When the doors of Princess Belara’s chamber closed behind him, Malgorn stopped for a moment. The corridor was silent, only distant footsteps of guards echoed through the halls. He ran a hand across his face, as if trying to wipe away the weight of that conversation. Opening himself like that hadn’t been easy. He never thought he’d manage it. Yet here he was.

  The prince was starting to realize that the entire Tournament of Tal Namaréa was slowly changing him. Or was it Belara herself? Hard to say. She was still practically a child, and yet her presence could shift a man like him. He knew he would return home a different person. The thought both scared and thrilled him.

  Brrrr. Malgorn shuddered. Horrible feelings. He shook his head, as if to shake them loose, and walked on.

  He made his way down the corridor toward the grand staircase. The palace of Ghurmaca was the very opposite of his home in Zerboras. Here, light and gold overflowed. Ornamental flourishes everywhere, pomp at every turn. Still, Malgorn had to admit—Dusughbarah had earned its splendor. Thanks to its monopoly on Tishilka, the kingdom had prospered for generations. For all its small size, it was one of the richest realms in Purmot.

  The people of Dusughbarah loved surrounding themselves with beauty. Fragile, frivolous beauty that seemed weak to Malgorn. He imagined how these marble walls would look after a real battle—scorched, smeared with blood. He almost smiled. Maybe he’d like them better that way. They would look more honest, marked by life.

  His homeland was harsh, bare, but solid. No excess, just stone built for defense. In Ghurmaca, they seemed to believe that display was strength. Maybe they were just trying to convince themselves.

  He was crossing into a vast pillared hall when voices reached him. Angry, loud. He couldn’t make out the words. Then the crash of something metallic on the floor, a rolling sound, a whimper, followed by mocking laughter.

  Malgorn quickened his step. Something was wrong. And he was right.

  In the corner of the hall, a young servant was pressed against the wall. A tray of fruit lay overturned on the ground. Apples, pears, oranges, peaches, grapes—all scattered like grain from a torn sack.

  Two older servants—both bigger, both brimming with smug confidence—took turns shoving and slapping him. One leaned close and hissed into his ear:

  “Think delivering a tray to the princess makes you someone special? Idiot. You’re nothing. You’ll always be the pig-herder you were back in the village. I don’t even know why they let you in here. You still reek of pigs. Pig you are, pig you’ll stay.” The bully spat on the floor in disgust.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The boy stayed silent. His lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes fixed on the ground. But his body trembled—whether from fear or anger, Malgorn couldn’t tell. Probably both.

  Malgorn slipped partly behind a column and watched. He’d seen this before. The weak crushed by the strong. That was the world. The natural order. His father would have told him never to interfere—that the strong must learn to rule and the weak must endure. But Malgorn was not his father.

  “Go on,” his voice cut through the hall like a blade of iron.

  All three turned. The older servants froze. One tried to straighten up and bow. The other stammered.

  “Sir… we were only—”

  “I said, go on.” Malgorn didn’t raise his voice. There wasn’t much anger in it either. Just a simple, direct command.

  The two exchanged nervous glances. Was he mocking them? Testing them?

  Malgorn stepped out from behind the column and advanced. The faint clink of his light armor echoed with every move. He stopped right before them. Their unease was palpable, hanging in the air like the smell of sweat.

  “You two are wolves,” he said slowly. “And him”—he pointed at the servant pressed against the wall—“he’s a sheep. That’s how the world works. But you know what stupid wolves forget?”

  No one dared answer.

  “Stupid wolves forget bigger predators exist. Bears. Tigers. What do you think happens when a big bear traps two foolish wolves?”

  “Well? I’m asking you!” He jerked forward, feinting as if he was about to strike. He didn’t. He only wanted to make them flinch. And they did—both recoiled, eyes wide with fear.

  “The bear is waiting for the wolves’ answer.” His voice was cold, timeless.

  “What was… the question again?” one whispered.

  Malgorn smiled. “Exactly. A stupid wolf. Can’t even remember the question.”

  The other finally spoke. “I think… two such wolves don’t stand a chance of surviving.”

  “Correct, little wolf.” Malgorn straightened, his silhouette in the dim light resembling a looming bear.

  “You’re lucky I’m not in the mood to waste time. Your punishment will be quick, then you can go.”

  “What punishment?” asked the braver one.

  “Slap your friend. Hard. And if I think you’re holding back, I’ll hit you myself.”

  The servant didn’t hesitate long. He smacked his companion so hard the man almost fell. When he got back up, his cheek was red, a faint imprint of fingers glowing on his skin.

  “Nice,” the prince said approvingly. “Now you.”

  The other one, still clutching his stinging face, didn’t hesitate either. He swung and delivered an equally brutal slap that nearly dropped his friend to the floor.

  “That one was better,” Malgorn judged dryly. “But you both passed. Now go. And don’t let me see this again.”

  The bullies bolted from the hall.

  Malgorn turned to the boy still standing by the wall. “You alright, sheep?”

  “Yes, Lord Bear,” the servant blurted, eyes downcast.

  “I’m no bear. Listen—” Malgorn met his gaze. “Remember this.

  “You’re not a sheep just because someone beats you. You’re a sheep if you let it stand. One day you’ll fight back, and then you’ll be a ram. And a ram has horns. Even two wolves will think twice before crossing one.”

  “But the first time you resist won’t be easy. If you fight, though, they’ll stop. Wolves don’t waste time on rams—they’ll just find another sheep.”

  “So next time someone comes at you, remember: sheep or ram. Your choice.”

  The boy nodded uncertainly. “Alright.”

  Malgorn said nothing more. He simply walked past the servant and out of the pillared hall.