"Are you feeling alright, my King?"

My King. Even after more than a fortnight since his coronation, the sound of those words still brought a discomfort to Aidan's ears. The sense that those words were directed to his father still lingered within his mind, and often he had to remind himself to respond to such an address. He forced himself to turn his head to his left, meeting the umber eyes of his Shield that brimmed with concern. A smile instinctively forced its way onto his face, putting a strain on his facial muscles. Aidan could feel the right corner of his lips twitch uncontrollably.

"I'm fine," he responded, using the kindest tone he could muster. It had become a default response to every question imposed upon him about his well-being. It was much easier that way; he needn't spend much effort into thinking of an answer and people seemed to take it for granted.

At least, most people did. Not Jonathan, apparently. Small crooked grooves formed in the space between the man's eyebrows.

"You need not overexert yourself, Your Grace," he spoke. A timbre of worry had snaked its way into his gentle syllables. "If you are feeling fatigued, we could stop to recuperate."

Was his white lie that obvious? Aidan was aware of the dark shadows that sagged underneath his eyes, contrasting his unusually pallid complexion to the point that Aidan could easily mistake his reflection for a sleep-deprived raccoon. The ungodly amount of responsibilities that came with the crown had overwhelmed him for the past few weeks. By that day, the young king had lost count of the amount of hours of nightly rest that had been robbed from him. He should count himself lucky, he supposed, for still being able to sit upright on his skewbald horse.

"No, that would not be necessary," Aidan answered, firmly but not without kindness. He turned his attention back towards the road in front of him. His silver-blonde hair, hastily tied into a bun at the back of his head, bobbed in rhythm with his horse's gait.

The ensuing silence gave Aidan the time to mull over his thoughts. The awkward atmosphere irked him slightly. He looked backwards to see familiar faces belonging to men clad in light mail decorated with the crest of Althewyn, but none had started a conversation with him throughout the journey. He'd ridden with these men behind him a couple of times as a prince, yet his now-elevated status made all the difference. They seldom entertained him now, instead opting to distance themselves from him out of "respect".

That so-called "respect" only served to wound Aidan more. He found it rather sad that even Sir Brendan Ahlonn, the friendliest knight in his service, had not conversed with him at all during their ride. When Aidan was still a prince and Sir Ahlonn was still serving his father Reghan, the golden-haired man had been good company in the days where his father would ask them to carry out royal duties on his behalf.

Aidan stole a glance towards the two men who were riding side-by-side at his tail. It struck him that they, too, were unfamiliar to him. Prior to his coronation, Aidan had never interacted much with both Jonathan the Hound and Daud Raine. Now, they were supposed to be his "hands"- the people he would entrust his life and his kingdom to. He did not even know them all that well, though he would certainly like to. Alas, duty had been quite oppressive towards him. He seldom received the chance to do the things he would like to do.

Jonathan the Hound was not the first bastard to become one of the king's hands, nor the first hybrid. Even Aidan's own ancestor, the first king of Althewyn, had been a hybrid of thieran and aerhyan parentage. However, Jonathan was possibly the first canid calaian hybrid to ever rise to the side of the king. It was a miracle in and of itself that this hound lord still drew breath to this very day. After all, to Aidan's knowledge, canid calaians had the repulsive custom of smothering the faces of infant hybrids until no air could enter their windpipes.

Yet by some otherworldly alignment of the stars, Sir Jonathan had somehow found his way from the deserts of the calaians all the way to Althewyn to become a lord. It was an unthinkable feat, that it almost seemed like the gods themselves might have been playing with the strings that governed the hound lord's destiny in their drollery.

Or perhaps, Jonathan had been one of those people who had the ability to liberate himself from the shackles of fate. Perhaps he had confounded the gods themselves with his very existence. Regarding this, Aidan could not say for sure. The one thing Aidan knew was that he was not one such person himself.

He was not even sure if he was a king or a slave to his kingdom. It never seemed as if he had a choice.

The thought induced a pang of envy within his heart... then, shame. Aidan swallowed in discomfort, silently chastising himself for bearing such emotions. Jonathan had not ask to be born in his circumstances- a dishonorable bastard offspring of a disreputable race- and Aidan had felt jealous of the mere fact that he was alive. It was utterly despicable of him. A bitter taste rose from the depths of his throat onto the young king's tongue.

"Your Grace." Daud's voice pulled him out of the dark, repulsive recesses of his mind. Grateful for the punctual distraction, he allowed his eyes to lock onto the shorter young man's cerulean irises. His chiseled face held not much of an expression, remaining stiffly formal like the rest of the men behind them. "We are approaching the Forest of Talking Mushrooms."

Aidan's eyebrows shot upwards at those words. "Forest of Talking Mushrooms?" he questioned. The other men in their party were also looking at Daud with bewildered expressions. Confusion was written all over Jonathan's face, whom Aidan understood had a close relationship with the Sword. He could not help but feel the slightest bit relieved that he was not the only one to have no idea on what Daud was talking about.

Daud nodded earnestly, his lips still pulled into a solemn straight line. "Have you not heard of it, Your Grace?" he asked, angling his head slightly to his right. "They say that a forest of ancient giant mushrooms with faces lies along the way. It is a much faster route to Glein, though we often opt for the detour instead."

"I- I cannot say I have, Sir Daud," Aidan answered, unsure what to make of this.

"Neither have I," Jonathan cut in. "This all sounds very interesting. Do tell us more."

"Well, legend has it that the giant mushrooms have been alive since before the World's End, somehow surviving the war the gods waged among themselves that destroyed the rest of the world," the Raine lord elaborated. "The spores from which they grew from were touched by the primordial star goddess Yildeza herself. It is believed that these mushrooms speak prophecies of the future, though in a language unfathomable to mortals."

The silver-haired king simply responded by parting his lips. He was not alone in that regard. Most of them were too flabbergasted at the fantastic revelation to speak. A forest of mushrooms that spoke prophecies? It was like something straight out of orkhus children books.

Daud drank the expressions of the people around him with his bright blue gaze. Suddenly, he let out an undignified snort. His mask of apathy came undone, falling with his head as he dropped his chin to his chest. The broad shoulders that supported his drooping neck shook with the effort of containing his mirth.

Aidan's eyelids flew wide open with realization. Air was promptly sucked into the open orifice between his lips. "Y-You... what-" he sputtered. The muscles of his lips suddenly peeled backwards in a grin, shattering his composure. "You wretched man! You were pulling our legs, were you not?"

The Sword of the King doubled over in laughter, unable to rein in his glee any longer. Jonathan gave the shorter man a hefty punch on his forearm.

"Ah, the look on your faces!" Daud howled, lifting his head upwards to meet the dumbfounded stares shot his way. A calloused hand was clasped over his mouth, muffling his words. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but I needed to see this. Now I know what Faisuri meant when she said that my face was worth a thousand golden picas."

The part-Halimunese thieran shook his head. A look of wonder crossed his face. "Forest of Talking Mushrooms, my rear! I am quite shocked to find that so many of you had believed me. I mean... really, Jonathan? You, too?"

Jonathan visibly shrank against the accusation, the furry digits of his fingers tightening their grip against the leather strap of the kite shield that symbolized his rank. His cheeks turned a rosy shade, as they always did when something embarrassed the hybrid. The hound lord put up a pretense of looking out for the downtrodden road that cut through the grassy plains.

"I feel like such a fool," Aidan had to admit. Despite feeling abashed for believing the whimsical tale of a forest of giant talking mushrooms, he felt a great weight lifted from his chest. Gone were the grim thoughts that had plagued him throughout the journey.

"Do not worry, Faisuri made an idiot out of me as well," the Raine lord reassured, modestly. "She came to me in a fit last night, talking about how I would be passing through the Forest of Talking Mushrooms next morn and asking me to record the prophecies they spoke. I actually believed her for a spell."

The king released a small chuckle from his throat. The house of Raine had never captured his attention prior to his coronation, but the past few days had made him reevaluate his opinions. Their sense of humor was quite refreshing in the mundane world of politics.

"Are all Raine ladies like Faisuri?" he inquired. A twinkle of amusement danced within his cold blue irises. The raven-haired lady had captured his attention the moment she'd stepped into his court, with her bold mannerisms that set her apart from the majority of women of her age. He certainly appreciated the way she brought life into the halls of his palace.

Daud shook his head. "Judging by the stories my lady mother Farisa had told me, Faisuri is quite the special case. I am willing to bet she is busy entertaining the fair Lady Meara at this moment, as they prepare for your wedding."

Your wedding.

It only took two words to make all the doubts and pressure come crashing down onto him like the force of a hurricane battering upon the walls of a fortress. Aidan hurriedly hid the souring of his expression from his comrades. He shut his eyes, trusting his skewbald horse to discern the route for him. The tranquil darkness served to slightly unwind the knot that was constricting his chest.

With the looming prospect of what he was about to deal with in Glein, the wedding became the least of his concerns. Still, the wedding was yet another of his obligations that Aidan did not have a say in. Thinking about it made his heart clench.

Poor Meara, he thought. Visions of her luscious brown locks, flowing past her shoulders like a chocolate waterfall, flashed before his mind's eye. He pictured the sweet dimples that formed on her rosy cheeks whenever she smiled. Echoes of her delicate laughter, like the sound of small bells, jingled within his ears. She was in this together with him, yet all he could feel when he thought of her was heartache.

The beautiful girl deserved so much better than a man who could not love her.

The king knew exactly how they appeared to the outside world, with their affectionate smiles and loving words. It was only when the eyes of the public were closed that they knew how they truly felt about each other. Often they would sit there in silence, an unseen barrier blockading both of their hearts. There was no love in this betrothal- he knew it and Meara must have known it as well. They were both merely prisoners to their fathers' will.

Aidan opened his eyes, trying to shock himself back into the reality of the world. A landscape of verdant greens repainted itself before his eyes. The ground below him was gradually descending into a slope. Bright terracotta roofs came into view, shielding rectangular buildings that were nestled at the foot of the hills. A vast stone edifice towered above the rest, its dull monochromatic colors being the odd one out among the brightly-colored rooftops. The king spied the tiny figures of civilians milling around the dusty streets, looking like a troop of ants marching down a crevice on a wall.

When they drew near the quaint municipality of Glein, a cacophony of dissent roared through the streets. The civilians were holding up planks and banners, lifting them up into the air for all to see. Aidan could see various phrases and illustrations upon them- some portraying things too profane for him to even digest. His sharp features quickly molded into an impassive mask.

At least they are not bringing torches and pitchforks, he thought without mirth, silently assessing the situation.

"OUT WITH THE COVEN!" the citizens cried, pumping their signs towards the skies. "NO WITCHCRAFT IN GLEIN! MAKE WAY FOR YHLIFA!"

Aidan paused for a moment. Craning his head backwards, he exchanged a look of apprehension with Daud. The man's sun-kissed face had contorted into a frown.

"That looks worse than I thought," he murmured, his voice nearly lost in the discord. "Are you sure about this, Your Grace?"

The king's chest expanded with an intake of breath. Letting it out slowly, Aidan straightened up. For the first time that day, he made a conscious attempt to assert his authority through his gesture. "This, Sir Daud, is exactly why I need to be here," he declared. He turned his head back towards the protesters, his mouth drawn into a thin line. "Looks like we have our work cut out for us."

With that, they rode into the middle of chaos.

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Chapter Writer: VeryBigMess

AN: I am finally free from my exams, though it has effectively killed my brain! As such, I am quite unsatisfied with this chapter >.< My sincerest apologies if it's not to your liking- I do feel like I have not done the best for this chapter. I love reading your feedback, so be sure to leave some if you have any! Thank you for reading this far into the book!