Two months earlier

Queen Reyna glided down the opulent halls of the palace, servants jumping out of her way, bowing with cries of “Your majesty!” or “Excuse me, your highness!” She paid no mind to them, intensely focused on one servant at the end of the walkway, who jumped up as she approached. “Alex!” she demanded. “Where is he?”  

“I tried,” Alex protested, palms raised. “I really did, but you know how he gets!”

“Then try harder,” the queen snapped, her harsh words echoing off the pillars and domed ceiling. “This festival only comes once every four years – he will be here, and he will be on time. Go get him!” Alex gritted his teeth and scurried away, as she barked over her shoulder, “And be quick about it!”

-

Silver curtains drifted in a warm breeze, as a prince lay half hidden under a pile of sheets, his mess of dark curls obscuring half his face as he sprawled in a king-sized bed with a half-eaten bowl of grapes by his bedside. He let out a content sigh – only for the door to slam open.

“Damian!” his servant Alex yelled. “What the hell are you doing still asleep?” He marched in and threw open the windows, letting in a bright flash of light that nearly blinded him.

Damian shielded his eyes and groaned; head still heavy from sleep. “What time is it?”

Alex stood at the foot of the bed, his fists firm on his hips. “Late enough for the queen to start yelling at me. Excuse me, ma’am? Get out!”

The closet door swung open and a half-dressed woman wrapped in a sheet stumbled out. “Oh, thank God,” she cried. “How many robes do you need?”

She pushed past Alex as Damian leaned on his bare arm. “I’ll write!” he called after her.

“Don’t bother!” she shouted back, marching out of sight as Alex returned to cleaning up the mess that had taken over the room.

Damian flopped among the pillows, staring up at the painted ceiling. “Alex, is there something wrong with me?” he sighed.

“So many things,” he clipped, gathering the fallen robes from the floor and tossing them onto the settee. “Do you need a list?” He tugged the sheet off the prince’s lanky legs, who yelped at the loss of warmth. “Now, get. Up. Have you forgotten what day it is?”

Shame flushed Damian’s cheeks. “No!”

Alex’s fists returned to his hips as he resisted a smug smile. “What day is it?”

The prince searched his room for an answer. “National…lamp day,” he offered, weakly, before gasping, “Your birthday!”

“Somehow both wrong,” his servant said, disapproval thick in his tone. “Are you drunk?”

“I’m not not drunk.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Alex complained. “You had four years to be sober this morning! Four! And you still screw it up?”

“I’ll do better next time, I promise,” he offered, finally climbing out of bed.

“You say that, and I never believe it. The day I do make sure to shoot me.”

“It’s not my job to remember these things,” Damian pointed out, perching on the edge of the bed. “It’s yours! You’re my brain.”

Alex paused, feigning a touched look, pressing a hand to his heart and leaning over the bedframe. “Am I? Am I really? You mean it?” It quickly fell and he swatted him with a towel. “GET YOUR ASS UP! Go, bathe yourself and get dressed!”

“Isn’t that your job?” the prince complained, wrapping an embroidered black bathrobe around himself.

Alex headed for the door. “Yeah, but I’m mad at you right now.”

“You’re not even going to test the water?”

“Nope.”

“Fine then, leave!” Damian yelled after him. “You know what, I’m writing a performance review right now- UNSATISFACTORY!” His servant slammed the door in his face, and the prince shook his head with a warm smile. “Love that guy.”

-

The world never seemed more alive. “Try not to wander off,” Queen Reyna’s quiet voice said by Damian’s ear, tearing his attention away from a market vendor selling elaborate pastries. Her deep purple robes billowed in the wind, a stark contrast from the sand and workers milling around them, casting dirty looks at the soldiers guarding them.  

“Stop mothering me,” Prince Damian shot back. “Need I remind you people.” He and the queen were surrounded by life, arm-in-arm in the market. The streets were crowded with people going about their lives – tailors, artists, farmers, and more importantly to Damian, street food vendors, but the air was alive with anticipation.

Queen Reyna stopped at a florist’s booth, where the woman handed her a large, elaborate arrangement of colourful flowers. “These are lovely,” she said, handing her a bag of gold. “Excellent job as always.”

“Only the finest for you, your Highness.”

Damian wandered off, in search of a bite to eat. The smell in the air was strong, flat breads, stews with chunks of meat and herbs, rice with pomegranate seeds. His night of reckless partying had left him hungrier than he realized. He darted to the nearest vendor, a man turning kebabs over an open flame. “One of those, please,” he asked him, and returned to his mother happily munching on his own skewer, who watched him dubiously.

“When you’re done eating,” she informed him. “And we can get through this ridiculous tradition, there are pressing matters to be tended to at home. Did you know Osirus had a meeting with the commanding officers today?”

Ah. His troublesome elder brother. The bringer of justice. The Iron Hand – or whatever other title the citizens of Tertius had whispered under their breaths as he passed. “And what was the decision?” Damian prompted, knowing their mother was going to tell him anyway.

“I’ll let him tell you himself,” she replied, gesturing ahead. “Once we get out of here. I can’t stand another second in all this filth.” She dusted the hem of her robe, kicking up a dirt cloud.  

“Why did you bring me here, if you hate it so much?” Damian asked, hands folded obediently behind his back, but his bright blue eyes still sparkled at everything they passed. “Surely we can abandon tradition for one year?”

“Tradition is order, Damian,” Queen Reyna replied. “You abandon one thing; you invite chaos to take root. This is good for us; the market walk is a way of keeping us humble, reminding ourselves that we are no better than the people we serve.”

Damian took another bite of his kebab. “But we are better than them.”

His mother smiled proudly at him. “Yes, yes, we are.”

They left the market behind and continued on to their home, a palace located high on a hill, overlooking the city below, but shrouded in palm trees, fountains, and greenery. An oasis in the desert. The mother and son pair strolled through the gates, nodding to the soldiers standing guard as they went.

There was a brief silence in the courtyard, and Queen Reyna glanced playfully at her son, as the faint sound of boots running grew steadily louder. “Who do you suppose that could be?”

Osirus stumbled into the yard, quickly adjusting his disheveled robes and black curls that fell to his waist. “I’m here!”

Damian crossed his thin arms, that dwarfed in size to his brother’s. “You’re late,” he informed him, finishing the last of his kebab and tossing away the stick. “And you missed the market walk. Glad to see your priorities are in order.”

“I’m sorry,” Osirus replied, holding out his palms. “I was busy.”

Unimpressed, Damian looked to their mother for a sign of disapproval but was met with nothing. He frowned. “Seriously? He misses the market walk and you’re okay with it?” He spread his arms like he was pleading his case to the court judges. “What happened to ‘tradition is order’?”

“Damian,” his mother sighed. “Your brother has a lot on his plate.”

“It’s not my fault I have more going on than you,” Osirus snapped.

“I have things going on!” Damian protested, defensive. “I was with the architects all day working on the new bath house, but I still made it to the market walk, because I care.” He added the last bit with his nose upturned.

“You work on the bath house for an hour a day, then spend the rest frolicking with Alex and buying new jewelry.”  

Damian ignored his taunts. “What news from the officers, then, if it’s so much more important?” he asked, shifting the topic, and strolling past him into the palace.

Osirus followed him inside. “We’ve decided to clamp down harder,” he announced, grimly. “Make our presence more known. The people have grown too comfortable questioning our authority.”

“Look at you, showing them who’s boss,” he mocked, shaking the sand out of his cloak.

“So, what’s your plan?” Osirus retorted. “Ask them nicely? ‘Hey, can you stop harboring witches, so they don’t get us all killed?’”

“I’d love to see you attempt that,” Damian jabbed, and his brother splashed the water from the fountain to his head.

“Boys, please,” their mother interrupted, her face tight with annoyance. “We have a festival to prepare for.”

“Are we finally going to join the fun this time?” the younger prince remarked, strolling into the main house, a sitting room situated low to the floor, complete with ornate cushions and an intricately stitched carpet. “See what the city has to offer, for once.”

“What the city has to offer?” Reyna repeated, horrifying, coming to lounge with him on the carpet. “Their celebrations are nothing more than a night of vices and drunken depravity. I hear they even have orgies in the street! We have no business associating ourselves with that.” She accepted a plate of grapes from a passing servant. “We will be celebrating here, where we belong.”

Damian began to protest, but his brother shot him a warning glance. Don’t even try it. “Fine.”

“You can make your gift even more ugly as an act of protest,” Osirus teased.

“Hey, it’s not my fault I can’t paint!”

“I expect both of you to be ready for tonight,” his mother continued, disregarding their squabbling. “And yes, Damian, you can buy a new robe, but please be timely with it.”

“I’m always timely.”

---

Damian wasn’t at all timely. He was perusing the fifth table of robes at the dressmakers in the upper town, while his servant Alex was rapidly losing his patience. “Damian, if I may…”

“What is it?” the prince prompted over his shoulder, while appraising yet another robe, this time in a light lavender, as opposed to the previous two, which were dark lavender.

“You already have several good robes at home,” Alex questioned. “Why do you need another?”

“Because why would I have several robes that are almost right, when I can have a new one that is perfect?” Alex found it difficult to argue with that kind of logic.

They returned home with baskets full of merchandise, and fifty gold coins poorer. “See to it that they’re ready for tonight, will you?” Damian instructed Alex, who was lugging the heavy baskets up the stairs.

“Will do,” he grunted, disappearing out of sight. His charge lingered in the hall, strolling toward the library. There were only a few hours left until Damian had to paint his gift, a few precious moments to spend by himself, before the celebrations would begin. He wandered past Osirus’ office, not intending to intrude until he overheard his mother inside. “How is she?” Her voice was hushed. She? Damian crept closer to the door.

“Not improving,” he heard his brother respond, pain evident in his voice over the crackling fireplace.

“I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t make any promises. He can be finicky with what he chooses to fix.” Damian had never felt more confused and continued on his way. Whatever it was, he didn’t care to know, and it could wait. Nothing was going to spoil this evening.