He wanted to see Mageia. He had to see Mageia. He could only imagine how terrified and upset she was right now. Time was flying away faster than a freed bird. The royal parade was at the seven mark and already it was a half after the five mark and things still needed to be done. The slaves knew what they were supposed to do, yet still things happened, things changed, things needed to be addressed, and orders made. The Annual Fair Ceremony seemed like a great festival to attend, but the work behind it was murderous, especially when he was acting as Master of the House for Limp.

His body had begun to sweat in odd places. His feet were screaming, and his head was throbbing. Lord Hercones' worrisome mention of sudden judgement on Ardania didn't help his anxiety nor his desperate need to check on Limp. Anxiety was nagging him worse than Chef Laje complaining and snapping fingers into his face.

"Master Gris I'm talking to you," he said, chubby cheese red in his disappointment.

"Laje, remember your place," Gris said glaring at the man dressed in his finest chef's attire.

"I apologize, but I told yuh, I didn't want to work on the Dais this time around," he said.

Gris held up a hand to shut him up. "You are our m-main chef and my fa... the King enjoys your cooking. Plus, he a-asked for you per-personally."

Laje gave an annoyed sigh, but the flattery that crossed his face gave away his true emotion. Gris shook his head. He had more important things to worry about and to do right now.

"But I did it last time," he said. "Yuh know the only reason he asks me is because of this." He held up his right arm, missing its forearm from its elbow and down. "They treat me like crep every time."

"I'm sorry Laje, but time is winding down and things cannot be changed right now," he said wiping his sleeve across his sweaty forehead.

Gris watched and counted intently at the last pile of crates filled with food, tableware, toiletries, decorations, weaponry, and other items unchecked on his list get carried out of the kitchen's main backdoor to the waiting carriages.

The man scuffed and rolled his eyes with the demeanor of a man once Fair and successful who's unfortunate incident led him to the kitchens of the Strange.

"I should have a say in this matter. I do not want to go!" the man angrily yelled.

"Laje," Gris shouted so loud it made some of the slaves around him take a slight pause. Gris closed his eyes and gave an aggravated sigh. "Gods! Just do w-what you're supposed to do. I don't care how the royal f-family treats you. They treat all of us like crap. Let's just get this damn cursed night over with! Please!"

The chef blinked his squinted eyes through his long auburn bangs, tiny lips pursed with stubbornness. "Well..." he said then stalked away with his back straight and chin high.

Gris massaged his aching forehead and wished the gods would just take his breath and kill him now.

A hand tapped his left shoulder sending another bolt of anger up his spine. "What?" he yelled spinning to face the person.

Instantly, he regretted it. "Mira," he said staring wide-eyed at the middle-aged woman. Her short-cropped hair sat a mess on her head as if she'd been shaken senseless. She signed something with her hands.

"No. Don't be sorry. What do you want?"

Something's wrong with Hasana, she signed.

"Hasana?" he said realizing he hadn't seen the girl since Eron dragged her away. "Is she okay?"

The maiden lady who must've abandoned her duties in the north wing to find him, shook her head with worry.

I caught her crying. She said she was okay, but I know she is lying.

"Damn it," he said knowing that demon Commander must've done something to her. "Where is she?"

In the hallway. I made her come but she's afraid.

"Afraid?"

Mira nodded and led him out of the kitchens to one of the adjoined hallways. The sun outside graced the estate and the hall with its dark gold hue. Yet around the sun, gray clouds had begun to form as if a storm was approaching.

Sitting on one of the windowsills was the beautiful Hasana. He remembered the first time he saw her in the Court. He wanted her for sure, not because of her birth defects, but because she was a beauty to look at. Although, he kept that part to himself, he still couldn't help caring more about her when she was around.

He found his footsteps slowdown a bit, heartbeat racing, mind going crazy. He hated seeing her in distress. Her very smile and cheerful personality sometimes were the things that made him get out of bed in the morning. Of course, Limp noticed his behavior towards her, but ever since then, he's worked on concealing it.

He wiped his shirt, but the dust, the grime, and his sweat did not disappear. This would've been a great time for one of those vests he hated. He combed a hand through his hair and approached the girl whose puffy red eyes and dried up tears told him she was in distraught.

"Hasana," he said. The girl stood and folded her arms across her chest as if protecting herself. A fresh fire ignited in his chest towards the Commander. "What did he do to you?"

"Nothing," she said trying her best to keep her composure, but he could see right through it.

"It doesn't look like nothing, Hasana," he said touching her arm, feeling her shiver.

She looked away, blinking back tears. Then she caught eyes with a few guards standing in the hall. This got Gris' attention. Guards never entered the Slave Quarters unless it was dire. They were snickering and glancing in their direction.

"I was told that Eron took you to my chambers."

The girl retracted from his touch and his heart dropped into his gut. She fumbled with her long braid and recomposed herself.

"Gris. I am fine. I told you Mira this was unnecessary."

Worried Mira didn't look at all convinced or prepared to let it go. Her hands moved in a fast-smooth motion, words flowing one after the other. Gris lost track of what she was saying but he did catch one thing.

"What does she mean a burn? Hasana did he burn you?"

Hasana flinched seemed to curl more into the wall she was forming. "No. I told you Mira. I am fine."

Mira glared at him and signed. She has a hand burn on her thigh. She told me not to tell you, but I had to. That man is a devil.

"Gods have mercy," he said grabbing Hasana's arm and pulling her into an adjoined hall.

"Mira be on the lookout please," he said, and the woman nodded with a firmness in her eyes as if she was heading out to war.

"Gris please let it go," she said eyes overflowing.

"Tell me now. Are you okay?" the girl averted her eyes the floor and turned away ashamed.

Gris clenched his fists noticing her right cheek was a bit bruised. He wanted to touch it, to caress her petit face and hold her close to his chest. But he kept his hands at his sides. He knew that some of his female slaves were harassed from time to time by the guards and soldiers or residents in the north wing. But if any of them were raped, they were very strong in hiding it and keeping it secret amongst the other women. If the Commander did touch her, he knew eventually Mira would squeeze it out of her and give her the comfort she needed.

"I swear to the gods, I will kill that man one day," he said.

She gave a dry chuckle, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. "You probably could if he was a man," she said acknowledging how mystically powerful Eron was with his sooth.

"Do you want to go home for the night?"

"No. I cannot."

"Why not?"

The girl looked as if she wanted to say something very important but was too afraid. Gris growled on the inside. "Fine. Go and rest in your quarters then."

"Mira, where's Gris," someone shouted from down the hall.

"Great gods, what now?" he said reentering the hall.

Orlan jogged to them, eyes wide screaming a new problem has arisen. Gris stuffed his clipboard under an arm and met the servant halfway.

"I know you are busy, Your Highness-,"

"Just sp-spill it."

He gave a great exhale. "It's Limp."

The hairs along the back of his neck rose, worried that his friend had succumbed to the wounds he had inflicted.

"Is he okay?" Gris managed to say, heart tight in his chest.

"He thinks he is," Orlan said.

Gris didn't understand until Orlan made that you-know-how-Limp-is face. "Oh no."

"I'll come along," Hasana said. "He listens to me too, you know."

Gris nodded handing Orlan the task book. "Orlan, you're in charge," he said.

"But I'd like to tag along," he said.

"No s-stay and help Mira and find Brenson to as-sist," he said taking off for the infirmary. "I'll be back."

The infirmary unlike the Slave Quarters sat attached from the palace, along the westward walls closer to the forest leading to the river. They ran, ignoring those who didn't like it. A few slaves called out for him, but he just shouted, "See Orlan," and kept running. They exited one of the south wing entrances into a courtyard with a pathway that led straight to the white stoned building. A bridge did lead to this infirmary, but it was primarily for royal or noble use.

They entered a door opened by one of the post guards. Gris sniffled at the dingy smell of sweaty bodies, herbal medicines, rusty concoctions, and the stale irony odor of blood that sat in the air determined not to move on. The large sitting room was empty, except the young Fair nurse at the front desk.

"Your Highness," she said rising to her feet and giving a decent curtsey.

"Lady Liana," he said with the best nod he could do.

"Good thing you've come quickly," she said leading the way into the halls for the ill. "He woke up finally, almost in his right mind, so you know, he's being stubborn."

"Thanks for calling me," he said.

Over 25 beds lied empty and waiting, with their own nightstands, lanterns, and privacy curtains. Only four beds were occupied. One being the unfortunate Royce, the guard Mageia had pushed off a ledge. Apparently, still in a coma. And another bed, his closest friend who was whipped almost to death.

"I said I am okay," he heard Limp shout.

"Limp," he said entering the curtained area in the middle of a row.

The 38-year-old man did not look like himself. His ivory skin was sheet white almost deadly and his lips were pale. His curly black hair was a mess on his head, and he wore nothing but the infirmary pants. The bandages that were wrapped around his torso had begun to bleed out and made Gris' gut churn.

"Gods Limp. Get back into bed," he demanded pushing by Master Joras who was failing at keeping the man at bay.

The two infirmary guards didn't look so happy in this ordeal and stood with hands on their swords as if the vulnerable sick man was an enemy.

"Gris. Gris. You shouldn't be here. You're supposed to be making sure everything's going to plan," Limp said not realizing he was now leaning on Gris for support.

"Yes, I know. But you need me."

"Hasana, is that you? Sweet girl. You should not be seeing me like this."

"Limp. Please. Get back in bed," she said.

"But you need me."

"We do, but I am doing fine. Everything is fine." Gris then glared at the physician as if it was his fault. "Did you me-medicate him?"

"We aren't allowed to give slaves or servants a fifth dose of medicine."

"To hell with that," he said. "He is your patient. You take care of him."

Joras didn't look at all satisfied by this. Gris shook his head at the idiotic man who was supposed to be a person of compassion. Yet, here he was letting his Fair preconception outweigh the fact Limp was a person just like him.

"Put the Strange back in bed or leave. Simple as that," one guard said.

"Silence," Gris ordered.

Hasana came around and combed a hand through the servant's hair. "Limp. Please you must get better. The only way you can do that is if you stay in bed."

"I have work to do," he said watery eyes trying hard to mask the pain he was in.

"No. You need rest," Gris said.

"You know the rules, Your Highness," Joras said shifting feet. "The Strange will only receive care if they stay in the infirmary. If he leaves, he cannot come back."

Gris rolled his eyes. "Whatever, Joras. G-give him another dose of stab-bilizers, dress his wounds, and redo the b-bandages."

"This is my infirmary," Joras said stiff and awkward, knowing he couldn't disobey an order from a royal.

Gris sat Limp down on the bed and faced the physician with his dangerous glare. The guards stepped forward, hands gripping their swords. Joras held his breath, eyes wide with fear.

"Your Highness, I can't..."

"You addressed me correctly. I am your prince. Now go and do as I say."

For a minute, he thought the physician was going to rebuke him, but finally he nodded and scurried away.

"People are losing their minds," Gris muttered scolding the guards.

"You are a good son, Grisonce," Limp said, the medicine in his system and the probable pain in his back was making him groggy.

Gris approached him only for the man to grab his face and kiss him on the forehead. Gris smiled and patted his friend. "Yes. Limp. Thank you. Now I want you to get better. Please stay in bed."

"You need to get dress. You know you have to show your face there," he said.

"I will get dress soon enough. I must be there for her..."

Limp gave a silly laugh then grunted in pain. "So chivalrous you are. A good man is made of one who can face his fears and his mistakes."

"Yes Limp. I know."

"You've become a good man, son. I'm so proud of you," he said eye flooding as he combed a lazy hand through Gris' hair.

"Hey Limp, let's get you back into bed now," Hasana said. Rubbing his arm.

He gave the girl a kind smile. "I hope you are okay, my girl. Whatever Eron done to you, it shall be returned ten-fold."

"Limp, you can't say that... at least not aloud," Gris whispered.

They glanced at the guards, glaring at them with the utmost hatred. Finally, Joras returned with his medical bag and Liana.

"You gentlemen can leave," Joras said and the guards strolled away making faces.

"Joras is a kind man. He's taken good care of me," Limp said.

"Oh really," Gris mumbled moving to the edge of the bed.

Joras frowned but continued his job and stuck Limp with a needle filled with anti-biotics and relief. Within minutes, the manservant calmed and Joras got to work with cleaning his wound.

Gris cringed at the horror done to his friend. He loved Limp and all his slaves. They were his true family. He caught eyes with Limp who was staring at him with an unreadable expression, bottom lip trembling. Gris furrowed his brow, wondering what he was thinking or if he was trying to suppress a yelp.

"Are you okay?" he finally said.

Gris gave a faint chuckle amazed by his friend's concern for him despite his own situation. "Yes. Why do you ask?"

"You're thinking about her aren't you," he said.

"Who?" Hasana said.

"I wish I could do something for her."

"Pray for her soul," Limp said.

"Are you talking about that witch who almost got us killed?" Hasana said eyes now dark with spite.

"She's not a witch," Gris said through clenched teeth. "Her name is Mageia and she's going to die tonight. Have some respect."

"Oh, you remind me," Limp said eyes now dripping with loose tears. "Mageia wrote a letter to her family."

"Really? Where?"

"In your quarters, at the table," Limp said.

"So that's what she was doing?" Hasana said. For some reason Gris noticed this changed Hasana's demeanor. Her eyes narrowed and she leaned closer to Limp.

"Yes. Poor girl is leaving behind people she loves," Limp cursed. "A cruel world we live in."

"Did she ever tell you where to send the letter?" Hasana asked fixing a flying strand of hair on Limp's head.

"Um... Yes, she did. Gris you may not be able to help her now, but her soul might rest in peace if you deliver her letter."

"To where?" he and Hasana said in unison. Gris gave the girl a questioning look, and she averted her eyes to the bedsheets, pursing her lips. An uneasiness formed in his gut, but he couldn't understand why. So, he bottled it and returned his attention to Limp who opened his mouth then clamped it closed. He locked eyes on the Master of Medicine who had slowed down his rebandaging process. Joras realized he was caught interested in their conversation and cleared his throat.

"Don't mind me," he said securing the new bandaging.

"You're a good man, Joras, but you haven't chosen a side yet," Limp said.

"A side?" he said with a dry chuckle. "I didn't know there were sides."

"There are sides to everything in this world and only fools don't know it or tries to ignore it," Limp said. Master Joras made a skeptical face, brown skin darkening in embarrassment.

Gris smirked. His friend was slowly returning to his right mind now. His bold insults were always the signature of his personality.

"Well, if you say so, I'll take my leave. I'm finished anyways," Joras said wiping his bloody hands with a towel and grabbing his things. "I will return with some herbal water. Please still be here when I return."

They watched the physician leave and Gris' interest on where to deliver Mageia's letter was at its peak.

"So where should I send the letter, Limp?" he said.

He helped the man get back into bed, however due to his injured back, he had to lie on his belly.

"Uh... What did she say? Give it to Arynliit's Bakery on Grinner Street in Midlaan."

"Arynliit you say?" Gris said. "That name sounds familiar..."

Limp began to laugh. "I thought so too until I figured out who he was."

"Who is he?" Hasana said.

"The man once was a Fair knight in King Thadd's escort," he said. "Not only was he good with a sword, but the man could also make a pastry sing."

Gris recalled how Mageia stopped reading when she came across the names in the scroll of the Fair Tree Witnessing. He had read the scroll countless times and new the names of those present at the event. Arynliit was on it and somehow Mageia knew him.

"How do you think they know one another?" Gris said.

"I don't know. For some reason, my memory fails me when it comes to certain years, events, and people. You'd think you would remember someone as crude as King Thaddeus, but the man is near faint in my head despite he ruled my entire life as a slave."

"Well. Thanks for helping Mageia. I will see they get her letter."

"But how, Gris, when you've been banned?" Hasana said.

Gris grinned and rubbed Limp's firm shoulder. "Well, I still need to collect some things for tonight."