One of the large rooms of The Gilded Boar Inn was loud that night. The air was thick with the smell of sweaty bodies, ale, roasted meat, and woodsmoke.

In the center of the room, two heavy oak tables were pushed together. It was laden with plates of roasted meat, bread, greasy chicken, leftovers of a meal, bones piled on a wooden platter, rinds of hard cheese, and several pitchers of ale.

Around this table, a group of young men from the kingdom was crowded onto benches. They were the sons of wealthy merchants, major and minor officials of Lycanthria, elders in council, wealthy landowners, men with coins in their purses and time on their hands.

Some of the young men already looked drunk. Their faces were red and their movements loose. Some were laughing so loudly. Some leaned against each other as they talked. A couple of women with painted faces and low-cut dresses meant to draw attention moved among them. A few had women sitting beside them or on their laps. The women were hired companions from the inn.

One woman poured ale into a cup for a young man. One sat on the lap of a redhead, her arm draped around his neck as he whispered something in her ear that made her throw her head back and laugh. Another woman was trying to coax a shy, dimpled boy into a dance, tugging on his hand as his friends hooted encouragement. A woman was dancing slowly near the table. Her movements were meant to attract attention. She swung her hips while smiling at the young men. One of them tossed a small coin toward her.

Music played faintly from another corner where a man strummed a worn lute.

At the head of the table, slightly apart from the others, sat a young man with blonde hair, the color of straw falling loosely around his head, and sharp brown eyes that seemed to miss nothing.

His name was Scylles, Elder Toben’s only son. His tunic was of fine wool, dyed a deep blue, and a silver pin fastened his cloak at the shoulder. He watched the antics of his companions with a look of condescension, the expression of someone who knew he was better than the company he kept.

Everyone in the room knew Scylles. He was a spoilt brat accustomed to getting his way, and the others, sensing his father’s influence and wealth, generally let him have it. He carried himself with the confidence of someone who had never been told no.

Scylles leaned back in his chair, a cup of ale in his hand. He had already drunk several cups, but did not look drunk yet. A woman sat beside him with one arm around his shoulder. She laughed loudly at something he just whispered into her ears.

The red-haired man, whose name was Rathion, was telling a story about an enslaved person and a farmer’s wife that had the table in stitches.

"They were having an affair, and the farmer found out about it. He wanted to end the life of the slave, but his wife protected him. The man of the house reported the issue to the council, and the wife kept insisting she was in love. Apparently, the male slave knew how to use his cock better than his master!"

The table erupted.

Ale spilled as several of them laughed and slapped the table. Scylles allowed himself a thin smile, taking a long swallow of his ale.

"And in the end, the slave ran off with his master’s wife."

"What about the man of the house?" One of them asked.

"His beloved wife poisoned him!"

The table erupted again.

"Oh no! He should have killed them both!"

"The man of the house must have been a fool."

One of the women nearly fell from the lap she was sitting on as she laughed along with them.

The woman next to Scylles leaned in closer and whispered into his ear as her hands rubbed his thighs.

"You look bored," she said softly.

"I am not bored," Scylles replied.

"Then why do you look like that?"

He smirked but did not answer.

More ale was poured. The laughter continued. And for a while, the talk stayed light. The young men spoke about hunting trips, horses, and gambling. One bragged about winning money from a merchant earlier that week. Another claimed he had beaten three men in an arm-wrestling match at the tavern. Most of the discussion was loud and careless talk.

Someone said something funny, and they laughed hard again.

As the laughter subsided, Scylles set his cup down with a deliberate thump.

"Speaking of fools," he said, his voice cutting through the lingering chuckles. "Have any of you seen Evander lately?"

The name made a few of them pause.

"Is Prince Evander the fool?" Someone asked.

Scylles leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "I speak, of course, of our beloved Prince Evander. He’s been assigned a babysitter and can’t take a piss without two guards to hold his cock for him."

A few of the young men snickered nervously. The women, sensing a shift in the mood, paused in their performances. They all turned to look at Scylles with wary eyes.

One of the men shrugged. "I saw him riding near the market this morning."

Scylles let out a short laugh. "And how many guards were behind him?"

The man hesitated before answering. "Four, I think."

"Four," Scylles repeated with amusement. "Does he think someone is going to steal him?"

A few of the young men chuckled nervously.

"He is a prince," someone muttered.

"But he didn’t move with the guards before now." Another countered.

Scylles snorted. "That is exactly my point." He lifted his cup again and took a long drink. "I watched him once from the street; he had guards walking ahead of him and behind him. Like he was a child who might wander away, he cannot even walk through the city alone."

Some of the men laughed quietly.

Scylles adopted a high, mocking voice. "Careful, my Prince, the wind might ruffle your hair! Stay back, my Prince, a commoner might bump into you and harm you!" He laughed, a sharp, unpleasant sound. "He is a grown man, isn’t he? What is he? Nineteen? And they still lead him around by his hand like a toddling child."

He shook his head, his sharp eyes glittering with contempt. "And they call him a Prince. A prince of what? A nursery? It’s an embarrassment. My father says the Royal house is soft, that’s why the wanderers think they can get us easily."

He looked around the table, expecting easy agreement, but the laughter had died completely. The men were looking into their cups or at the table.

One of them said, "I heard he was attacked, hence the reason the heiress assigned more guards to protect him. And that is normal for the royal family."

Scylles waved his hand dismissively. "It is ridiculous. At least he was brave enough to protect himself. So why assign him, guards?"

The woman beside him laughed because he laughed. Scylles leaned back again, clearly enjoying himself.

"I cannot imagine living like that," he went on. "Everywhere you go, someone is watching you. Someone telling you where to stand and when to speak."

Scylles noticed the silence in the room.

"What?" he asked. "Are you all suddenly afraid to talk?"

"No," someone answered.

"Then why are you all quiet?"

Rathion rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, Scylles, he is the prince. And it’s not our place to say what he should or shouldn’t do." He replied, his voice a little too careful.

"It is just not wise to speak badly about the prince." Another said.

Scylla’s eyes narrowed. "Not our place? Not wise? We’re free men, aren’t we? You all act like he is sitting outside the door listening." He laughed out loud.

No one responded.

His expression turned serious all of a sudden. He stared at both men for a moment. "Or has the crown bought your tongues along with your father’s taxes?"

"It’s not about buying tongues," said a quiet voice from further down the table. It was a lean, dark-haired man named Orinthal. His father was the most famous parchment maker. He supplied parchment to royal scribes and lands beyond Lycanthria. "It’s just foolish to talk about the Prince in such a manner. Walls have ears."

Scylles scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "Ears? What ears? The ears of tapsters and whores?" He glanced at the women who now stood very still. "They’ve heard worse. It’s talk among friends."

Scylles leaned back, crossing his arms. "I hate that boy," he said plainly.

That statement made most of them exchange glances.

Scylles looked around at their faces. "What? You all love him now?"

One of the men spoke carefully. "It is not about love."

"Then what is it about?"

"It is about respect."

Scylles rolled his eyes. "He did nothing to earn respect."

"He was born into it," Orinthal answered.

"That is the problem." He tapped the table with his finger. "He was born a prince. That is the only difference between him and the rest of us."

No one argued.

Scylles kept talking. "People bow when he walks by. They move out of his way. They treat him like he is something special."

"His family rules the kingdom," Orinthal added.

"Yes. And most of our fathers help run it. Evander walks around with his guards, thinking he is important. But take away the crown, title, and he is just another boy."

That comment made a few of them exchange looks. Scylles noticed. Their silence felt like a challenge. He was used to being the center of attention, the one who dictated the conversation. Their petty fears would not silence him. He was Scylles, son of Elder Toben.