"You know, Teodric, you might want to be careful when shuffling a deck of cards in front of a mirror."

I stumbled into the mirror I'd been absorbed in, critiquing my reflection. My heart raced as I dropped the old deck of cards to my feet. I gawked at the looking glass, sighting a man stooping in my threshold.

Not just any man—the king. In all his nighttime splendor, a sly smile across his weathered face.

"Father?" I shuffled around and hurried to fix my matted clump of dark hair.

In my distraction—toying with the cards while rehashing the night I'd had and eyeing my messy linens in the background—I hadn't even heard my door creak open. Nor had I noticed my father sneaking into my room. My currently very un-princely room. Pillows all over the place, women's clothes I certainly didn't want my father to see strewn about the polished wooden floors.

I couldn't be thankful enough the woman they belonged to was no longer in my bedroom.

My heart wouldn't settle in my chest and my throat constricted. He'd frightened me, more silent than one might expect for a frail, limping man.

That was too close. Why did he have to sneak up on me like that? A multitude of lengthy, massive castle corridors separated our sleeping chambers, but still, he wandered to me?

I moved away from my reflection and flurried over to my four-poster bed, trying to arrange the sheets as if they hadn't been messed around in. As if there hadn't been a deliciously plump, generously formed young maid lounging atop them minutes ago, watching me as I stood up to wrap a silk robe over my sweaty, sex-scented body—

"What are you doing here?" I pulled the fabric tighter around myself, lest my father realize I was completely naked underneath. As far as he was concerned, I still slept in full-fledged night-suits tailored to my young, princely body.

Except I wasn't that young anymore—well into my eighteenth year—and I didn't comport myself as a prince at all. Well, when he wasn't looking, at least. And that was often.

I studied my father, watching for any sign of confusion. He tended to wander at night, half-asleep, sometimes fully asleep, but he rarely made it all the way to my chambers, on the opposite side of the castle from his. And normally, he was followed by some guard or other, leaving him to his adventures whilst ensuring he was safe.

But tonight, Father was alone. He clutched a brass candleholder in one hand and gripped the edge of his majestic evening robe with his other. The thick fabric draped off his bones. He wasn't tall enough to keep the frayed ends of the robe from dusting over the marble floors.

He narrowed his gaze, but smirked at me. "I needed something to drink, and I didn't want to wake Benson. The poor thing had a handful with the new squires this afternoon."

Benson was his beloved but quite elderly butler, and Father often dodged the man's attempts to keep him in his quarters at night, instead of wandering.

I took a few steps towards him, noticing the shadows shifting over his face. He had a long day, too. All his days were long since Mother's death.

"Father," I said, as gently as possible so as not to sound condescending or rude, "the kitchens are in the opposite direction." Not that I didn't have anything to drink—I was hoarding quite a collection of wine underneath my bed—but he didn't need to know that.

I peered behind him at my opened door, showcasing the dim corridor from which he'd come. It went on for what felt like miles; I would know, as I had to walk it every morning to reach the dining room and my breakfast. Most servants didn't bring me food in my room unless absolutely necessary, as I preferred to eat at a table, not at a desk or atop my silky sheets.

And also because I had a bad habit of seducing servant-girls and enticing them into having a tumble in those sheets with me. Was I wrong to do so? Probably. But everyone dealt with grief differently, and a sweaty session of fun under the covers was my way of grieving. Father wandered, I fooled around. To each their own. It wasn't as if I forced these women to come to my bed—they practically fell into it, devoted to me and my well-being, eager to please and appease me. I wouldn't say no; I couldn't.

Where was the harm in a little fun?

Father winced, though he might have meant to smile. I often wondered if he had full control over the emotions he displayed on his face. Standing there half-garbed, his caramel tresses tangled and unfastened, without his crown and the usual array of sashes and medals...he wasn't a king. He was a man, grieving for his queen, and finding excuses to check on his only son in the middle of the night.

"I know," he said, the candlelight flickering in his hazel eyes as he moved forward a few inches. "But I saw a light, and before I could stop myself...well, here I am. Your door was ajar."

I cursed internally; had what was her name not sealed the door behind her, as I'd asked? I knew girls left in a hurry when I asked them to, so they wouldn't fall asleep in my bed, but they were usually more conscientious about their exit.

"And when I saw you holding a deck of cards...I had to warn you." He stood up as straight as his hunched back would allow. "Decks of cards and mirrors don't mix well. They trigger things...magical things..."

"Father." I rolled my eyes, bracing for his rambling about magic and curses and other worlds.

He ignored my warning tone and padded farther into the room, to lower onto my maroon bedding. The giant blanket dangled off the copper frame, and three of the six pillows were on the floor—where I'd tossed them after screaming out in pleasure from the wondrous things my last conquest had done to me with her tongue. Experienced, she'd called herself when I'd asked her what she was comfortable with. Incredible was what I'd have described her as, myself.

I'd invite her back again soon.

Several books piled at the foot of the mattress, some open, some lying upside down. These were books I shouldn't have been reading before bed, but I'd been interrupted by my guest, anyway. Which I appreciated, otherwise I'd be overwhelmed with nightmares once I finally closed my eyes.

Most nights, when I didn't have company, I spent hours diving into tales of monsters and hauntings. I read all the things my father talked about as if they were real, though I doubted they were. Listening to him speak of them was exhausting, but I quite enjoyed reading those stories. Sadly, my mind didn't react well to them, and on more than one occasion I'd woken drenched in perspiration, racing to my mirror to make sure I hadn't developed red and blue dots over my face, or that my throat hadn't been slashed by the claws of a raging beast, or my hair burned off by a dragon.

Dragons. Mermaids. Snow beasts. I'd read about them all, and while they took life on the pages of my books, I knew they weren't true creatures. Not here in our peaceful kingdom, in our lovely capital city of Springport.

"A mirror is only a way to view one's image, Father. And a deck of cards?" I huffed, plopping the pillows back into their places. "I don't see how a deck of cards could be magical." I meandered to the other side of my canopy-bed and searched for my goblet of water. "You must stop surrounding yourself with such ridiculous ideas. It's..." I almost said killing you, but knew those words would start a conversation I didn't want to have. "It's too much for you. You need to take it easy, hm?"

Father chuckled; a half-hearted sound, and not the intimidating boom of laughter it used to be. A laugh from him would have once silenced an entire room...but now it came out as more of a wheezing choke. "I'll take it easy once I die."

As I retrieved my drink, and guzzled it down, I spun on my heel to watch him. "That might happen sooner than you think if you don't heed your butler and advisor's warnings." I said this under my breath, unsure if he'd heard it. I hoped he wouldn't.

His wandering and ramblings about magic and curses had hit a hard spot within his council. Most nobles and advisors believed he was going senile, though he was barely past forty-years-old. They didn't mind his requests or take to heart whatever he said during meetings, and they didn't let him hold court as often anymore. They all attributed his troubles to Mother's death. He insisted he was fine, that he had processed what happened to her. But he wouldn't agree with the medical professionals who'd proclaimed her dead by illness. He insisted it was something else, and he would prove it.

I worried he'd die trying to prove it.

He turned his upper body to meet my gaze and patted the space beside him. "Come, Teo. Let me tell you a story."

I rolled my eyes again. King Baines' stories usually drawled on for hours, whether they were about legends and magic, or recollections from his youth. I couldn't gauge which he'd bring up this time, but at the rate our conversation was going, I'd likely see the sun rise from my balustrade.

"It's late, Father," I said, gesturing towards the door. "Would you like me to take you back to your rooms? Or I can lead you to the kitchens—" I bit my tongue, regretting offering myself up for such an extenuating trip across the castle.

"This won't take long, son. Please," he patted the spot again, "indulge in an ailing man's request, would you?"

I sighed. My entire body was ready to crumble to the floor. Every muscle ached—tonight's girl was flexible, much more than I was used to. My eyelids begged to close for a few hours before undertaking my royal tasks in the morning. If I refused, he'd use his I'm-the-king voice and pout his lips and tell me that were my mother alive, she'd have persuaded me to listen, anyway.

I'd do anything for Mother.

Keeping hold of my cup—my tongue would dry up in the hours I'd have to feign attentiveness to his tale—I trudged around the bed and dropped at his side. "Fine. What's this story?"

He'd told me so many, throughout the years. When I was younger, they were epic mysteries about other continents and kingdoms in our world, and stories of wars his own father had recited to him. But in recent times, all his tales had turned to mythical, unbelievable adventures of heroes and spells and mages. Had he read all the same books I had? Or did his imagination grow wilder as he grew older?

He cleared his throat, and a faint tobacco and liquor scent swished from his mouth. He shouldn't have been consuming either of those, yet he still did. A stubborn man, King Baines was. But he wouldn't even listen to me, his own son.

"When I was sixteen...my father told me this tale. It was one of caution; one to heed to the letter and not even think to disobey." His hand wrapped around my upper arm and he squeezed. "He made me promise."

I glanced into my cup, swirling the remaining liquid. How long would it be before I could snuggle under my covers? Pretend like my father hadn't nearly walked in on me plunging my cock into a serving girl's—

"Yes? Made you promise what, Father?" I didn't mean for my voice to show my impatience, but I was too tired to control myself. If he sensed he wasn't welcome, he'd be upset, but by morning he'd forget about it...

He squeezed harder, unoffended by my tone. "The tale...it's actually a legend, Teodric." He gulped, and his expression was serious, more so than I'd seen it in months. "A legend that says that there's a magical, cursed deck of cards, and if you shuffle it in front of an ornate mirror, you...can open a doorway between dimensions."

I scoffed. "Dimensions? Worlds, you mean?" I lifted from my mattress, unable to pretend like I could tolerate his story. It was late, I was spent, and my schedule was packed tomorrow—I needed to sleep. "Father, enough of this. I realize you and I may share a love for fantasy books, but I'm not in the mood to start another book tonight, even if you're reading it to me. I'm not a child anymore. If you want to write down the book's title for me, and I can check it out at the library tomorrow—"

King Baines shot up—surprisingly agile considering his condition—and snatched my wrist to turn me to him. "It's not from a book. It's real, son, and you need to take me seriously while I explain it to you."

"But..." I squinted at him. Light sprinkled over his blotchy but milky skin. His once velvety smooth eyes had become like ashy pits; dreary, dreadful, diminished. "Dimensions? And cursed decks of cards? Come now. How can I take that seriously? What sort of nonsense magic is that? There is no magic in Springport, Father. Nowhere in this world. And there aren't other worlds out there, either."

I hated to be so abrupt with him, but my temples ached. He shouldn't have made it this far across the castle, and I planned to speak with his guards as soon as I had a chance tomorrow.

Much rested on my shoulders, of late. I wasn't one for diplomacy, like Mother, nor did I have the same knowledge of politics my father did. But I did fulfill my duties as his son and heir, to the best of my ability.

And while my taste in books was vast and bold, my grasp of reality was, despite my young age, firm. Both my parents and tutors had taught me well, so what had happened to Father? Why was he so persistent on these fallacies, these fantasies?

"Nonsense magic, you say?" He let me go and motioned at the novels by my bed, most of which he'd recommended to me. "You read such stories, no? Why wouldn't a tiny figment of you believe them to be true? Have you no imagination, son? No sense of adventure?"

My sense of adventure was restricted to playing frowned-upon poker games in the basement with squires and cooks, and bedding serving girls after hours. Not reading silly stories and thinking there might be some truth to them.

With a groan, I stormed to my bedside table to deposit the goblet. "Enough." I dragged a hand down my face, finding I'd started sweating again. "Most of us aren't like you, convinced Mother died from some witchy curse—"

"—she did." He stomped to me, with more energy than I thought possible in his weakened state. One side of his robe slipped to the crook of his elbow. He'd lost a lot of weight; he didn't fit his regular clothes anymore. I swallowed a glob of acidic saliva at the sight of him. My father, the King of Springport, a disheveled mourning man, an exhausted monarch losing his mind. "The healers couldn't explain it, and they..." His chin quivered, which told me I'd taken it too far. I'd pushed too much.

I couldn't let Father break. He was delusional, distraught; but he was all I had left. "Come, I will take you to bed. You shouldn't be up so late, and you shouldn't be wandering alone." They know better, I almost muttered.

He didn't dispute my reaction, this time. But as I guided him into the hallway, his candle illuminating the gold molding along the walls, he seized my forearm and dug his nails through the fabric of my robe, into my skin underneath. I gritted my teeth, hissing at the pain he caused.

"Promise me, Teo. Like I promised my father, and he promised his—" He coughed, and I had to heave him up before he lost his footing.

"Father, please, you overexert yourself over nothing—"

"—please, Teo. Promise me," he whimpered.

"Promise what?" We'd only made it a quarter of the way, and already I wished I hadn't suggested accompanying him.

"Promise...that you won't go looking for the enchanted deck of cards. That you won't try to reenact the legend. No matter what you believe." He slowed his already cautious pace. "Promise."

I rubbed his back and forced a smile, filling my cheeks with air and glaring up at the ceiling plastered in floral designs that I'd memorized in all my years of roaming the halls in daylight. "Sure, Father. I promise."

♥♣♦♠