Mateo frowned, visibly confused. "If he's family of who I think he is..." he thought.
"Not as well as I'd like. And yours?"
"Pretty bad, honestly."
"Really?" Mateo asked. "That's strange. I thought you commoners only knew how to say 'Fine, thanks.'"
"Well, no. Truth is, we've had it pretty rough ever since your father..."
"Cris..." the commander murmured. "This isn't a joke. Remember what we talked about."
"It was never a joke to me," Cris spat, pausing briefly. "I think you already know the rest, don 'Mongaten,'" he said, his tone growing heavier with contempt.
"'Mountgarten,'" Mateo corrected, frowning.
"Whatever. Valorian surnames," the young man spat with a ferocity that surprised several people. "Country of fanatics."
Mateo stayed still, keeping his gaze fixed on the young soldier, who was barely older than him.
"I wouldn't want to fight you like you suggested," Cris continued. "Then they'd say it was high treason, don't you think? But since you're here, there's something I'd like to talk about."
"At least this once... I should try to do what he asked."
"I've got nothing to talk about with you. I was chatting with the commander, not you."
"I think you do," Cris went on in a low voice. "The commander and I were about to play cards. I think you should join us. I've heard gambling is your specialty."
"What the hell is wrong with this guy?"
"Although—" Cris continued "—you're royalty. What are a few coins from a soldier compared to the royal family's fortune?"
"Boys, enough... This isn't..." Patrival tried to say.
Mateo didn't even seem to think about it for a second.
"Fine, fine. I accept. Let's play."
"Excellent, 'Gambler'..." Cris concluded.
Mateo took his seat across from don Patrival and Cris. A woman approached with a tankard of beer for the prince.
"Get lost, woman. I don't drink that crap," Mateo snapped sharply as he pulled a kind of cigarette from his pocket. With the skill of an expert smoker, he lit it using a metal lighter in his free hand.
Cris watched him with barely contained disgust:
"You should show more respect. She just works here."
"Ugh, no—don't even start. I don't know what the hell is wrong with you, but don't go down that road. I can't stand women's whining or their defenders'," Mateo cut in sharply.
The waitress looked at him with unconcealed contempt.
"What?" the prince asked. "If I were just some regular customer, you'd have already dumped that tankard on me, right? Go ahead. Do it. Please."
The young woman didn't respond or obey the prince; she simply gave a small bow and tried to leave.
"Wait! I do want one," don Patrival raised his voice. "I need it now more than ever. The prince has his vices and I have mine."
"Yes... that smell..." Cris murmured. "I'd recognize that smell anywhere. The prince smoking Ferris?"
"What? Is that true?" Patrival asked, completely surprised. "I hadn't noticed. Are you smoking Ferris?"
"That's none of either of your business."
"It is for those of us stuck in here; it smells like rot," Cris added.
Mateo turned his gaze back to Cris, trying to change the subject.
"From what I've been told, your father was a great man, wasn't he, don... Dário? And an excellent soldier besides—an example to everyone, a true hero," he said, ignoring Cris's remark and putting on textbook courtesy.
"I'll drink to that," the commander said, lifting his tankard slightly in an attempt to ease the tension.
"However," the prince continued through gritted teeth, "I don't think it's right for you to use that as an excuse to talk to me like this..."
"You will not call my father a hero," Cris interrupted. "Not in my presence, and not with a name like yours."
Patrival stopped drinking, lowered his tankard, and stared at the soldier. Mateo exhaled a cloud of smoke.
"What's wrong with it?" Mateo asked calmly. "And what's wrong with my name?"
"What's wrong with it? People like you are the reason he's gone. And on top of that you call him a hero. You—and the king—call a hero someone whose family had to sell his grave because we couldn't pay the maintenance. The medals they sent to our house didn't feed us," he went on. "Well, actually they did—because we sold them too. They gave us thirty silver shields for the lot. Not much money these days."
"And exactly what part of this is my fault?" Mateo thought, glancing at don Patrival. "Intervene. Say something. Shut him up. You're his commander."
"I don't care," Mateo replied.
They stared at each other for several seconds; the few laughs that had managed to sprout died instantly.
"And no, I'm not saying it because of all that crap people wrote on the walls of the palace of Lamora. I'm saying it because I'm sure you don't think any differently," the prince said firmly as he set his cigarette in front of don Patrival.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"It's incredible I even have to explain this, but it simply wasn't my fault, and I think it's downright stupid that I should have to explain it. I didn't send any man anywhere; I was five years old. I only know stories, but you commoners love inventing your own."
"'It wasn't my fault,' you say?! You call me a commoner?"
"I call you what you are: an ignorant commoner like all the rest."
"How can you say that in front of your own men?!" Cris shouted. "We all swore our lives to the crown!"
"I. Don't. Care," Mateo insisted. "What part don't you understand? Are you waiting for an apology?"
"Yes, of course I am," Cris affirmed. "If not for me, then for your family that dragged us into a senseless conflict..."
"I won't do it." Mateo leaned back in his chair.
Cris looked at the prince with an expression of disdain and arrogance.
"No, this is wrong—it's the complete opposite of what..."
"Ugh, you know what? Losing someone in the family... Fine..." Mateo murmured, resigned, quickly straightening up in his seat. "Look, I know all this is shit. I guess you're like me, and I understand you're angry. I've been in that place too..."
Cris shot to his feet.
"What? What do you understand?! How can you talk about understanding if you've never... Have you ever been burned from head to toe to know what it's like?!"
"Watch your tongue, boy," the commander ordered. "Go to bed, that's an—"
"No, it never happened to me," Mateo said with glacial calm, as if he hadn't heard Patrival. "But if you interrupt me again, I promise you'll find out. And this time it won't be the Kaohrians who help you learn it. Are you playing or not?"
They stared each other down for several seconds; the prince didn't stand, he remained motionless. Cris clenched his fist hard with rage.
"I'll deal the cards, okay? Let's cool it down," Patrival murmured, resigned.
"Too late, Commander."
The dining hall was in absolute silence.
"I'll apologize, soldier," Mateo muttered reluctantly. "But in the name of the king—not mine."
"Don't call me soldier, Your Majesty. Call me by my name," Cris interrupted. "Soldier Crosswell. Or does it scare you that much to say it?"
The silence grew even heavier.
"I'll do it when you stop calling me prince and 'Your Majesty,' soldier."
Cris stayed silent. Don Patrival didn't hear and began shuffling:
"And does His Highness come here often?" he asked, trying to steer the conversation back.
Mateo didn't answer immediately; he took a moment to breathe, then finally let out a long sigh.
"Yes... I actually come here all the time. That's why they already know me. I need a break from the silence and the smell of palace air fresheners," he admitted. "Other times I just need to clear my head, get away from the world."
"Really?" Patrival asked. "I wish I could just leave everything and travel."
"Maybe it's about time."
Mateo said nothing; he lifted the Ferris cigarette in front of him as his answer.
"Though I still haven't gotten used to the smell."
"Vega de Tréboles smells like that all the time; I've got it so normalized I didn't even notice what it was, ha ha," Patrival laughed. "Is that why the king fills the palace with air fresheners?"
"My father knows, and he doesn't care. I like to think he knows I'll be fine—even if that's very naive of me. I don't usually bring these things to the palace, that's why I come here."
"And... your brothers? How are they doing?"
"Mordred's busy, as always. I barely see him, though right now he's in Tierrasagrada; he went to see the 'Jousts for Glory' instead of my father."
"He really went all the way to Tierrasagrada?" don Patrival asked. "How could the king not attend such an important event? And why send him instead of you to handle something like that?"
Mateo lowered his gaze to the table.
"I guess silence is an answer too," Patrival added.
Cris slammed the table so hard he spilled the commander's tankard of beer.
"I can't believe you're sitting here talking in front of me like nothing about that damn 'moro.'"
Mateo's head snapped up almost instantly; the Ferris was finally kicking in—he was starting to stop thinking.
"I suggest you obey your commander, soldier..." he warned unexpectedly, visibly irritated.
Cris held back; he knew exactly what he was facing: someone running on pure instinct.
Mateo turned his gaze back to Patrival:
"To be fair to him, my father doesn't think the outcome of the jousts is more important than my wedding. Anyway, he'll congratulate him in..."
"Oh, right! I'd completely forgotten; it's been so long since they announced it—more than a year, hasn't it?"
"Yeah... It's in two weeks..."
"Many congratulations!" the commander exclaimed, noticing he was the only one happy about the event. Mateo smiled, more at the commander's enthusiasm than at the event itself. "Who's the lucky one?"
"You? Getting married?" Cris interrupted. "Doesn't surprise me you think the way you do; that's what disgusts me most. You people don't know what love is; you just arrange marriages for convenience."
"Enough, Cris..." Patrival tried to say.
"What are you talking about?" the prince asked indignantly. "I don't even know who she is. My father summoned all the eligible women in the kingdom—and foreigners too—for me to choose one."
"Even worse. More horrible than I could have imagined."
"Cris..." Patrival sighed.
"Another fancy ring more expensive than all our salaries combined would suit you just fine," Cris continued. "A new one next to the silver one and the other of... bronze?"
Patrival glanced at Mateo's hands.
"Bronze? But you're the second son."
"From my brother... I have both," the prince explained. "My aunt Marián kept the gold one after what happened with Marcos; the silver one is mine, and Mordred entrusted his to me."
"Why?" Cris asked. "Doesn't it fit his hand anymore?"
"Ugh, why so interested in the rings?" Mateo asked irritably. "You want them? Here, I'll bet them—if you win the game, they're yours."
Mateo removed the bronze ring and tossed it onto the table.
"Of course I accept your bet, Prince," Cris exclaimed confidently. "Of course I know your brother; I know everything about him."
"Impossible," the prince replied. "I very much doubt he wastes time on an ill-mannered commoner like you."
Cris let out a smile:
"You know what? People had forgotten who sits on the throne in the capital until the problems started. The younger ones didn't even know his name; we just saw his army marching back and forth," he continued. "Though, well, they all have names starting with 'M'; it's hard to remember them all."
"I've never heard that comment before," Mateo replied sarcastically, picking up the Ferris again with his fingers. "You must feel like the best comedian who ever set foot in Vega de Tréboles."
"Ah, but now everyone knows who wipes your asses every day. Everyone wants to know who let the savages burn their homes."
Mateo raised his eyebrows and narrowed his eyes.
"Maybe the king doesn't care that much for his heir after all; Mordred's in Tierrasagrada," Cris went on.
"Ignore him, Prince, please—here," don Patrival pushed the deck of cards toward Mateo, trying to get his attention. "Please, cut the deck."
"Soldier," the prince ignored the commander. "You're pissing on my leg and trying to convince me it's raining. If you keep going down that path, it won't end well for you."
Cris stayed silent while the prince looked at the deck. Finally, he exhaled a cloud of smoke and lifted his gaze, flicking ash from his cigarette as he studied the pile of cards in front of him, thoughtful.
"Mordred is my blood, my family, but he has his place at court, don 'Cristóbal Crosswell,' and my younger brother Melric is just an unbearable kid. People expect me to take Marcos's place; however, I forge my own path in the world," Mateo explained in a low voice.
"What do you mean, Your Majesty?" Patrival asked.
"The paths we walk, Commander—the paths that shape us. My road takes me far from the capital, but that doesn't make it any less important," the prince concluded.
Cris let out a smile.
"Really? What's with this ridiculous reflection about paths? Is that the prince's way of saying he doesn't care about the duties that fall to him?"
"My brother is better suited to handle those matters," Mateo admitted impatiently.
"Your younger brother is better suited than you? Tell me—did Mordred agree to handle those matters? Or did you just leave him to deal with duties that are yours? After Marcos's death, I thought the next in line was you."
"You will not mention that name in front of me again," the prince's gaze changed; Patrival had never seen him like this. "But yes, I'm here because I was given a different task."
"Oh, of course; I can just imagine how important this task you mention is—that you're here instead of organizing your own wedding or attending the appointment of the second most important person in the country. In the end, it's all politics—politics that we down here end up paying for. Someday that's going to change: you're nothing without us, and that savage you call brother parades around the whole country."
The dining hall began filling with soldiers in pajamas, woken by the commotion of the argument.
Patrival saw Lieutenant Sevén looking toward him, waiting for orders, but he only shook his head.
"Did he panic?" the prince thought.
Mateo watched his opponent for several seconds.
"Be very careful, Crosswell... This is your last warning. Do you really think this is going to be about politics? You're in the wrong place."
"I'm just telling you things to your face; no one else will. That's what you wanted, isn't it? To be treated the way you deserve."
Mateo glanced sideways at Patrival, who seemed to be hyperventilating, frozen like a rock:
"Commander Cervantes," the prince sighed as he picked up the bronze ring from the table and swapped it for the silver one. "It was pleasant sharing this chat with you; however, I have things to do," Prince Mateo concluded as he stood and began to leave.
Don Patrival looked up; he was bewildered by the prince's sudden decision.
"May the eye of the Creator be with you," the commander replied, hesitant and with trembling hands.
Cris, who looked perplexed, stood up.
"What is this? The prince running away? You owe me your brother's ring! Not this one!" he shouted impatiently.
"Don't get involved," Patrival almost whispered. "You've already said what you had to say."
"Ha, now I understand everything; that explains why the king prefers Mordred," Cris raised his voice.
Immediately, Cris grabbed the silver ring the prince had left him and threw it to the floor near his path to the exit.
"Cris! I said enough!" the old man pleaded.
"That Prince Mateo is a damn coward addicted to Ferris and gambling explains why the king would prefer a simple bastard over his own heir."
Mateo spun toward Cris quickly.
"My father died defending the Mountgartens," he continued. "And here you are, staining the dignity of the one you're so proud of. The Kaohrians are nothing but disgusting barbarians who destroy everything in their path. How can you call one family?"
Mateo said nothing, provoking a laugh from Cris at his passivity.
"You and your family will remember what you did," he affirmed, pointing at the prince. "People are starting to wake up. Your brother was just the first! And when that happens, the 'moro' will be someone's slave somewhere—like any other filthy black Kaohrian!"
Mateo didn't respond. He just looked at him with an empty, dull expression. As if something inside him had switched off.
And then he lunged.
He crossed the table in an instant.
It was so fast that few even reacted. The bench toppled backward and the sound of wood echoed through the place; the table scraped with a screech as the prince's body crashed into Cris. In a blink, he had him on the ground. Mateo's fists descended with savage fury. There were no screams, only the raw sound of blows: flesh against bone, bone against bone.
The only sound was a hoarse, almost animal groan that no one heard amid the shouts.
The soldiers reacted immediately: they threw tankards, shoved benches aside, rushed toward the center of the hall.
Patrival remained motionless, trembling in every limb.
"Hold him!" one shouted. "He's going to kill him!"
Two huge soldiers threw themselves on the prince, trying to pin his shoulders. But it was useless. Mateo seemed immovable, as if another, larger, more violent man had taken over his body. His weight was enormous.
"Bastard prince!" one roared. "What the hell are you doing?! Stop, you damn sicko!"
The commotion in the establishment was deafening, broken only by the rhythmic echo of the blows.
Patrival, gasping incessantly, finally reacted; he threw himself on the prince too. He wrapped an arm around his neck, pulling backward with all his strength.
"Dário! For heaven's sake, stop! STOP!!" he shouted, to the confused stares of his men.
Cris struggled underneath—or tried to. He raised one arm, then the other, kicked blindly. But every blow sank him deeper. His nose exploded. A cheekbone cracked. Blood poured from his mouth, mixed with broken teeth. He tried to scream, but only a red-tinged spray of saliva came out. Mateo growled, hunched over Cris like an animal. His eyes weren't a man's anymore. He saw and heard no one.
In the complete chaos, Cris grabbed the firearm from don Patrival's waist and instinctively fired at the prince through his waist protector.
The prince reacted; his fists paused for an instant in the air, twisting in pain as he was shoved backward by the men trying to separate him from Cris. Quickly, the dining hall filled with poorly dressed soldiers who had just woken up.
"He's not breathing!" one soldier shouted, face contorted.
"Someone get the damn medic!"
Two soldiers easily subdued him, holding him immobile on the floor. Mateo stared at his hands—drenched in blood—with a completely lost and worried look. Cris lay on the ground, partially disfigured. His chest rose and fell with difficulty. The commander knelt beside him, cradled his head, trying to wipe the blood with his sleeve. His voice trembled.
"Hold on... please... Don't leave me alone."
Mateo said nothing. He looked at no one. He didn't even seem to understand where he was.
"W-What...?" he thought, coming back to himself.
"Is that our prince?!" one soldier spat, not bothering to lower his voice. "Not even an animal behaves like that."
Don Patrival turned with disdain. His eyes were full of tears.
"Someone take him to Julian!" Sevén ordered, raising his voice.
"Who do we take first?" the soldiers asked in unison.
"I... did this?" Mateo stared closely at his hands. They were red, fused, burning.
The soldiers watched their commander attentively.
Patrival was still trembling; he couldn't help but panic.
In the commander's silence, Sevén took charge.
"Take both to the camp; the prince first. You—wake Julian immediately so he can treat them."
Patrival didn't nod; he didn't take his eyes off Cris, seeing not the face of his subordinate but that of his own blood-soaked commander. The soldier who had intervened helped him sit and stood beside him.
"Easy, sir. Please don't worry; he'll be fine."
Patrival didn't answer.
Mateo watched the scene in silence.
"How could I...?" he murmured to himself, writhing in pain.
"The kid will be fine, I can feel it. Tell Julian to put the cuffs on him before he wakes up," Sevén ordered, standing with a firm, clear voice.
Silence took over the hall. The soldiers hesitated a moment, then finally obeyed.
"We'll take him before the king," Sevén said. "His father must know what his glorious heir has done. As soon as they can move, we march to the capital."
Don Patrival looked at him. His voice sounded cold, pained.
"All of this... is my fault... I let it happen... Again."
The old man broke into sobs.
"I... I'm sor..."
"I'm sorry, Commander... really..." Mateo whispered as the soldiers lifted him from the floor.
"Quiet," Sevén replied with a voice of steel. "The person who deserves your apology can't hear you."
Patrival, on his knees, unable to breathe and in tears, leaned against Cris's chest in exhaustion.
Mateo's face was completely white and he began to hyperventilate hard; the last thing he saw was the image of the inn slamming shut, the air no longer finding its place in a chest full of guilt.
And everything went black.