He witnessed 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 wanted to step forward and ask to be the one to discover what she was despite already knowing the answer.

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. Rumored to be a pest with a horde of sticky little fingers who needed to be caught and done away with. Some stories noted her bravery and some her beauty, yet the majority scolded her existence and impurity towards the Diviines.

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

"Not yet Limp," he said.

Limp was the man's entitled nickname since he began working at the palace at a young age. 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 until being honored with the title of Master of the House. This position did not give him actual authority over the palace, but its maintenance and its workers.

Gris 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 and 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 he needed permission to see her.

"Orlan, go," he gestured for one of his higher-ranking servants to do as he was told. The tall average looking man, approached the King's Knight Escort by the throne with strong confidence and handed him a note.

Ser Garret Slan scrunched his nose as he listened to the middle-aged servant. With a slight huff of annoyance, the royal escort took the note and ascended the throne's platform as glasses of water were distributed amongst the family. Gris' shoulders tensed as he handed the King 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 heels.

"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 pure 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 hallway to the dais began.

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," Limp said.

"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 d-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 tipped flame within a hexagon line for Dawnis, the god of life and death. His friend, being a slave, was not allowed in this part, nor was he, but he had beaten this specific knight owed him a huge favor.

Seeing him enter and approach, the dark-skinned soldier stumbled to his feet from his stool. "Your Highness," he said giving a waist bow.

"Dargany Hale, how are you this evening?" Gris said taking his time to pronounce every word so not to stutter.

"Good, Your Highness," he said.

"Do you remember what I did f-for you?" he said scolding himself on the inside for the sudden stutter.

"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 prepared to pronounce his next words 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 h-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 honey 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.

Gris returned to a bright smile. "Good. Thank you. However, this does not c-cover your favor."

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

Gris nodded 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 Doomed 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."

"You are not a Strange. You are a Royal by blood."

"The King could easily hand it over to Gid or Relana," he scuffed.

"Another reason why you should take this seriously. Prove to them that you are more than a defect."

"I don't need to prove anything," Gris 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 despite his friend being 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 f-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 since you popped out of the womb. 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," Limp said pursing his lips.

"Never mention her unless you wish to join her," Gris 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 as Master of the Slaves, gave Limp 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 corridor 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 order 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 tan cobblestone floor wasn't polished or carpeted, and every window on both sides possessed charred black drapes all year around. The breeze wisped through the corridor in a chilly manner and not a single bird could be heard.

They approached the end of the short corridor, to the boring brown doors he had plans to change, but never gotten around to it. And unlike his Royal Family who had at least two escorts posted at the doors, he had none. He preferred none. Once inside his personal chambers, a half-lit chandelier, and some candles casted strange shadows everywhere while the fire in his chimney slowly died. This part of the palace somehow never received a lot of daylight which found favor from Gris over the years.

To his direct left was a staircase that led up to the true place he called home. His study, his library, and his lab spaces where he has dissected both dead animals and people. Not of pleasure. No, he was not a madman, but out of pure curiosity for science, anatomy, and health. Those cadavers were brought from a few city morgues, which never sat well with Limp... or anyone on that matter.

Every chance he got he would seek new information for his expanding book and scroll collections. And thanks to his father giving him his own monetary account and little supervision, he was able to do just about anything he wanted.

After fumbling to take off the annoying coat vest, he threw it on a pile of discarded vests and coats on a sofa in his lounge. He unbuttoned his shirt and sleeves and rustled his pitch-black curly 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 workspace. 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 prayed.

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

Gris clattered his teeth together as he scurried to the table designated for his books, scrolls, writing parchments, and journals. He relit the lanterns and 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 kept 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. An ancient book forbidden in the kingdom and forgotten by many people in Ardania. It held every truth from the birth and history of the Realm of Valeera, to prophesies, to the divine communion of the Diviine Six Gods, and above all the five Ordained. The very religion the Crown has declared enemy of the kingdom and sentenced directly to death. This sacred book was for those wishing to expand their knowledge and faith in the truth unlike the Ardanian Sacred Book relating to Fair and Strange, division, and human 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 Throne Hall.

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

"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," his manservant said.

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 told him, this might or might not work in his favor.