I strolled through the manor like I owned the place.
And honestly? I kind of did. I slept in a giant room. Ate whatever I wanted without anyone saying anything. Wore silk and gold if I felt like it. Sure, I didn't have any real authority - not yet - but in my mind, that still counted for something.
I was the son of the Drakenthorn, whoever that was.
Unfortunately, the world had other opinions.
I turned a wide corner, still licking a smear of jam off my fingers from my little kitchen raid, only to stop dead.
Three figures blocked the hallway.
Guards.
Not the elite kind with polished armour and intimidating presence. No, these guys looked like they'd been rejected from three different comedy plays and decided to start their own tragedy.
The first was short and round, like someone had shoved a pig into a breastplate. His legs barely fit into his greaves, and his neck had surrendered years ago.
The second was so average he practically disappeared from memory the moment I looked away - medium height, forgettable face, the charisma of a boiled potato.
And the third… tall, skinny, and built like a walking coat rack. His nose jutted out like a sword that had lost its edge, and his arms looked like they'd snap in a strong breeze.
They wore a full set of standard Drakenthorn guard armour, which didn't seem very functional. Their armour also didn't have a single scuff or dent, which was telling. They had swords on one hip and satchels on the other.
I assumed they were on some sort of patrol within the manor, but it seemed like they were lurking for entertainment.
Either way, I didn't flinch. But I couldn't ignore the sudden drop in my gut, like my body still carried the emotions of the previous Ashen.
'They look ridiculous… so why do I feel like this is about to go badly?'
Most servants either avoided eye contact, bowed like I was contagious, or outright fled when I walked by. But these guys? They walked straight up.
No fear. No hesitation.
Just the kind of cold, amused eyes you usually see before someone shoves past you.
'Yeah, that's not a good sign.'
Still, I didn't back down. Straightened my spine. Lifted my chin. Gave them my best impression of a stuck-up, lazy noble brat.
I didn't stop walking until they physically blocked my path.
"What are you doing out here?" the short, round one grunted, squinting like I was something stuck to his boot. "You never leave your room."
"And last night when you did…" the lanky one added with a smirk.
"You got tossed around by Lord Auren like a ragdoll!" the forgettable one finished, snickering with the others.
I blinked at them as they laughed, their voices thick with mockery.
"Because you lost your fiancée, right? Poor little prince," the fat one sneered, bumping my shoulder like we were old drinking buddies. "Didn't you say she's a 'disloyal wench'? That's bold talk for someone who can't even swing a sword."
"A disgrace to the Drakenthorn name," the tall one added, giving me a theatrical bow.
I didn't say anything.
Not out of fear. I was just… processing.
Because something didn't add up.
'Why are they so comfortable saying this to a prince? They don't look like nobles. Not even high officers. Just common grunts in armor.'
They weren't even worth wasting a King's Eye use on - I was saving them for two key figures later today.
But before I could dig too deep into that thought, Mr Average stepped forward, arms crossed.
"Your status means nothing to us. Every Thorn has to earn their place. Your father made that clear. You might scare the servants around here, but we actually fight for this kingdom."
"To the King," the fat one chimed in with a mocking grin, "soldiers matter more than his own blood."
'Wow. Dear old Dad sounds like a real sweetheart.'
I didn't know if any of that was true yet, but one thing was obvious - they didn't respect or fear me. Not even a little.
So I called their bluff.
"At the end of the day," I said, calm and sharp, "you serve me, fuckers. Now get out of my way. I've got places to be."
There was a beat of silence.
Then they burst out laughing.
Loud barking laughter that echoed off the marble walls.
"Oh, that's rich!"
"I think Lord Auren's beating last night knocked some screws loose."
"Maybe he needs a few more dents in that empty head."
Their tone shifted. Amusement turned to menace. One of them cracked his knuckles. The others started stepping forward.
My body tensed instinctively.
I wasn't a fighter. I'd be lucky to win a pillow fight against an eight-year-old with asthma, especially in this body. Against three trained guards, even discount ones? I didn't stand a chance.
'Zeyra, where are you when I need you…?'
Thinking fast, I threw up my hands.
"Wait!"
They stopped - not because they were scared, but because they were curious and mildly amused.
I gave them a faint smirk. Just enough to look confident. Hopefully not enough to get my teeth knocked out.
"Let's take this outside."
The lanky one raised a brow. "You serious?"
I shrugged. "If you're gonna beat me up, might as well do it where people can see. That way, when I'm face-down in the dirt, it'll be more satisfying for you, right?"
That struck a chord.
They exchanged glances, then nodded, grins spreading across their faces.
"Fine. Let's make it a show."
Great.
I had no illusions about winning, but maybe someone important would see.
Maybe Zeyra would sense I was about to be beaten to a pulp and intervene.
Maybe the chaos of a public brawl would let me twist the situation in my favour.
It wasn't a plan.
It was desperation wrapped in sarcasm and tied with a bow of fake confidence.
But it was the best I had.
'This better work.... I really can't handle any more pain than I'm already in.'