He smiled so sweetly, pressing the ring into my hand.

“A gift, now and forever.”

“Forever,” I agreed. A good final word to share.

Then the guards came, and together we jumped.

- Unknown date. Patricia of Shreik.

Somehow, he’d expected to be blinded by some sort of regal light emanating from the emperor’s chambers. Instead, Tristan found himself bathed in darkness. He stepped beyond the heavy doors that marked his passage into a new life. A chill soaked his skin, biting deep through the blood and muscle straight to the bone.

He did not speak. He had the presence of mind to remember the rules of the emperor’s ears. Until he was commanded, no words may leave his mouth any longer. He was to be silent, and he was to - - listen.

The doors behind him slammed shut with a thunderous crash. They seemed rather too heavy to close so swiftly, but he was more concerned about the darkness around him. He could not see. Only feel. Only listen.

“Walk forward,” a deep, commanding voice intoned. The force of those words was powerful enough to make him wonder if they were laced with magic. His feet followed the orders of the voice, while his mind steadied his heart. Only one man should be here in the dark besides Tristan, so he should have nothing to fear.

“You’re very young,” the voice remarked. Tristan bit his tongue before it betrayed him with a swift answer. Silence, he reminded himself. Listen.

“You may speak. Until I tell you to stop. I want to have a conversation,” The voice went on, “I’ve had so many ears. Between you and myself, I prefer the more interesting ones.”

All at once, sconces along the walls came to life with rich, warm light. Tristan shielded his eyes, squinting at the sudden change.

He was in a massive, elegant chamber filled to the brim with riches. Portraits of heroes and famous rulers lined the walls, painted with pigments of crushed jewels and pearls. A vast, elaborate rug stretched across the floor, covering the marble floors. The rug itself was embroidered with the scene of some ancient war long forgotten. At the far corners of the room, chests and mountains of coin were haphazardly stacked. Tristan wondered if their only purpose was to reflect the light from the sconces more attractively.

In the midst of all the riches and decadence, a large throne rested. In that throne was a man Tristan had only ever seen from great distances, parading down the main city street on a horse, or giving grand speeches from his balcony. He was twice as tall as Tristan even knew a man could be. His fingers dripped with gold, his fur-lined cloak crafted from some long extinct pure-white beast. Perhaps from the north. The man himself, in his black-silk knee-breeches, stockings, red leather boots and matching silk vest over his white tunic, was the very image of fashion and excess. The powder on his sleek blonde hair alone must have cost a fortune.

Tristan’s own wardrobe paled in comparison to even one of the emperor’s boots. His pride was mortally wounded.

“I said you may speak,” the emperor repeated himself, patience wearing thin quickly. He waved a slender hand in the air, gesturing at Tristan, “I thought I made it perfectly clear to Leopold that a mute was useless to me.”

“M-many pardons, your majesty!” Tristan hastily yelped in the smoothest squeak he could muster, bowing deeply. “I talk, I assure you. Quite a lot, if it pleases. I was simply in–” he paused, trying to find a very simple word just out of reach. He hadn’t expected to be so flustered. He’d spent his life preparing for this, and now his tongue seemed to have purchased a single passage ticket to the north. He didn’t know what to say.

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“Awe, yes,” the emperor agreed impatiently. “You are in awe, wonder, a sheer apoplexy of joy, etcetera. I am quite aware.” He looked bored. Bored! Tristan was mortified. He’d always thought himself as something of the life of the party, even if he’d never had the opportunity to go to one.

The young man was still bowing, waiting for the emperor to command him to rise. He did not.

“Your majesty,” Tristan continued, staring at the rug beneath his feet. A panicked head on a pike stared back to him, face forever frozen from what must have been a very abrupt death. Tristan hated to identify with such a picture. Yet, here he was.

“Your majesty,” he began again, “the ears must ensure that treason is never spoken twice. For the empire, root out all who dare speak against the rule of law. Friends do not exist for the emperor’s ears, for they are no longer human. These are the principles we must follow.”

The emperor leaned back, legs sprawled on his throne as he stifled a yawn, “yes,” he replied, “are you to recite your basic math charts to me next? Perhaps some sort of limerick that cleverly includes all seventy-eight characters of the imperial language? Give me some conversation, you cotton-brained child.”

Tristan hesitated, still bowing. “If that is your wish,” he replied.

“It is not!” The emperor snapped.

Would Tristan be the shortest-lived on the emperor’s ears? Leopold would scream curses up at his cage on the tower and lecture him for days until the blessed crows pecked out his eardrums. That wouldn’t do at all.

“Rise, and speak,” the emperor commanded. Tristan did so.

“Your majesty, if I may be so bold, it is difficult to hold any manner of conversation staring at the ground. Moreover, how am I to tell you something interesting if I’ve received nothing to follow?” Tristan could feel his ears heating up, and in that moment he wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball right then and there, but he pressed on, “you command me to stand here and speak with you as if I were a jester. Had I known that was my purpose, I shouldn’t have bothered to memorize the principles of the emperor’s ears or any manner of basic math. Forgive me for misunderstanding my place. I promise I shall learn to juggle knives and petticoats if that is your wish so that you may be thoroughly entertained.”

He hoped his cage had a good view of the courtyard. At least it could be a scenic death.

The emperor tapped his fingers on the right arm of his throne, a slow and almost contemplative rhythm. Judging by the look on his face at the outburst, Tristan could very confidently say that he had absolutely no idea what the man was thinking.

His smile was not a pleasant one. There was no malice or promise behind his thin lips, however. The emperor simply had a certain air about him which carried through from that smile. The air of boredom, irritation, and regal distaste for nearly anything around him that just so happened to breathe.

“So you do have a mind,” the emperor finally spoke, ceasing to tap his fingers. “Good. There will be a ball soon. Several debutantes of the high houses will be announced,” he waved his hand dismissively, “at some point they began to think their brats deserved my attention just because they’re being put on the market.”

The emperor let out a deep breath, while Tristan continued to hold his, “so, boy. I assume you’ve been schooled in dancing and etiquette?” It wasn’t really a question. Of course Tristan had. It was expected.

“Leopold did his job well,” Tristan replied. He would do his best to keep talking. False bravado was still bravado, even if he was confident he’d faint the moment he left the emperor’s meeting chamber.

“Good,” the emperor nodded. He was pleased. Perhaps. Or bored. Or considering the best form of execution to suit his mood. He wasn’t especially easy to read. When he leaned forward, casting his silhouette from the throne onto the rug below, Tristan swore he’d never seen a man so much larger than his own shadow.

“Then you’ll have your first assignment. Your wardrobe will be prepared and laid out in your new quarters the morning of. You are to be dressed and prepared before sunrise. Meet me behind the false wall near the throne room.You will have your face then,” the emperor continued, his smile unwavering, though maybe just slightly less–evil wasn’t the right word. A man could lose his head by comparing the emperor to anything of the sort, but Tristan wasn’t entirely sure he could think of what the right word really was.

“Yes,” Tristan caught himself before his thoughts could steal his tongue, “of course, your majesty.” He clicked his heels together and bowed deeply. Even more deeply than the first time when he’d made his entrance.

“Good,” the emperor said, “well, then. I’ll be looking forward to it. You changelings really are entertaining, if nothing else.”

Tristan didn’t flinch, as much as he might like to. He hated that word. Even moreso, now that he’d met the emperor. With a bitter taste in his mouth, Tristan realized all too quickly he hated this man even more.

“You may go,” the emperor dismissed him, leaning back once more on his throne. “The candles will lead you to your quarters. Wait there until you are summoned.”

Just like that, Tristan’s life truly had changed forever. Why, now, did it feel so awful?