The Knight Who Breathed Fire

FOUR | iv.

FOUR | The Tailor Spins the Twine of Fate

PRINCE NOLAN'S FIRST PROMINENT DISTRESS IS NEVER being addressed without having a title attached to his name.

While his supremacy is not entirely unwelcome, he still cannot remember a time when his name was uttered without the prestige plague of responsibility bound to it. However, he has resigned himself to the fact that he is prince—like he can ever forget—and, as much as he wishes it doesn't sometimes, this meant inevitable power.

He only wished his name didn't always stop conversations.

Huffing internally and covering his exasperation behind a well-constructed façade, the prince tucks a lock of his slicked hair behind his crown. His eyes scan the room for any dignitaries that needed to be addressed without turning into anything more strenuous than small talk.

The last thing he needs is being stuck talking about politics he doesn't really care for with people who he doesn't really care about.

His eyes snag the profile of familiar blonde hair, effectively making him brighten.

Quickly pressing one foot in front of the other, he slips across the room (well, as much as he can with stopping a couple minutes to say, "hello, hi, I'm really a nice person, but you should step away before I throw you into a dungeon!" —though the last part was murmured) and throws his brightest smile at the only two women worth his time; his mother and Miss. Bridgette.

"Miss. Bridgette!" he exclaims quietly towards the aged woman, not wanting to catch the attention of an unwanted rambler. His mother is already engaged in a conversation with the King of Rumpstilt, a troll king head of the jungle to Levia's left, and decides to leave her be. "How're the desserts going?"

"Don't even ask," the woman groans, straightening her uniform. She is the head maid of the building and unofficial guardian of Prince Nolan since birth, her hair as silver and Nolan's earrings. "I'm far too old to be cooped in this stuffy old room, don't you think?"

"You're immortal, mi madiria," Prince Nolan speaks softly in Luxon, his home language. His smile is genuine when she sneaks him a lemon tart from behind her back, and he inconspicuously devours it in one bite. "Aren't you supposed to be on rest today?"

Miss. Bridgette waves a hand through the air, slicing through the comment like a butchers knife. "Bah! Do you know how quickly these parties would fall apart at the hand of the new staff? The elves and dwarfs must all be addressed accordingly! Their mannerisms would ruin your family, and they'd most likely insult a royal by tripping their feet, and—"

"Who else would keep me company at these things, yes?" Nolan smiles widely, his cheeks hurting from the unspoken words in his maternal guardian's voice.

The woman lets out a humph. "I see my lessons on humility have clearly made no difference to that ego of yours, my dear boy."

"I'm glad you're here, too, Miss. Bridgette," Prince Nolan says earnestly. "I truly am."

Miss. Bridgette was his first friend, and his best til date. With such a high position in society, Nolan has quickly learned that many care more for his crown than they do for his companionship, and thus made it quite difficult for him to create friends during assigned play dates. He is more familiar with the other children helping out in the castle than with his own age group.

Being friendly was a given. Being friends was not. (Plus, they're either all snobs or pretentious little arsewhoes, and it's probably smarter to have an old lady who'll make you laugh than teenagers that make you want to jump into the moat).