For her. He’d done this for her.

A young mousy-haired maid appeared in the main doorway. Her brown eyes widened at the sight of Ruenen, who gave her a smile. She squeaked, and dropped into a deep curtsey.

“I’m here to assist you, Your Highness,” she said in a trembling voice.

Marai scowled. “I don’t need a maid. I can take care of myself.”

“It’s her job, my lady,” Bassite said from the open doors. “Harmona is here to ensure the comfort of all of the Prince’s guests.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Harmona,” Ruenen said, and the young maid blushed. “I’m Prince Ruenen, and this is my very special friend, Marai.”

Marai crossed her arms and glared at him. Ruenen nearly laughed when she mouthed “very special friend” in annoyance. She then busied herself with staring at an elegant, colorful tapestry of a forest scene on the wall.

“Please let me know if there’s anything you need, Lady Marai,” said the young maid, still in her deep curtsey.

Marai froze. “It’s just Marai.”

“Bassite, let’s continue to my chambers and leave Lady Marai to get acquainted with Harmona.”

Marai shot Ruenen a seething look of death, causing him to bark out a laugh. Bassite shut the door behind him as Ruenen exited back out into the hallway.

The royal quarters were more than Ruenen ever imagined: rich colors, plush rugs and furs, blankets, and pillows. A massive fireplace and canopied bed big enough for four grown men, a two-person bathtub. Lofty windows next to gorgeous tapestries and artwork of Nevandian landscapes. It was strange to imagine all of this now belonged to him. Well, at least as long as Nevandia remained independent.

“The previous king and queen preferred living together, as opposed to separate apartments,” explained Bassite, watching Ruenen explore the room. “If you’d like us to rearrange or redecorate, please don’t hesitate to ask, Your Highness.”

“This is perfect,” Ruenen said, breaking into a wide grin. He’d never seen such luxury in all his life. In the monastery, he’d slept on a rickety cot in a closet-sized room. Monks were notoriously modest, and lived simplistically. With Master Chongan, Ruenen had spent years lying on a bundle of blankets and straw in the forge’s attic, always covered in soot. None of this felt real, as if he’d wandered into a dream that wasn’t his. He’d never wanted this life. He would’ve been content with a cot in a closet as long as he was safe. This room wasn’t supposed to be his. It belonged to Prince Kiernen, his cousin, but now that Ruenen was here, had become the prince . . . a wild, giddy feeling exploded in his chest. His lute sat upon an armchair and Ruenen yearned to compose a song about this moment.

“The Witan apartments are around the corner on this same floor, Your Highness, always close by in case you need them.”

Another man materialized at the door. He seemed frazzled, forehead beading with sweat, as if he’d run all the way upstairs. But the man positively radiated joy when he saw Ruenen. Real tears welled up in his brown eyes.

“This is Mayestral, your Groom. He’s responsible for taking care of Your Highness’ personal wellbeing.”

Mayestral bowed, revealing a large bald patch amongst his thin dark hair. “It’s an honor, Your Royal Highness, to be at your service. I never again thought I would be Groom to a king. I proudly served your father, His Majesty King Vanguarden.”

Ruenen felt a splash of guilt. He wasn’t the rightful heir, but it didn’t seem like anyone so far was second-guessing his claim. The guards and servants appeared genuinely excited and grateful for the return of a royal.

“I regret, Your Highness, that we don’t have adequate clothing for a prince in the current style,” Bassite said with a shamed shake of his head. “Rest assured, the Royal Tailor is on his way to measure you. He’ll be altering His Majesty King Vanguarden’s old clothes for you to wear until he’s able to produce new ones.”

Unsure of what to do and suddenly overheated, Ruenen could merely nod.

Perhaps Bassite sensed the discomfort, because he bowed deeply again. “I shall leave you now, Your Highness, and will return once the Royal Tailor has arrived. You’re in excellent hands with Mayestral.” He exited the room, ordering the guards at the doors to close them at his heels, leaving Ruenen alone with the Groom.

“Shall I prepare your bath, Your Highness?” asked Mayestral, rolling up his sleeves and heading into the bathing chamber.

“Uh . . . sure,” said Ruenen, overwhelmed by the amount of people suddenly at his beck-and-call. He didn’t need anyone to prepare his bath. He didn’t need servants waiting on him at all times, but Mayestral appeared honored and delighted to assist. Ruenen assumed it would be an insult to send the man away. He let Mayestral prepare the hot water and lay out an exquisite emerald green silk robe on a chair.

“The bath is ready for you. Do you require assistance, Your Highness?”

Ruenen blushed, taking a step away from the Groom. “Uh, no, thank you . . . I can handle things from here.”

Steam billowed over the edge of the large tub. He’d never seen a basin so large before. Ruenen caught a whiff of lavender and rosemary.

Mayestral bowed again. “I’ll be right outside, Your Highness,” then closed the chamber door behind him with a snap.

Alone at last, Ruenen let out an overwhelmed breath. He stripped off his leather and linen clothes; each piece tossed aside, never to be worn again. He bet the maids would burn them into cinders. He lowered himself into the hot, lavender-scented water, then let out a long, contented sigh. Ruenen lay there with his eyes closed for a while. The tight muscles in his back relaxed. They were sore from all the proud, princely postures and bowing. It wasn’t merely his back that ached; his head and heart pounded. The last few days had felt utterly unbelievable to Ruenen. Honestly, ever since the moment he’d met Marai in Gainesbury, his life had turned topsy-turvy. He never knew what was going to happen. He certainly had never imagined being here.

Do I deserve all this? 

He tried not to think about what he was going to say to the citizens of Kellesar. His heart thundered at the mere idea of addressing hundreds of people with a lie. The pressure, the responsibility, threatened to send Ruenen spiraling into one of his frozen moments of fear. Nevandia was counting on him to solve all their problems: to end the war, stop the famine and poor harvests, rebuild and prosper . . . Ruenen didn’t know the first thing about fixing them.

After a long while, Ruenen admitted he’d need to leave the bath eventually. Groaning, he stood and stepped onto the polished stone floor, chilly beneath his bare, wet feet. He reached for the fluffy towel and dried himself off. He then slipped his arms through the robe; the silk slid across his skin like water.

He opened the door and nearly choked at the amount of activity in his room. Bassite had returned with two gentlemen who Ruenen guessed were the Royal Tailor and his assistant. Mayestral was ordering a maid to stoke the fire. He’d emptied Ruenen’s sack onto the bed and was examining the contents. He gave a disapproving tsk at the condition of the shirt and socks inside. Mayestral pointed to the bathroom and the maid scurried inside, collecting Ruenen’s discarded clothes.

“Your Royal Highness, it’s an honor to meet you,” said the Royal Tailor, whose mustache was thin and twirled. Not a single wavy hair on the man’s head was out of place. “We’ll have you dressed to perfection shortly.”

He waved Ruenen over and the tailor’s assistant began measuring Ruenen’s arm length, chest, waist, leg length, and full height. He scribbled the numbers in a notebook as the tailor studied Ruenen.

“Lots of greens and golds, of course. You have the usual Middle Kingdoms coloring, so darker colors will also do well. But let’s stay away from blacks and burgundies for the time being. We want you to appear the opposite of King Rayghast and his menacing Tacorn attire.”

Ruenen nodded along as the tailor tossed a long yard of gold fabric across his shoulders.

“You were born to wear gold, Your Highness. It matches the flecks in your eyes. Exquisite!”

Realizing it was best to stay quiet, Ruenen let the tailor work, dressing him like a doll. Mayestral stood off to the side, giving hearty nods and words of affirmation to the tailor. Ruenen was a performer at heart and had no problem with attention, but this was too much for him.

If only I’d had these clothes when I was a bard, I would’ve finally looked the part.

In a whirlwind of fabrics and colors, the tailor and his assistant left, promising new clothes on the morrow. They’d left behind a pair of form-fitting trousers, a green and white vest overtop a white paisley tunic once belonging to Vanguarden. Mayestral pulled a gorgeous ermine-lined cape from the towering bureau.

“Now, Your Highness, you’re the perfect image of a prince.”

Ruenen dressed in the bathroom, suddenly shy in front of Mayestral and the servants. The clothing material was soft and comfortable, but the moment Mayestral put the cape around his shoulders, Ruenen felt the weight of the world placed upon him.

“It’s time for your speech, Your Highness,” the Groom said.

Ruenen gulped. Already?

Each step in the hallway was as stiff as an iron rod. Sweat dripped down his temples; the cape was quite stifling in the fair spring weather.

Mayestral led Ruenen to the second-floor balcony. Holfast, Vorae, and Fenir stood with nine other black-robed men: the rest of the Witenagemot. They eyed Ruenen suspiciously, but bowed as he approached. They introduced themselves and their titles, but Ruenen barely heard a word they said. So many people, names, titles, and faces, he didn’t know how he’d ever remember them all. Words were muffled in his ears as the roar of a crowd swelled from outside in the courtyard below.

Holfast handed him a piece of paper. “I wrote a short speech for you.”

“Thank gods,” Ruenen wheezed, and received a warning look from the Steward.

Ruenen tried to read the speech, but the inked words on the page doubled and fractured, turning into nonsense. His head spun.