Chapter 1: A Prologue, of a Sort
I hate portraits.
I hate having them done, I hate looking at them. I hate the people that make them.
I hate the people that want them.
Once, when I was nine years old, my Mother commissioned a portrait for me. She told me to be still for hours on end surrounded with books and small birds in cages and a sword. I patiently stood until I was allowed to leave, only to pose again the next day, dawn till dusk. And for what? For something she'll never look at? For something that I hate? I don't even know why I'm mad about it now. I'm having a bad day. I suppose that's it. I've been having bad days for four months now.
Four months ago on last Tuesday, "You will marry Princess Saoirse of Calistime. You'll be able to rule when your Mother and I are gone!" My Father was so enthusiastic, he didn't even see the sadness in my face.
"But I'm only fifteen..." I had whispered.
"Don't worry," the memory speaks, "you'll be sixteen when it takes place." My parents had been talking about my marriage for years, but I guess nothing seems a big a deal until it's right in the front of your mind and won't let you sleep.
"How is sixteen any better?" I mutter to myself. The memory is a weak one, and I don't care to reminisce over it. I stare upwards into the happy eyes of my mother, then my father's ice blue excited ones, and then into my own, one green eye, one brown. I look tired.
"My lord, your Father is waiting for you in his chambers. He says to come at once."
"What does he want now?" I wave my Father's manservant, Maguro, away and he nods, then leaves. I take one good, long look at our family up on the wall, then walk away.
Up the stairs, turn to the right, up more stairs. I walk to my bed and flop down onto it. My Father can wait for a prince till tomorrow.
Weekly Power Status
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Ranking 
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