CROWNS I: Of Desolate Hope | ✔

3. Draken's Errand

Draken placed the small, red coronet upon his head. "How does it look?" he asked.

"Perfect," was the reply from a servant with skin that bore a resemblance to the colour of brown sand. Although he was a servant, Arnan did not feel like one. He was treated like a prince himself but he was always wary of his official role as a servant.

Ever since Arnan had arrived from the Far East, Draken had taken an instant liking to him. Despite his low upbringing and eventual capture, he and the prince had become best friends. They were now inseparable meaning that wherever Draken went, he went and whatever Draken ate, he himself ate. Despite being a servant, life was bearable for Arnan.

Draken scratched his mop of dark, black hair. "I need to get this cut," he commented, diverting his gaze to the red, silk curtains at the other end of the large. Draken briskly strolled to part them, to look at what lay beyond. "I don't want this. Any of this."

Arnan joined him on the balcony and put a hand on his shoulder. "Why? You're a prince that's next in line to the throne!" he exclaimed.

Draken thought for a moment as he stared at the black tower across the city. Children were running through the dirty streets, oblivious of how the city was built. The adults, instead, were bartering in the markets, in the brothels or busying themselves with work in order to try and forget how the city came to be.

"I don't want to rule a kingdom built on slavery, fire and death..." responded Draken. He believed this because he believed the tales told by the beggars, wet nurses and the sages - the city was built on a mass grave.

"You don't know that for sure though, do you?" questioned Arnan, dragging Draken from the balcony. "You need to stop listening to the beggars and the nurses. You're too old to believe them anymore."

Draken knew that Arnan was right but the thought of their tale being true clung to him. "You're right. I don't know but in any case, that's certainly how the kingdom is now." One look at Arnan's sombre face told him that he had won the debate.

"Well maybe when you're the king, you can change things, right?" asked Arnan.

"Not if she has anything to say about it," replied Draken. What could I possibly do to fix centuries worth of evil? he thought, despairingly.

"Your grace!" exclaimed a man in red and white robes by the door.

Draken thought the old, Grand Sage looked silly in the long robes that had ensnared him but he dare not say it. "What is it?"

The Grand Sage scowled and Draken instantaneously remembered. "I need to go, Arnan!" Draken sprinted out of the room so fast that his princely coronet was barely on his head, "I'm going to be late!"

The long and unnecessarily winding passages had always annoyed Draken but this time they were especially irritating. Through the many halls and several kitchens of the palace, he bounded - it was the fastest way to reach the throne room. "Sorry!" he shouted as he knocked over a few loaves of bread and kicked a goose to the other side of the kitchen.

When he finally reached the throne room he was panting like a dog and his forehead was doused in sweat.

"Hurry up!" urged the Grand Sage, handing Draken a cloth to wipe his head, which he gratefully accepted.

Draken repositioned his coronet and didn't bother to ask how the old Grand Sage had arrived there so quickly. He stepped towards the enormous black doors and nodded at the guards on either side of it. With a few heaves, the bulking doors were swung open.

"You're always late, brother..." came a voice from the other end of the room. Draken glanced at his sister's silhouette by the throne of fire, sighed and took in a deep breath. This part of the walk had always been the hardest.