The Prince and the Sorcerer - 1. Chapter 1

The highest tower of the dread fortress of Mór-Ríoghain was currently a disaster of crushed taffeta, spilled lavender perfume, and unbridled entitlement. Princess Geneviève, a young woman whose diamond-encrusted tiara sat slightly askew from the sheer, exhausting effort of being put out, was directing a harried goblin servant with the imperiousness of a military general commanding a siege.

“No, no, the emerald traveling cloak, you absolute imbecile!” she shrieked, her voice echoing painfully off the ancient, rune-carved stone walls. “The one with the winter-ermine trim. Do I look like the sort of peasant who travels to her grand, romantic rescue in last season’s sapphire? Honestly, the complete and utter lack of standards in this dungeon is appalling. It is a dungeon, not a charity shop!”

The servant, a stooped, warty creature named Thierry, let out a long-suffering sigh that sounded remarkably like a deflating bellows. He scuttled off toward a precarious mountain of heavy leather trunks, dragging his clawed feet against the cold flagstones to retrieve the correct garment.

Geneviève huffed, blowing a stray blonde curl out of her face, and turned her attention to the other occupant of the sprawling circular room. A magnificent, obsidian-scaled dragon was currently trying to nap on a pile of plundered gold that was, frankly, far too small for a creature of his dignity.

“And you,” she sniffed, pointing a fiercely manicured, bejeweled finger at the dragon, whose name was Ignis. “You’re supposed to be a creature of pure, unadulterated nightmare. You are currently acting like a large, scaly footstool. Could you at least try to look menacing when the knight finally gets here? A little sulfurous smoke? A tiny, bone-chilling growl? It’s for the aesthetic! The bards will sing of this day, and I refuse to be rescued from a monster who looks like he’s waiting for a belly rub.”

Ignis cracked one enormous, molten-gold eye open, the pupil narrowing into a vertical slit of pure annoyance. He regarded the princess with a look of profound, centuries-old weariness. He had seen heroes, villains, damsels, warlords, and fools in his three hundred years of life. This one was a very special, very exhausting kind of fool. She was a fool with a terribly loud voice, a complete lack of self-awareness, and a dreadfully poor grasp of the dramatic arts.

He gave a low, rumbling vibration deep within his massive chest. It was not a growl. It was more the sound of a subterranean tectonic plate shifting in sheer disappointment.

Geneviève, naturally, didn’t notice. She was too busy checking the reflection of her cheekbones in the polished surface of his impenetrable black scales.

“Honestly,” she muttered, fussing with the lace at her collar. “The evil sorcerer has much better taste in interior decor than he does in prisoners. The mauve velvet curtains are simply divine. They really pop against the oppressive gothic gloom.”

From the grand, jagged obsidian throne elevated at the far end of the chamber, Prince Cormac, the much-feared and so-called “Evil Sorcerer,” violently pinched the bridge of his nose. He was undeniably handsome in a sharp, angular way, with piercing eyes the color of dark amethysts, a strong jawline, and a deep, abiding penchant for impeccably tailored velvet robes.

He had spent the last three hours attempting to read a rather dense, highly technical tome on interdimensional gardening—specifically, the cultivation of aggressive, flesh-eating hydrangeas—but the princess’s relentless, high-pitched monologue had effectively butchered his concentration.

“The curtains are enchanted to weep the agonizing tears of my fallen enemies,” Cormac said, his voice a silken, dangerous drawl that usually made mortals tremble in their boots. “It’s a mood.”

“Well, it’s a fabulous mood,” Geneviève shot back without missing a beat, completely immune to his dark charisma. “Very gothic chic. It brings out my eyes. Now, about my ransom—because we must discuss terms before this knight arrives. I expect no less than three chests of uncirculated gold, a lifetime supply of rose-scented bath oils, and the dragon. I want the dragon. He’ll make a fantastic centerpiece for the royal courtyard.”

Ignis snorted. A sudden puff of acrid, gray smoke shot from his nostrils and directly singed the hem of Geneviève’s sapphire cloak—the exact one Thierry the goblin had just dragged back across the floor.

The dragon slowly shifted his massive, spiked head to look at Cormac. He gave a slow, deliberate blink. It was the draconic equivalent of an eye-roll so powerful it could have leveled a small village. This one, the gesture seemed to loudly communicate to the sorcerer, is entirely beneath you. You can do better. We can do better. Please, for the love of the old gods, let me eat her.

Before Cormac could formulate a response that involved politely declining the dragon’s request for a quick snack, a sudden sound echoed from the desolate courtyard far below.

It was a fanfare. Or, at least, it was attempting to be a fanfare. It was slightly off-key, breathy, and sounded suspiciously like it was being played on a dented tin kazoo by a squire who had asthma, but it was a fanfare nonetheless. A split second later, a booming, hyper-masculine, incredibly self-assured voice echoed all the way up the sheer stone walls and through the iron-wrought tower window.

“FEAR NOT, FAIR AND CAPTIVATING BEAUTY! I, SIR MATEO OF THE SHINING HILLS, HAVE COME TO VANQUISH THE OPPRESSIVE DARKNESS AND CLAIM YOUR HEART!”

Geneviève shrieked with delight, aggressively clapping her hands together. “Finally! Some actual competence! It’s about time!” She turned and violently shoved Thierry aside, nearly sending the poor goblin tumbling into a braziers. “Get my luggage! Pack the taffeta! And be careful with the hat box, you brute, it’s imported!”

Cormac let out a heavy sigh, closing his gardening tome with a resounding thud. He rose gracefully from his throne, his heavy black velvet robes swirling around his tall frame like shadows coming to life. He elegantly cracked his knuckles, and a faint, dangerous, purple nimbus of arcane energy began to dance and crackle around his fingertips.

“Showtime,” Cormac muttered to Ignis, his amethyst eyes flashing with practiced malice.

The heavy oak doors of the tower room did not just open; they were kicked inward with such spectacular, dramatic force that they splintered off their iron hinges and crashed onto the flagstones.

Through the dust and debris stepped Sir Mateo. The knight was so absurdly immaculate that his armor seemed to have been hand-polished by a team of obsessive fairies. He had a heroic, perfectly square jaw, a thick mane of blonde hair that fell perfectly across a brow furrowed with manly purpose, and a broad chest puffed out in sheer defiance of evil. His gleaming broadsword was held aloft in a striking position that was clearly, entirely designed to catch the ambient dramatic lighting of the torches.

“I am Sir Mateo!” he announced, his rich, baritone voice bouncing off the ancient walls and rattling the enchanted, weeping curtains. “I am here to win the hand of the love of my life! I have come to fight the evil most foul to prove my unwavering devotion!”

Cormac stepped forward, descending the steps of his dais. His hands crackled with dark, destructive magical energy, casting eerie purple shadows across his sharp cheekbones. He narrowed his eyes, adopting his most terrifying sneer. “You will find me quite formidable, Sir Knight. My dark powers are not to be trifled with by mere mortals.”

Geneviève struck a practiced, swooning pose against the nearest stone pillar, throwing the back of her hand against her forehead. “Oh, brave sir knight! Slay the beast! Strike down this villainous wretch and carry me away to my happily ever after!”

Sir Mateo paused. He lowered his sword a fraction of an inch and blinked, looking mildly confused.

“I have trained for this day my entire life!” Mateo boomed, quickly recovering his momentum and stepping over the splintered doors. “My magnificent blade has tasted the blood of a hundred vicious goblins, a feral manticore, and a particularly aggressive badger in the lower valleys!”

“Yes, yes, we are all very impressed,” Geneviève snapped, dropping the swooning act. “Now chop his head off and grab the emerald cloak, we’re losing the daylight!”

“No, no,” Sir Mateo said, waving a gleaming, armored gauntlet dismissively in the princess’s general direction without even looking at her.

He strode purposefully right past Geneviève, completely ignoring her dramatic gasp of outrage. He walked past the hissing dragon, past the trembling goblin, and marched straight up to the base of the obsidian throne. He stopped just a few feet away from the dark sorcerer, his dark eyes locked intensely on Cormac’s face.

“I’m not here to fight you,” Mateo said, his voice dropping an octave, softening into something entirely earnest and dripping with adoration. “I’m here to fight HER for you… so that I might win your hand, Prince Cormac.”

The throne room went completely, utterly silent.

The crackling arcane energy around Cormac’s hands instantly fizzled out with a pathetic little pop.

The only sound in the vast chamber was the faint, pathetic dripping of the enchanted curtains weeping into their brass buckets, and the soft, confused scratching of Thierry the goblin picking his ear.

Geneviève’s perfectly painted jaw unhinged and dropped. “I’m sorry? Excuse me?”

Cormac stood frozen on the steps. His intimidating, amethyst eyes went impossibly wide. A faint, entirely uncharacteristic, bright pink blush crept rapidly up his pale, aristocratic cheeks. He looked at the knight’s sword, then at the knight’s incredibly handsome, earnest face. “My… my hand?”

“Indeed, my dark and mysterious prince!” Sir Mateo declared passionately.

With a loud, dramatic clang of polished steel, the knight sheathed his massive broadsword and dropped gracefully to one knee, bowing his head before the sorcerer.

“From the very moment I saw your portrait on the royal Wanted posters in the village square, I just knew. It struck me like a lightning bolt from the heavens! The brooding, sorrowful eyes, the powerful, commanding cheekbones, the absolute panache with which you casually command your legions of the undead! It took my breath away!”

Mateo placed a hand over his heart, gazing up at the utterly stunned sorcerer.

“I have crossed the treacherous Forbidden Forest! I have battled my way through the Bog of Eternal Stench! I personally offended a tribe of incredibly grumpy ents and ruined my favorite boots, all for the singular chance to gaze upon your magnificent visage! You, Prince Cormac, are the most dastardly, the most formidable, and the most devastatingly beautiful man I have ever laid eyes upon! I offer you my sword, my heart, and my eternal devotion!”

Ignis, the ancient, terrifying beast of the skies, who had spent the last ten minutes mentally preparing for yet another tedious, predictable battle of fire versus steel, froze.

His gigantic, spiked head tilted sharply to the side. A low, strange rumble started deep within his cavernous belly. It wasn’t a growl. It grew. It churned. It vibrated through the stone floor. It erupted.

The dragon threw his massive head back and let out a sound that was not a fearsome roar, but a full-bodied, wheezing, breathless, thundering belly-laugh that shook the very foundations of the tower.

Tears of sheer, unadulterated mirth streamed from his glowing golden eyes, vaporizing into steam as they hit his hot scales. He collapsed onto his side, rolling onto his back on the pathetic pile of gold. His great, terrifying claws waved uselessly in the air, his scales rattling together like a thousand tambourines as he roared with laughter. He was, for the first time in over three hundred years, truly, deeply, and utterly amused.

Ignis looked at the blushing sorcerer, then at the kneeling, hopelessly romantic knight, and let out another bellowing, booming chuckle that knocked a tapestry off the wall. This is the best thing that has ever happened in the history of this realm! his booming laughter seemed to roar. Forget the spoiled princess! This is cinema!

Geneviève, entirely forgotten and rapidly turning a shade of puce that violently clashed with her sapphire cloak, stomped her foot so hard a stone tile audibly cracked beneath her heel.

“HELLO?!” she screamed, her voice cracking. “I am the princess! I am the prize! I am the entire point of this ridiculous endeavor! What about me?!”

Sir Mateo didn’t even bother to glance over his shoulder. He kept his devoted eyes fixed firmly on the flustered sorcerer. “You are more than welcome to travel back with my squire, Lady Geneviève. He is waiting at the bottom of the hill. I believe he has a deep and abiding fondness for crushed taffeta.”

Cormac’s blush had deepened to a vibrant, glowing crimson, but a slow, genuine, incredibly charming smile was beginning to spread across his sharp face, entirely ruining his evil reputation.

“You…” Cormac murmured, his voice losing all its dangerous edge, replaced by a soft, breathless wonder. “You would challenge me, the darkest, most feared and powerful sorcerer in all the realm… for a courtship?”

“A lifetime of courtships, my brilliant prince!” Mateo declared happily, rising effortlessly to his feet and boldly taking Cormac’s pale, un-gloved hand in his own. “And perhaps a duel of wits over a very fine, very old vintage of elven-wine I brought in my saddlebags!”

“Well,” Cormac murmured, staring into Mateo’s eyes. The magical energy around his fingertips sparked back to life, but this time it wasn’t dark or malicious. It was a charming, warm, rosy hue that smelled faintly of sugar and ozone. “I suppose my dark and terrible reign of terror can be temporarily postponed. For... administrative reasons.”

Geneviève let out an ear-piercing shriek of absolute fury as Cormac smoothly vaulted onto Ignis’s back, grabbing Mateo’s armored hand and pulling the heavy knight up behind him with surprising strength.

The dragon, still wheezing and chuckling, didn’t even bother to wait for the princess to finish her tantrum. He eagerly scrambled to the edge of the shattered window and launched his massive bulk into the sky. He did three joyous, entirely unnecessary, looping barrel rolls in the crisp evening air, his thundering laughter echoing across the valleys and bouncing off the mountains.

The very last thing Princess Geneviève heard as the three of them—the beaming knight, the smitten sorcerer, and the absolutely hysterical dragon—soared away into a perfect, golden sunset, was Ignis letting out one final, coughing laugh.

A second later, the dragon unleashed a massive gout of joyful, roaring flame. But it wasn’t destructive fire. It was a spectacular, glittering, rainbow-colored inferno that painted a magnificent, prismatic, gay arc across the twilight sky, leaving a trail of sparkling light in their wake.

Silence descended upon the ruined throne room.

Geneviève stood entirely alone in the rubble of her ruined, would-be rescue. The wind whistled gently through the broken window. Next to her, Thierry the goblin stood awkwardly holding her imported hat box.

“But…” Geneviève whispered, her lip trembling as she looked at the empty sky. “My rose-scented bath oils…”

Thierry the goblin looked up at the glittering rainbow fading in the distance. He slowly lowered the hat box, a tiny, genuine smile cracking his wizened face.

“Well,” the goblin muttered to himself, turning back to sweep up the splintered door. “I suppose that’s what they call a happily ever after.”