

He always took note of this and despite the despair that made his skin crawl, he never could push himself to care enough to do any changes. Plus, it kept unwanted visitors away.

The stone walls were bland white or maybe gray depending on what time of day it was. The cobblestone floor wasn't polished or carpeted, and every other window possessed either a mismatched drape or a curtain. The breeze wisped through the bridge in a chilly manner and not a single bird could be heard.

They approached the end of the short bridge, to the boring brown doors he had plans to change, but never got around to it. Within the doors he and Limp were inside his personal chambers with its chandelier, candles, lanterns, and lit chimney that gave the needed light the sun could never provide on this side of the palace.

To his left was a staircase that led up to his experimental labs where he has dissected both animals and people. Not of pleasure. No, he was not a madman, but out of pure curiosity and for science. Those cadavers were brought from a few city morgues, which never sat well with Limp... or anyone on that matter.

Also, up there was his personal library, which was the true place he called home. Every chance he got he would seek new information for his expanding collection. And thanks to his father giving him his own financial account, he was able to do just that.

After fumbling to take off the annoying coat vest, he threw it on a pile of clothing on a sofa in his lounge. He unbuttoned his shirt and sleeves and rustled his pitch-black hair until it felt alive on his head. He easily slipped out of his boots, fashionably made with no laces, and slid into a pair of thick slippers.

Limp stood by watching in idle contempt, as Gris bit into a half-eaten cheese sandwich, grabbed a glass bottle of fruit juice, and sprinted up the stairway.

"Limp, you may take your leave," he shouted over his shoulder.

"Our work for the Ceremony is not done."

"Give me a minute," he grumbled.

He stopped for a slight second to do his heartfelt ritual before fully entering his study. He touched the forehead of a gold statue of Rasaal, the god of wisdom and knowledge on an anointed shrine then touched his own forehead.

Bless me with your guidance, he internally prayed then dashed away.

"This is not fair," he heard Limp mutter under his breath.

Gris clattered his teeth together as he scurried to the table only for his books, scrolls, writing parchments, and journals. He flipped through everything searching for an important book that had gotten lost amidst the clutter.

Then a knock on the door thundered through the lower chambers followed by the door's chiming bell. He didn't have to tell Limp to get the door because they knew already the reason for the intrusion.

Gris knew the visitor was from the kitchens or the maintenance staff for this bell was placed at the rear of the lower chambers, which lead directly to the labor staff...or in other words the slaves who keeps the palace from crumbling. It was hard to hide the fact, that the heir to the throne lived and spent most of his time in the chambers for a lesser man with the scandalous position as Master of Slaves.

Gris had come to common terms with his shameful position. If the slaves present themselves with submissiveness, do their jobs correctly, withdraw from any attention, and above all do not escape or cause harm to anyone, then they had the privilege of keeping their human dignity. If they did their part, he didn't have to pretend to be the bad guy and whip them.

He couldn't hear what Limp was doing downstairs for he now focused his attention on a very important book. A book many people in Ardania and the northern kingdoms had forgotten to exist. The ancient book held everything one needed to know from the birth and history of the Realm of Valeera, to prophesies, to the divine communion of the Divine Six Gods. It was a book for those who wished to expand their knowledge and faith unlike the Ardanian Sacred Book relating to Fair and Strange and holy sacrifices.

Gris' research over the past year or so has brought him to a new enlightenment. And that enlightenment now sat waiting her fate in a dark cell beneath the Court.

Footsteps arose from the stairway. Gris' attention shifted to Limp whose stricken face sent his heart leaping into his throat.

"Limp what's wrong?"

"The King has ended Court appearances for today."

"Early... That's not unusual. He'll see to cases in the privacy of his study."

Limp's mouth opened and closed, indicating bad news to come.

"Okay..."

"You have been summoned."

Gris' jaw dropped, ears ringing with shock. "Pardon me?"

"The Royal Luncheon. You've been invited, no exceptions."

To his stepsiblings or to anyone in that matter would be thrilled to spend time with the royal family for the Annual Royal Luncheon. However, Gris was the very opposite. Five years ago, he had stopped attending and no one seemed to care. Now, something has changed, and his gut was telling him, something was afoot.