This is a collaboration piece between me and my best friend TobiasRosetta!

A big thanks to TorakoDragon for her Cover Art and amazing concept sketches!

Warnings: This fic includes some kinks that may be sensitive to some readers.

[Knotting, MPREG, Graphic Violence and Underage (Stiles is 17)]

Now, with all that said, let's get on with the story!

Fire licks at his skin. The heat of it feels as if it's melting the flesh from his bone. He screams as he fails to do anything. The flames are too thick, already crumbling the foundation of his home. The howls of pain from his family ring through his ears. He howls back keening in the soul-breaking tenor of a man watching all he loves burn. He's frantic, wanting to run in and pull them out but they're so deep inside. The castle they call home is too large and his family is so far spread out. He knows he can't save them. He knows it's too late. His skin is slowly healing from where he's already been burned and singed from trying. The clarity of this realization stings his eyes as his claws protrude and his gums burn as his fangs elongate.

He runs, pacing around looking for anyway inside that hasn't already turned to rubble from the hellfire that consumes his home. Consuming his family. His parents, cousins, every person that he had spent his life with.

He feels them. Their burning skin. The stench of their pain and fear choking him. He falls to the ground, his eyes wide and his heart flayed. He screams. He screams for them. He wants to say he's sorry. He wants to trade himself. It should be him inside that burning kingdom but it makes no difference. The damage is done. The fire is claiming their souls.

Tears stream down his face, leaving startlingly clear tracks of moisture in the soot that stains his skin, his fists slamming into the ground.

They're dying. They're burning into nothing and he can hear his mother scream for him. It feels like he's drowning. He can't breath as he watches. He howls back. He can't do this; can't watch the flames of bright oranges and reds. Smell the ash and burning flesh. Listen to the rumble of fire and screams of his family dying, but he can't turn away. He keeps howling, hoping they can hear him. Hoping they understand how sorry he is. How regretful and ashamed that his ignorance cost them their lives.

Even the moon has forsaken him this night, the smoke rising into the sky blocking out it's silver glow.

It should be him. It should be him.

He knows why this happened. He knows how. And it sickens him, the taste of bile and acid sitting on his tongue, thick as he retches dryly into the soil below him. How could he have thought it was just innocent- That nothing would come of it?

All that he feels is a swelling rage, and a burgeoning self loathing. He brought this upon his family. He'd been warned to stay away from...Her. That siren of despair. The root of sorrow and the red hands that were stained with his families blood. They had tainted his the same scarlet, when her fingers had entwined with his own in the dark of the night's shadows. He could practically feel her mirth on him like a greasy film. Her joy at this chaos. Hell was too good for her.

That murdering witch... A snake in angel's guise.

He throws his head back, lungs filling to howl again, but instead he screams, the sound of a broken man. His voice gasping into sobs. Chest heaving with pain.

He's suddenly pulled from his thoughts when he realizes he can't hear them anymore. Their frantic hearts muffled by the loud rumbling of the fire; of his foolishness.

That's when he knows. He knows they're gone. He can't feel them through the bond they all once shared. He's empty and alone. Destroyed just as much as the husk that will remain when the flames die out. Ashed and dark like the stone and wood and charred remains of his home.

His kingdom. His family.

His claws rake against the dirt as he roars. He feels feral. Nothing keeping him anchored to his humanity. He barely feels the tears still falling from his eyes as he watches in rage and sadness.

Everything is gone and he is at fault.

It should have been him.

Derek woke in a startle. His body lurched forward as his eyes seared a untamed, icy blue. He scanned his surroundings, panting in lungfuls of air, vision hazy and hindered. His hand came to his cheek and immediately felt a slick, wet trail as the strong scent of saline filled his nostrils. He scratched at his skin as a prickling anger bubbled from within him. He looked to his right, from the pallet he'd made for himself, to see the trail of his claws, clear and fresh in the dirt beside him. He had been dreaming of it again.

He quickly wiped the scratchy wool blanket over his face in a rush to rid his skin of the moisture. He breathed in deeply, calming his hammering heart. His eyes slowly faded back into something more human as he let out a weary sigh.

Derek took a moment to let the grogginess ease from his mind before looking over at the dying embers of the campfire he had lit the night before. The stench of ash offended his senses, threatening to pull back the memories of his dream. He snarled and slashed at the ebbing fire; watched as the wood puffed and broke in brilliant splinters sending cinders into the air. His claws retracted finally, as he watched the scorching red skin on his hand heal quickly from touching the hot remains of the flames.

Collecting himself and forcing the raw, raging anger back into the confines of his mind, he stood and stretched. The sound of his joints popping and shifting echoed in his ears. It was then that he noticed the rays of light beginning to transpire in the distance. The dark black of night slowly giving way to morning's glorious gold and cerulean. It meant nothing to him but another day of his hellish life; stars disappearing from the sky like the lives of his family.

He made quick work of his things, packing the site and pulling on his hulking, black armor. His weapon easily found it's way into his hand. The long and heavy weight of the mirrored poleaxe felt familiar and comfortable in his grip. The head of his weapon was massive and intimidating, often stained with the blood of his fallen enemies. He had cleaned it the night before, the thick grime and strong copper stench distracted him enough to finally take notice. Derek hooked it to the strap on his back where it hung tight to his armor before turning and heading west.

Derek was a drifter. The many years after the tragic demise of his kingdom had left him without a direction or home. The people of Vilkas slowly bled away from the once prosperous, but private domain. With their rulers fallen, there was no one left to take up the mantle. No one to guide or nurture and lead. The kingdom was in ruin without it's beloved figureheads. The royal Hale family had been an ancient line which had always ruled their people with a firm hand, and true care for their people.

Naturally, Derek was in line to take up the throne. To be King. Yet on that fateful night, he fled without a second thought of looking back. After the flames had begun to settle, his mind had suddenly snapped and he ran blindly through the surrounding forests, attacking anything that stood in his path. With the sorrow and grief turning into rage and hate he let out the beast within; clawing and killing any creature that he caught sight of. For days he was little more than a wild animal. Hardly anyone fit to be a king. Not that it weighed on his mind. Ruling had never been his destiny. It was not his instinct to lead, and he had no idea how to give his people the ruler they deserved. Not with the rage that consumed his every thought.

Over the years he had done questionable things. Working as a hired hand. Helpful strength when one needed something done that was less than holy, but Derek was sick of it. Already trying to contend himself to something when he feels he shouldn't be allowed to feel anything at all. He had managed to harness his anger, and malice into an anchor. A means of controlling himself. He no longer felt like he would lose control around masses of innocent people.

That's why when he heard of the arena, The Crucible of blood and death, a place of glory and battle. It was now his destination. Not because he desired such mundane things as money or glory, but because he was a coward and couldn't find it within himself to let his life end. He thought to himself that this arena, where they say the strongest warriors of the world come to kill, could be the place to meet his demise. Somewhere he could battle with his full strength and possibly be overcome. That is why he sought it. To meet with the chance of dying in blood, and pain, like his family. What he believed he deserved.

It wasn't difficult for him to acquire information about the arena. Apparently the Crucible was something of a commodity. Derek had briefly wondered how he hadn't caught wind of it before.

It lay in the Kingdom of Belirti. He heard the people speak highly of this place. Much on its beauty and strong King, but no other topic was mentioned more, than the young and gentle prince. The prince and his unfathomable benevolence and kindness. The men mostly spoke of his mischievous nature; the pranks and troubles the young boy found himself tangled in. The women gossip about his beautiful, porcelain skin. His warm, doe eyes and his cunning smile. The way he stopped to flirt with common women and nobles alike.

By the time he had learned all he could of Belirti, Derek had heard so much of the prince that he faintly felt as though he already knew him. In the back of his mind, he hoped he never did. From the stories he had overheard when passing from town to village, the boy was nothing but trouble. His dastardly jokes and mischief sounded like a headache. More than he had the patience to deal with.

When he found himself at his destination, he didn't waste time looking for shelter or supplies to sustain himself. The moment Derek stepped into the bounds of the kingdom his senses were assaulted by the stench of battle; blood and sweat and death. His mind was instantly set on the singularity of the arena.

Derek would never admit to himself, but in the final moments before he was unleashed unto the arena, his body was bustling with more energy than he thought it could muster. The anticipation warmed his blood. The cheers of the people when he walked on the blood soaked dirt of the crucible only served to thrill him more. He ignored the sound of the spectators and let the beast inside himself take over. With his armor thick and his helmet concealing his face, he could allow himself to shift beneath the safety of the plate without fear of them knowing his secret of being a werewolf. So he did.

What he didn't do, was die.

Time passed and Derek never missed a chance to thrust himself back into the arena. He was known to all now as the Black Wolf. The name would be offensive if it wasn't so amusing. Although, none took a liking to him, not that he cared. His stoic, apathetic, and hostile behavior had painted him in a negative light. That and the fact that he brutally destroyed all who stood before him within the confines of The Crucible.

He should have felt bad. He knew he should, but he didn't. He let himself become consumed. Let all of the pain and the sorrow ebb away, ripped from the deepest parts of himself through the yells and exhaustion. The ultimatum that was live or die. It made him feel numb and that was what he wanted. That was the reason he was there. To stop feeling. To stop remembering. He didn't care anymore about how at the end of the battle, when he's victorious, that the people boo and throw things. That they hated him. It didn't anger him because they meant nothing to him. None of it meant anything. The Crucible was his escape from the past. A place where he let his instincts take over as he fought for his life; self-preservation too commanding to ignore. A place where he covered his boots in scarlet mud and sunk the blade of his glaive into body after body, turning them into corpses. Someone probably kept count of how many he had killed, but to him it was just a blurr.

A year passed and he had carved himself a familiar routine. Derek was able to purchase a place of his own, a small and unsightly home. It was poor, and dirty, though, like everything else in his life, it didn't matter. He was famously reclusive and barely left his den during the hours of daylight. Not that there was anyone for him to visit. The people of the kingdom snickered and sneered at his back, too cowardly to do it to his face. The stench of their fear permeated the air and offended his sensitive nose. At one point they had figured out who he was. The only remaining Hale. Derek was not sure how they came to acquire the facts, but it didn't change the undeniable truth they had. Perhaps some of the citizens of Vilkas had migrated to the kingdom?

It didn't take long before harmless town gossip was twisted and distorted into bold assumptions. They began to believe that Derek was the one who started the fire. That his unstable mind had driven him mad, or that he lusted after the throne. It was all said in hushed whispers, far from what normal human hearing could catch. Derek wasn't human though, not really, and he had been cursed with the ability to hear everything; smell the accusations as if they were yelling it at his face.

He didn't bother to correct them. He couldn't find the energy and he wasn't sure he'd be convincing to his own ears even. Derek honestly found it fitting that the rumors had transpired, painting him as the perpetrator. Some ironic message from God that it was his fault, really. If he had never trusted her then there wouldn't have been a fire. His family would be alive. He had committed the act of trust. Against all rational thought, he had fallen under a spell. Certain in his belief that it wasn't induced by magic, but of his own ignorance. So he didn't let himself deny their malicious claims. He wouldn't allow himself be known as the victim, because he didn't feel like one.

He felt like a murderer. A betrayer.

He did allow himself runs through the surrounding woods at night, though. Letting the wolf inside out as he ran until his muscles were strained and burning, lungs aching with every heaved breath. He liked to listen to the sounds of the forest, of the trees swaying, of the creatures stirring and fleeing. The scent of the earth, of the vegetation and the damp moisture that is always there. It was natural and soothing and he let himself have that moment. That calm and reassuring ritual of just enjoying nature; of letting himself break loose and feel again.

However, that is not to say that he never associated with the town.

There was always plenty of opportunity for distraction. Gossip of town, lively gatherings of men at the tavern every night, bellowing in laughter over something or other. More often than naught, he heard mentions of great pranks. Jokes that took the town by surprise; with mirth. The prince was always at the root. An elusive young man who had a distinct lack of respect for authority. A boy who Derek often heard ladies crowded on the streets tittering about with soft sighs and distant expressions. Wanton. It was something Derek desperately strived to ignore, and for the most part, he succeeded. It was of no consequence to him, what happened in this kingdom. If it didn't involve his blade, and his enemies' blood, he wasn't interested.

His obsession with the arena didn't stop the nightmares. Could not stop the constant ache in his chest when he awoke, gasping in air with the phantom smell of burning flesh and ash in his nose. He often thought of his family and how their lives would be if they hadn't died. The Crucible, was deceitful in that nature. Within the dome of death he could detach himself from the world around him. In those moments, nothing mattered but the clashing of weapons and the defeat of his enemies. The thundering cadence of his heart and the adrenaline so overbearing it felt as though he was on a high. When it was all over, he was always left with the hollow realization that there was nothing waiting for him outside the arena's gates. Again, he wished someone would come along strong enough to ruin him, and end the vicious cycle.

He had been offered pounds of gold for his victories, but Derek never took it for himself. That wasn't why he came. That wasn't the reason he chose to fight. They always looked at him as though he was an imbecile. He was often called a stupid animal. It made him want to bare his fangs and snarl, but he couldn't allow them to get such a rise. He would never risk the exposure of his true nature of being a werewolf. He knew that the peoples of the town had forgotten about the existence of such creatures. That the humans were an isolated and ignorant breed that selfishly drew into themselves and ignored the other species of the world.

Always, he walked away to the edge of the town towards his broken and dirty den. It was the same on that day. A long, lonely trudge through the streets. He was always given wide berth, never touching another body.

Then, someone crashed into him.

The sound of his armor rattling irritated his ears. Derek immediately caught the figure by the arm, ready to attack if need be, but the sight he was met with took him off guard. Before he could even lay eyes on the person, his hand tingled as if it were on the verge of numbness. His eyes locked seconds later on the other's visage. In his grasp was a boy. Not much older than what would be seventeen years. He struggled to free himself of Derek's grip. The notion is futile.

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry" The boy said in a haste, but Derek was barely listening, too tantalized by his wide honeyed eyes. The glow of his perfectly creamy skin wasn't even disrupted by it's speckles; a spatter of dark spots. They seemed so unique, yet they made perfect sense. Dear God his scent. His scent was... heavenly. Literally like ambrosia. He couldn't quite describe it. Overpowering, it made Derek's mind hazy and his mouth salivate. Everything about this boy made his focus center in completely on him, pushing everything into the background. Colors were more vibrant on him, his features more defined than any Derek had seen in years. He felt as though if he stared long enough, he would see colors that no one else knew existed.

Derek must have been too caught up in his dumbfounded observation of this stranger, for the boy somehow broke free of his grip. He backed away slowly, his attention not on Derek but of something behind him. Derek finally felt like he could make himself listen to something other than the male's enticing heartbeat. He heard fast, heavy steps quickly approaching. His mind instantly supplied the familiarity of the sounds he knew now as the kingdom's guards. They were running towards them, an onslaught of 'halt' and 'stop' being yelled in their direction. The young stranger slowly backed away, gaze flicking from Derek to the guards and then back again.

"Sorry about that. Really. Sorry." He said, then turned around and was suddenly running away.

Derek stood there, staring in the direction that the enigmatic boy ran long after he and the guards vanished from view. Even after the sight of them were gone, he felt an urge, as if he were on the tip of his toes, straining at a leash to follow after. He settled back on his heels and mulled over the strange coiling in his gut. As if that encounter was a something and he was trying so deeply to force it to be a nothing.

Nothing was what he desperately sought to keep it as, throughout the rest of the day. He continued his walk home, with no more disruptions, left only to his thoughts. For something that was nothing, he spent an awful lot of time thinking about it. Who was that young man? A thief? What if it had been-

No. Derek shook his head and sighed, tilting it back to allow fresh air to flood his mouth and lungs. He exhaled roughly. I will not dwell on this.

He did, though.

His shanty waited for him, faithful in it's destitute appearance. The one thing he could count on. So why was he half expecting to see someone standing there, when he opened the door? There was no one, and for some reason, the slow exhale of breath that left his nose was not one of relief, but of anxiety.

Stiles was running. The breaths heaving from his burning lungs were sharp and painful, but the grin plastered on his features was undeterred. Sure, his latest escapade may have been a little more harsh than usual, but that didn't mean it wasn't just as hilarious as he had imagined it being.

He chanced a glance at the guards behind him. They were a safe distance away and Stiles knew this kingdom like the back of his hand. He grew up here, he should know. Being the prince also had its perks. He had snuck into his fathers tactical study and memorized the kingdoms layouts. He knew every last nook and cranny of Belirti. He was more than confident that he'd safely make it back to his chambers before they could slander him with accusations.

However, the smug, self-satisfied smirk was melted from his face when his person abruptly came into contact with a stone wall. At least, it felt like a stone wall.

He was quickly grabbed by the arm, a vice grip that was unshakable, holding him captive. Stiles' head immediately snapped to focus and glanced upon a man. The stranger's face was etched in annoyance or perhaps anger, though Stiles didn't spend too much time looking. His eyes had barely grazed over his features, before jerking back to look over the man's shoulder. His main focus was the guards that were quickly gaining on him.

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry." He tried. Hoping to convey his false sincerity. Not to say he didn't feel bad for bumping into this stranger, but he didn't have time to linger on formalities. If he were to be brought to his father, the King, once again in bindings, he'd be grounded to his sufferable tower for weeks. That was absolutely unacceptable. If anyone knew Prince Stiles, they'd know he didn't bode well with being bound to a simple room.

His eyes finally snapped back to the man and instantly he felt some strange and savage aura. An overpowering radiation of fierce, wild and untamed energy saturated the atmosphere around him; this warrior in all black armor.

It wasn't uncommon for Stiles to be in tune with the people and world around him. His mother had always told him he had a special gift. That empathy was a blessing from the Mother Goddess and should be nurtured. Never before had he been so overcome, though, so dominated by the aura of another. During his younger years, his mother had taught him to control the flow of energies and emotions of the people surrounding him. He was more than confident in his abilities, but there was something so strangely different about this man. For all his control, the man's aura was bleeding out onto him, clawing around the prince like a beast.

Stiles took a keen, perceiving look over his features, taking him in. He was highly attractive, that much was certain, though clearly daunting with his stature and unforgiving, piercing glare. Stiles felt as though he should know who this man was, that he had once met or heard of him. It was no secret that he had a certain weakness for town gossip. It was possible that this stranger was of topic of interest at one time. Stiles' vision veered to the obvious crest on the man's ebony armor. Etched into his left shoulder pad was the silhouette of a shadowy wolf howling up into a blood red moon. It immediately caught his attention.

He wanted to say he knew something about that. It was at the front of his mind, lingering somewhere behind a corner; the name of it at the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't quite grasp the revelation.

The shouts of the guards ripped him from his contemplations and his thoughts were instantly drowned out by an overwhelming panic. Thankfully, the man seemed to have taken mercy on him for his grip had loosened enough for him to wriggle his arm free. Stiles pulled the entrapped limb back to himself, thankful to the high heavens and the Goddess above for the man's clemency.

"Sorry about that. Really. Sorry." The prince reiterated, and then he turned and ran.

He made it back to the castle through the back entrance the maids often used when leaving the kitchens. He found his way to his room with a proper walk and a smirk to match. Stiles felt smug and accomplished, having escaped the guards and pulled off yet another amazing prank put him in high spirits. Perhaps it was childish to constantly annoy the guards with his unrelenting acts of defiant mischief, but the prince was a bit selfish. The joy he felt as he watched them fumble about feebly made his days all the more bearable. Being a prince had to have been the most boring form of existence. He needed something to excite him.

That wasn't to say that the prince was a mere petulant child that did nothing more than play pranks. He could often be found helping around the town, despite his noble blood. Even going so far as to donate vasts amounts of gold to the peoples. For all the prince would try to exude an air of flippancy, no one could deny his benevolence and selfless nature.

Once his breathing had relapsed to the standard, he found himself climbing the stairs to the tower that led to his own personal chambers. Stiles let himself in and made to collapse onto his bed. He shouldn't have been surprised when he was immediately confronted by his personal vassal.

"Where have you been?" The young male yelled. Stiles narrowed his eyes, but his expression remained soft.

"Is that any way to talk to your prince?" He said in tease.

The thing about his vassal was he was no meager servant. At least not to Stiles. He had known Scott for as many years as he could remember. The vassal's family served his mother and father. Stiles had many fond memories of them playing together. Usually such a thing wouldn't have been acceptable; royalty consorting with peasants, but Stiles' mother was truly a beautiful soul. She never let social stigmas and bloodlines come between the bonds of two people. She fought and argued with his father, going against his word on many occasions so that Stiles could spend time with Scott. He had thanked her every day that she had, for as a child, Stiles was lonely and barely interacted with others. His father was overprotective, understandable for a parent, but it only served in isolating the prince. Without his mother's constant defiance, his life might have been empty without even Scott. More importantly, after his mother's death if it weren't for the friendship he had with Scott, he didn't know how he would have lived on.

Queen Moira was everything to Stiles and when disease took her, his whole world shattered. His father fell into a dark depression leaving Stiles to fend for himself. However, Scott was always there for him for every day and every moment. Scott was like a gift from his mother who had fought so hard to allow their friendship to blossom. It goes without saying that Stiles never treated Scott like any sort of slave. They only fell into the customary formation when they were around others.

"Oh, apologies, my dear, sweet, perfectly, perfect humble prince" Scott retorted, all sarcasm with a slight bow. "Now where the hell were you?" He ended in demand. Stiles couldn't help but laugh.

"I was doing what I do best, you could say." That was all he needed to divulge. Scott had already begun to make the face that he usually donned when he was picturing all the troublesome deeds the prince enjoyed bestowing unto the guard daily. Stiles' smirk faltered as he sighed. He knew his friend was about to attempt a reprimand and he really wasn't in the mood to sit through it. So in a desperate search for distraction, he broached an event he hadn't been able to wipe from his mind.

"And I met a man." He finished with a new, wistful grin. That seemed to catch Scott's full attention, diverting a disastrous lecture on proper prince etiquette and how awful it was to leave the safety of the castle. Stiles really didn't want to listen to that for the eleven-billionth time.

"A man? Whom? A Nobleman?" The vassal inquired, looking deeply intrigued and more than slightly concerned. Stiles finally slumped onto his bed, the many pillows softening his landing. He grabbed the nearest one and held it closely to his chest.

"I'm not sure. He is a mystery to me. I've never seen him before today." It was odd, to say the least. Despite being the prince of Belirti, a royal who should stay within the walls of the castle, that had never before stopped Stiles from consorting with just about everyone in the kingdom. If he was honest, he didn't really like the feeling of superiority. He just wanted to do what was right and to him that meant being with the people. It was just like his mother always said.

You have to know the needs of your people and be one with them.

Yet, Stiles wasn't sure who this man was. He had never seen him before and that mystery alone was tantalizing. Most troubling yet, there was something so alluring about him. Obvious physical attractions aside, there was a confounding magnitude. The sight of him left the prince with questions that were begging to be answered. He was at war with his own curiosity.

His gaze veered back over to his friend who looked perplexed and concerned. He let out another heavy sigh.

"What's on the royal schedule, Scott?" Stiles asked, finally changing the subject. He made sure to stress in tone his disinterest in his duties as prince. Scott seemed to know that too, which is why, despite his best friend being so vapid, he eyed him with suspicion. Scott reached for a stack of parchment and began to read things off. Internally Stiles kept up his inward mantra of boring, boring, boring. His friend seemed to notice and tossed the parchment back onto the table.

"And your father says that you're to attend The Crucible tomorrow." Now that definitely caught Stiles' attention. He sat up and glared at his best friend. Scott was wearing a mischievously placate grin, most likely due to his obvious knowledge of Stiles' extreme detest of the arena. Which is why, after a few moments of carefully dull silence, he practically whined his displeasure.

"But why?" He stretched for enunciation. "Father knows how I loathe that dreaded place. It's just a bunch of overly masculine imbeciles chopping each other to pieces with wicked finesse! It's not only barbaric, but it's a horrible waste of perfectly chiseled men." He pouted a little towards the end of his rant. Not enough to be seen as childish, just enough to maybe be misconstrued as whiney.

Scott shook his head, but kept his smirk firmly in place, the ever evil vassal he was.

"I don't make up the rules here, that's your father's job." Stiles, yet again, let out a heavy breath.

"I wish to trade him for a new one." He joked with feigned exhaustion. "I don't suppose there is any way for me to get out of this?" Stiles asked, a little too hopeful. Scott shook his head.

"Afraid not. He was quite adamant that you attend. Something about keeping you out of trouble? I wonder where he could have gotten the idea that you need to be contained?" Scott turned to tidy up whatever of the room that was dirty, which was to say, hardly anything. It was more of a means to keep his hands busy and show that there really was no point in arguing, the discussion was as final as it was ever going to be.

"Fine. But you're coming with me, whether he allows it or otherwise. I'll not suffer through this on my own." Stiles levied. Scott delivered a brilliant smile, most likely happy that Stiles wasn't fighting him more on the topic like he normally would. It was also probably because his friend enjoyed that horrible sport.

The Crucible attracted many spectators. People came thousands of miles from distant kingdoms to partake and view. The men had a certain fancy with it, placing bets and watching the violence with exuberant amusement. The women seemed to have their own motives on the event.

The prince was usually far more insubordinate, and he would be fighting tooth and nail to not attend. However, he really had been neglecting his father, more likely because they didn't always see eye-to-eye these days. Stiles followed closely in the steps of the late Queen, choosing to align himself with compassion and a discerning mind. His father wanted him to rule with an iron fist. Stiles was hardly one for violence, choosing instead to nurture and approach issues with pacifism in mind, just like his mother.

He decided that he would humor his father for this. He didn't really have to watch the fights, he could occupy his attention elsewhere. Perhaps he'd be able to sneak in a book? Or if he couldn't, then at least he might be able to admire some of the fighters physiques before they were hacked into? Stiles often considered strong men with admiration. A part of him wished he could be like that. Big and sturdy; someone the people trusted inherently. Then, he remembered, how much responsibility that would be, and felt relief for his own tendency towards politics and scholarly pursuits. By this time in his life, he was resigned to his fate. Stiles knew that he would never be a daring soldier, musclebound with flowing hair that made people faint and squeal. Not that he actually wanted that.

As it was, it seemed that tomorrow, he would attend The Crucible, and for that he may as well attempt to enjoy himself.