Alistair's dark and brooding eyes remain forward, his gloved hands folded over his long and lean legs as he sat proper in his chair. The picture of sophistication, a regal elegance to his pallor skin and long raven hair. A beautiful enigma, silent and cunning.

Yet Alistair's reputation proceeds him. How the nobles and peasantry alike whisper of his name next to such words as "ruthless" and "cruel," earning him the title of The Prince of Malice. He had no heart to care.

It did not matter- the attempts at flattery, the privilege of his royalty or the wealth he had. All tools in a vapid game that Alistair would not play. He hated it all and would not be so shy to conceal it.