BEFORE.

THEODORACIUS WARPS HIS knuckles around the edge of the dinner table, trying his best to pretend he isn't listening.

He is seated at the end of the table opposite his father, who enjoys putting as much distance as possible between himself and the boy—that is, until he gets a weapon in his hands. King Tevenot is in the middle of a deep conversation with his friend and comrade, Captain Todorov. As they speak in low tones, Todorov's head is bowed towards the king slightly, as a subtle sign of submission. Occasionally, Theodoracius manages to catch a word here and there, but not enough to piece together what it is they're currently discussing.

Embedded into the surface of the wooden table are four crescent-shaped indentations, from all the time Theodoracius has spent sitting in this spot. He immediately fits his fingernails into the crescents and digs them in; the fifth one, for his thumbnail, is on the underside of the table. Other than the whitening of his knuckles, the boy's appearance is unreadable. At fourteen years old, he has already mastered the art of stoicism; he can turn his own face to stone at the drop of a pin.

Theodoracius turns his gaze to the castle windows, looking out at what little sky he can see from within the cage of stone. Sometimes, he allows himself to think about what it would feel like to sit beneath the night sky and inhale the stars. The day after his mother died, he saw a comet from the window in his room. He never forgot about that, because it felt like kismet. He thinks he'd like to see one again, maybe on a night that isn't quite so desolate.

His nails dig deeper into the table.

There is a tiredness that has manifested itself in the marrow Theodoracius's bones ever since he witnessed Tevenot slaughtering his mother—a tiredness that he is too young to possess, but has grown accustomed to. He carries it everywhere with him, just as he carries the scars on his back. Only sometimes does this perennial exhaustion fade away, if only briefly, to be replaced with flicker of a flame. Tonight is one of those nights.

Tonight, he feels awake. Alive, even.

The idea has been building in him for years, but every time he had weighed the possibility in the past, he'd hear his father's voice in his head: You are nothing but a coward, Theodoracius. He has daydreamed about fleeing the castle more times than he can count.

He glances sideways at the king.

Then back out the window.

The castle is silent as usual, other than the murmurs of the two men. The servants have retreated to the kitchens. Most of the guards have been dismissed...

Theodoracius rises from his seat tentatively. "Your Majesty?" he asks, mustering his most casual tone.

The conversation between Tevenot and Todorov comes to an abrupt halt.

Tevenot turns his beady-eyed gaze to his son. "Boy, you had better have a very good reason for interrupting me," he says coolly. There is a hint of a threat in his tone. There always is.

Theodoracius's pulse quickens. He suddenly finds it hard to swallow, as though there is a wad of cotton caught in his throat. "I apologize, Your Majesty," he replies. "I was only wondering if I could be dismissed. I would like to go to the library to practice my Latin reading."

The king's eyes narrow further. "At this hour, Theodoracius?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," he responds, biting back his retort about how it's better than just sitting in the dining hall, staring at the table.

Several seconds of silence elapse, before Tevenot sighs and says tersely, "Very well. You are dismissed."

The knot in Theodoracius's stomach loosens as he bows quickly and mutters, "Thank you, my lord." As he heads for the stairs, he takes slow strides so as not to make his father even more suspicious.

However, once he is at the top of the stairs and out of sight of the king, he doesn't make his way to the library.

The rushing in his ears, the pounding of his heart and the uncertain pattern of his footsteps engulf his senses. He's going to get out of here. He'll be free at last.

By the time he reaches the courtyard, his ribs are collapsing in on his lungs. Treading carefully, he makes his way over to the stable. There are a few rowdy guards hanging around the courtyard, but Theodoracius makes no attempt to hide from them. Instead, so as not to seem suspicious or as nervous as he is, he tilts his chin upwards and walks purposefully.

The stable is at the very edge of a forest. He circles around the stable, out of sight of the guards, to catch his breath for a moment. He leans his head against the wood, knowing that his horse is on the other side. "Cassius," Theodoracius whispers fondly, features softening. He's barely breathing, as though any little disturbance in the air will send his father thundering after him. "I wish I could take you with me."

He lingers for only a moment. Then he takes a step towards the forest.

A heavy hand falls on his shoulder. His heart plummets through the ground.

"Your Highness."

The voice belongs to Picard, Tevenot's warlock servant.

"No," is the only thing that leaves Theodoracius's mouth.

"Your Highness," Picard repeats, this time more softly.

"Picard, please," says Theodoracius. "Please help me, you have to help me—I can't..."

"I'm sorry—"

"No, no, please," he repeats, looking up at him. "Just let me go. Just tell him that you didn't know, Picard, please."

For a moment, something akin to pity flashes across Picard's face. For only a moment, Theodoracius truly believes that the warlock will help him.

"I'm sorry," Picard repeats, "Your Highness, I'm so sorry—your father, you know—I am bound to him, and I—I must—"

"That's enough," Theodoracius says, trying to keep the quiver from his voice. He has heard his father use these words and this tone on his servants countless times, but in the prince's mouth it sounds weak and petulant. "Shut up, Picard. Don't try to explain it to me. I understand perfectly well."

"Your Highness, you do not understand—he has given me specific instructions about what to do if you ever tried to run and if I don't—"

"I said SHUT UP, PICARD!" he yells, panic settling to the bottom of his stomach.

But then Picard lifts his left hand and mutters an incantation, and Theodoracius can do no more. Suddenly, all of the fight leaves his body. His shoulders wilt like flowers in the frigid winter air. His mind is screaming, but he can't control his body. The warlock is still apologizing, but it sounds somehow distant to Theodoracius, as though he is locked in a corner of his own mind.

He walks. Past the guards, back through the doors of the castle. He can't even focus his gaze where he wants it, much less his legs. All he sees is ahead. He thinks Picard is somewhere behind him, but his neck is locked in place and he can't turn it to find out. He knows where they're headed, and he knows exactly what Picard is going to force him to do, and he hates him. He hates the warlock and he hates his father and he hates the goddamn guards. And he hates himself for foolishly succumbing to his dreams, allowing his mind to confuse fantasy with reality.

"What do you want, boy?" comes the harsh demand from Tevenot, and fear floods Theodoracius's mind as he realizes he is on the precipice and he can do absolutely nothing about it.

"Father," says Theodoracius—the truth is being pried from his mind and forced onto his tongue against his will, but he can do nothing to stop it. "I tried to run. I have been anticipating running away for years, but tonight I saw a chance and I took it. Picard found me in the courtyard by the stables."

Tevenot's anger is terrifying, but it is what comes before the rage that most scares Theodoracius. His nostrils flare out and his fists clench, but the single most telling sign of his fury is his smile. A thing so evil paints his beautiful features only when he is at his tipping point.

Many things happen at once. The spell lifts and Theodoracius gasps for air, as though it was choking him. The instant it lifts, however, the young prince catches Picard's eye—and never in his life has he been on the receiving end of such a piteous gaze. And then a firm hand falls on his shoulder. He looks up in time to see his father's fist curl around his shirt, yanking him roughly towards the stairs. Struggling to keep up with Tevenot's long strides, Theodoracius trots alongside him. He knows where they're headed before they even arrive: the weapons room.

"TODOROV!" Tevenot bellows, and the young prince realizes that Captain Todorov had followed them. He swiftly moves to open the double doors leading to the weapons room, letting the king drag Theodoracius inside.

Once there, Tevenot grips Theodoracius tighter, only to throw him to his knees. The prince knows better than to resist; he goes with the motion. When his knees hit the hard floor, he makes no sound. He bites his tongue and ploughs through the pain, and he pretends he's under the starry sky and can see—

The king's hand closes around Theodoracius's throat and this time, he's suffocating. "YOU THINK YOU CAN DEFY ME, BOY?" he roars. "YOU THINK YOU CAN DISOBEY MY COMMANDS, TELL LIES TO MY FACE?"

He punches his son square in the jaw once, twice, three times. The edges of Theodoracius's vision go black for a moment, and he keels over in pain. The instant he realizes that his father has stopped hitting him, he looks up and sees that a blood vessel in Tevenot's hand has burst. Tevenot swears loudly, and all Theodoracius can think is, He deserves that, he deserves that and so much more. Then his grasp on the boy weakens and he lets him fall to the floor. Theodoracius can taste the metallic tang of his own blood as it trickles from his nose down to his chin. It tastes like all of the worst days of the prince's life.

He dry heaves onto the floor, but then Tevenot is on him again. He tears open the boy's shirt and brings the dagger to his bare skin. The first incision is shallow, but is what finally makes Theodoracius break, for he cries out at last, swearing that through the now red edges of his vision, he can see Tevenot smiling. And then comes another, this one deeper, trailing from his collarbone down to his pectoral muscle, and now he's screaming in agony.

Theodoracius wishes he was drowning instead. He inhales through his nose and exhales through his mouth. He looks up at the ceiling.

The world is spinning, and the fresh wounds hurt with every heave of the prince's chest.

The king points the tip of the dagger at Theodoracius's crotch, and presses it lightly; not enough to cause pain or damage, but enough to make fear clutch at the boy's chest. "If you attempt to do what you have done tonight ever again—if you lie to me and disobey me in any way—I will emasculate you as executioners emasculate criminals. Do you understand me?"

Theodoracius can do nothing but nod, over and over again, until his self worth feels like it has been torn to shreds. He's an animal that his father has tamed. Tevenot rises to his feet, pacing around the room, and Theodoracius is still nodding and swallowing his tears.

Tevenot has everything; he won't give him the satisfaction of crying in front of him.

"Theodoracius," booms Tevenot, as though nothing is wrong—as though the events that have just transpired are normal and mundane. The king's fingers delve into his pocket and he produces a handkerchief. Running his tongue along his top row of teeth like a wolf brandishing its canines, he—with sickening deftness—wipes his son's blood from the blade of the dagger with the handkerchief. "Your uncle shall be arriving shortly. I expect you to be on your best behaviour. Father will be"—he cuts himself off to fold the stained handkerchief in half once, and then once more—"negotiating trade deals with him. You are not to disturb us. Sit down. Shut up. Speak only when spoken to."

One of Theodoracius's eyes is swelling shut. He sees his father through his good eye. He's just in time to watch him sweep from the room, Todorov tailing him. He doesn't remember Picard leaving, but he must've at some point, because now... now Theodoracius is alone.

The young prince staggers and sits back down on the floor, tears clouding his vision. He reaches into his pocket and from it, produces a ruby pendant. Trembling, he brings the pendant to his lips and presses a kiss to it.

"Mother," he whispers, broken and ragged and pleading. He doesn't believe—he doesn't believe in anything. "Help me. Help me. I'm lost and I don't know what else to do. Show me the way."