The carriage, surrounded by the metal knights of your kingdom, led you into the prosperous city of Tulum. And for once, as an exiled, with blood splattered on your name, and as the child of a shameful king, who was disenchanting in defense, a sense of displacement—somewhat helter-skelter kind of air—seeped into your mind. You did not belong here; you were a piece unfitted in this puzzle, this kingdom. Home, you begged for on the ride, yet it was futile. Your own mother did not accompany you on the way to your new home. (Perhaps, it could be considered a jail, too.)

Murderer, they called you. Murderer. Only a night ago you played with the other children in the enclosed garden. Your mother had left you to play marbles with the tradesmen's young son. He was rude, aghastly different from you. In his hands was a knife. He did not want to play with your nice white marbles; he wanted to play being a hunter, and you the animal. Afraid, you backed into a corner.

The precipitous situation ended fast. The blade, instead of in your flesh, playing the part of animal, was in his. A maid soon caught you, her hands in a frenzy, and screamed. With the best intentions, from of their choice (in your eyes, an appalling one), you were sent to Tulum, home of the exiled princes and princesses. Not even your parents wanted you. Your sisters could take that golden crown—you were the heir to the throne, until that incident—and now you were in foreign land.

Tulum guards threw you in the palace fast. Your bedroom became made up of others, those who were exiled as well (though, for less horrific reasons). There was no chance to assimilate before you found yourself at the dining hall, with the rest of the boys and girls. You did not want to eat.

"You are not eating?"

A voice whispered diagonal to you, at the end of the table. It was the crown prince of Tulum—not exiled like you. An actual prince. A warrior. You learned his name was Soterios from rumors. Prince Soterios. So, your eyes stayed down.