"We need to go back." Scott whispered. "If the king finds that I've let you back here he'll have my head!"

Stiles rolled his eyes but ignored his friend and peered over the corner. He knew as well as Scott that being anywhere near the holding room was forbidden, especially for someone of royal blood. Being around all the murderous warriors was a dangerous notion, even for someone as foolhardy as Stiles. However, his curiosity had always gotten the best of him, so why should it stay him now?

"I'm serious Stiles, please! Let us go back before someone notices!" his friend tried again, his tone laced with exasperation.

"I'm only curious. Stop being such a ninny, no one will even know we're here" Stiles replied. He was most fascinated by the warriors, his disdain of the Crucible aside. When he was younger, he had always imagined that he was a dashing hero in brilliant gold armour, slaying dragons and evils alike. It was a fantasy that he even visited now, though he would hide such childish dreams.

The prince was immediately focused on the many men donning their nigh impenetrable protective coverings. The most of them were easily forgotten; armor bland and commonplace. Swords and miscellaneous other terrifying weapons littered the walls and corners. Training dummies and the like were spread apart giving significant space around the large room for any who were hoping to hone their skill before the battle ahead.

Scott sighed, clearly reluctant, but Stiles knew that his friend was just as thrilled as he. Scott was more fascinated by the Crucible than any other person the prince knew, save possibly his father.

"I'm only just enjoying the sight before they are but extremities muddling the ground. With that in mind, if any of them were to see us, take comfort in knowing that most, if not all, will be dead before the sun sets."

Scott shook his head, but a grin ruined any attempts for it to seem in irritation. Stiles smiled back but then turned his attention to the sight before them.

The prince studied the room with keen eye. Most of the men seemed to migrate into small groups, each bantering amongst themselves, in spite that they were all going to eventually be slashing at one another. That in itself was quite peculiar to Stiles.

His attention was stolen by a bellowing laughter. A group of admittedly intimidating combatants seemed to be taking great amusement in another man. Their posture and contorted faces gave away their nefarious nature. Stiles let his body move farther around the corner in hopes of eavesdropping. His motion was stilled when his vision caught sight of their target.

It was that man. The very same black knight of which he had ran into the day before.

Stiles had all but pried whatever information he could from Scott regarding the man. Stiles had described to his friend the encounter that took place the day before in vivid detail. He distinctly remembers his friend's face falling eerily grim and his skin pale at the mention of the Black Wolf. Scott instantly supplied in his own startling detail everything there was to know about this warrior. The savage man, often rumored beast, who mercilessly slayed all who would stand against him. How his incredible feats had lasted him a whole year and how for some reason, he never claimed the prizes. That was interesting to Stiles in particular, for if not the money or glory, why fight?

His friend carried on though, eventually divulging in horrid and vulgar rumors that had spread far a thick throughout the kingdom. Many brash and awful tales that had Stiles cringing. However, the prince's curiosity was that of an abyss, never ending in its hunger. Despite what he was told, he had thirsted to know more.

And so here he was, so clear within Stiles' sight. Fate was a cruel and tempting Jester.

His eyes narrowed in hopes to catch wind of their conversation. The man of whom he saw was sitting alone on one of the many benches farthest from the others. He was situated in a corner, whether to keep watch on his enemies or just to avoid social interaction, he could not conclude. He stared for a moment, their meeting (if you can call it that) replayed in his mind. The sheer intensity of the man's aura sent a shiver down his spine. He should feel threatened by the absolute ferocity of it, but Stiles had been known to become infatuated with particularly dangerous things. It was both a blessing and a curse.

The prince moved without thought, instantly drawn out by some insatiable need to understand. To figure out some grand puzzle that he couldn't decipher. He was quickly grabbed by the wrist. Scott was staring at him with an intense gaze. It would have been daunting if it were not for his round, puppy like eyes.

"No! I know that look! You will not have me hung by my entrails by your rash mind" he begged. Stiles stared back at him and shook from his grip.

"I already told you, they will all be dead anyways. So what does it matter? Live a little, Scott! Jesus!" His friend looked scared out of his head. His eyes searching for any sort of authoritative guard. Which was preposterous, of course. None of the guards were located within the holding room. They stayed watch outside in the event that the warriors were to do anything brash.

"Stay here and keep watch. I'll only be gone a moment. The arena will begin soon. I'll be careful, I promise." He smiled in hopes that it would reassure his friend. Scott nodded, albeit, hesitantly.

Stiles stayed close to the wall, walking at a snails pace in hopes that his slow movements wouldn't draw much attention. His endeavors were successful. He slithered up closely to the group that seemed so fixated on the Black Wolf.

"It's true, I tell you!" a burly man said "He scours the streets at night and feasts on cats and rodents, the animal he is" The group laughed, completely hysterical with such a brainless claim.

"Ye know, I heard he likes to trail the whores at night, after the biddies are finished with their men, and he-" Oh, Stiles didn't want to listen to the rest of that one. After the voices switched, he rubbed his nose quietly, and tuned back in.

"I see him at the tavern sometimes. Pretty sure it's him. Always drinkin', that one. Never with an empty flagon I tell you. A sodden lout whats no happier than when he's bloody and fuckered."

Stiles couldn't fathom what he was hearing. Could this man really be what they claim him? His gaze found the Black Wolf. The man was staring off into the distance, pointedly at a wall, completely disinterested in everything around him. But Stiles felt him, as soon as his eyes focused, that savage aura consumed him. How he could hear what the men were saying was beyond him, as loud as they were, the Black Wolf was far from hearing distance. Stiles knew though, the waves of anger and raw rage that flowed from him as the callous accusations were being said. The way they spiked during their words, and settled for a moment, but quickly flared up by the next. He heard them...and for some reason, that tore through Stiles' heart like a blunt knife.

The prince was going to ignore it. He was. In his mind he had already planned on turning away and leaving, but then he caught sight of the man's eyes. Those shining prismatic orbs entranced Stiles like a spell. But where he thought he would feel elation and passion, all he saw was a bitter sorrow. A broken soul barely hanging on. The hollowed husk of a man. Stiles knew that feeling. He knew it all too well. The memories of his mother laying lifeless on her bed, the frailty of her form and paleness of her once vibrant skin plagued his thoughts. The overwhelming grief and sadness filled his heart. Yes, Stiles knew that feeling. He had lived through for what felt like an eternity after her passing. Which is why his body was already moving before he could think better of it. Which is why he took seat next to the Black Wolf and just...sat?

The man instantly caught his movement as Stiles situated himself. His piercing gaze feeling as if it were cutting into Stiles' skin. The prince knew he should say something, he was quite good at carrying on one sided conversations. He had a knack for talking far too much, ask anyone. But sitting there under the overpowering gaze of this ferocious warrior had Stiles tongue tied.

He looked up over to the man, so close once again, taking in his features. He was the epitome of Adonis, yet his dark features reminded him of something more sinister. Until he caught his eyes. The Black Wolf had lifted his head a little, the deep shadows cast by his prominent brow bone receding to reveal the clearest eyes he'd ever seen. They were sharp, and vibrant, pools of every color he could recall. At least that's how it seemed. His face was sculpted with the chisel of the Gods. It had to have been, to achieve those sleek lines that smoothed from his cheekbones to his jaw. The straight line of his nose was neither severe nor understated. It didn't turn up like his own, but it didn't hook down either. The dark stubble on his jaw almost made Stiles envious, the prince who couldn't grow whiskers yet, if he'd ever be able to. This dark warrior looked like he shaved every few hours, for it to grow back swiftly into a masculine shadow as it was now. His lips didn't shift from a neutral, hard line, and Stiles couldn't quite imagine a smile on his face, but just looking at him he knew it would be a breathtaking sight.

Stiles broke himself from his trance, fearing that his obvious inspection would be noticed. He was frightened, that was for sure, but this warrior had that effect. Despite his fear, he smiled. It was genuine, but hardly as lively in its usuality.

"Hi..." he said tentatively. It sounded weak even to his own ears, but the energy was there. His attempts would not be misconstrued. He sincerely wanted to converse with this stranger, if not to simply satiate his own burning intrigue, but to perhaps...he wasn't quite sure. Comfort, maybe? Offer a kinship of some sort? No one should feel the way this man's eyes scream to him. No one should feel this...alone.

Derek hadn't even noticed him. How hadn't he noticed? He was obviously too far lost in his stupor, his senses dulled by memories. He didn't often daydream, but when he did take a moment to withdraw into his mind, he tended to go towards better days. A place inside of himself where all was well. Then, they were so abruptly assaulted by a startling familiarity that he'd been trying so desperately to forget.

Derek's mind was under siege. Who was this kid? Why was he here of all places? Good God, that intoxicating smell, again. Derek was trying his best to ignore it, but it was drowning his senses. His mouth was wet and filled with salivation. He could hardly focus.

Well he could, just not on anything other than this enigmatic boy.

There was that same vibrancy, this natural and energetic glow that seemed to make everything else fade into the background. This boy was like a beacon; a spark of vitality that left the world seeming such a dull and dreary place in his contrast. He had an inkling of what it was, too, and it made his lips pull downwards into an instinctive frown, brow furrowed slightly. It had taken him a lot of thinking, of what it reminded him of. It was much stronger with this boy, though. Stronger than he knew it could be. The tang in the air around him, and the way he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end...

This time, it seemed he would have a chance to examine the phenomena, as the boy remained beside him despite Derek's persistent and disconcerting silence. He could have been a monk, for all the sounds he made. His fingers were busied with tightening the laces on his wrist bracers, but every sense he had was focused uncontrollably on the presence next to him.

"So..." Stiles began in a slightly anxious voice. The prince's posture was less than impeccable as he hunched over to brace his elbows on his thighs. Derek could practically hear his mothers sharp reprimand.

'A prince does not appear as if he has the weight of the world burdening him, he sits up tall, and straight as if to say, the world is mine and you can't have it.' It made him uneasy, the involuntary memory. His face showed none of it though.

"I don't know if you remember me... I ran into you yesterday in the streets. Sorry I didn't stop to properly apologize for that, I was in a bit of a hurry but I really did want to stay and talk..." It was like a flood gate had opened, because all of the sudden, the boy was talking. A never ending onslaught of words that grinded his nerves.

Derek had no doubt in his mind who he was now. He could hear what Stiles couldn't; the scandalized whispers all through the holding room.

"Why is the prince sitting with that... "

"Should we go over and tell the prince not to talk to him? What if he snaps and hurts him?"

"Or worse, he could kill him."

"What if he's a cannibal! He'd kill 'im an' then eat 'im!"

Now that was just insulting. Derek had no desire to sink his fangs into this boy's flesh.

That revelation was abrupt, hitting him like a brick wall when the man had suggested he might do that. Often, werewolves who fought unarmed had to settle for fighting with claws and teeth. It was second nature, and instinct, to be prepared to do so. For him, his bloodlust always simmered just beneath the surface. But for all his fury and rage and slowly dwindling patience, he couldn't bring himself to direct it's force towards the prince.

"I hadn't really meant for my prank to cut it that close to the guards, but that's life I suppose. You would think by now they would learn how to take a joke, it was just a beehive, it's not like..." Derek had tuned back into Stiles' rambling story of why he'd been running from the guards for just a moment before switching hands, and tightening his other bracer. The arena was steadily filling with spectators and soon they'd be called out to fight. The prince, was in no doubt, there to watch. Did he always come? He'd never seen him there before, but then, he never really paid attention to who was watching. He didn't care if anyone watched the slaughter. That wasn't why he was there.

Suddenly, Stiles was laughing. The infectious sound of it was ridiculous. He had never before wished he was deaf, but at that moment he did. He could see, in his peripheral vision, that the prince had a broad smile across his face. One slender hand with well-formed fingers had come up to rub along the prince's jawline, while the other gesticulated freely in the air. Derek had never noticed anyone's hands before, but observing them now was simply mesmerizing. Those pale and long digits wisping through the air animatedly. The thick, prominent veins that trailed from the back of his hands to the lean, corded muscles of his arms, pulsing with vivacious, reverberant life. The occasional freckle or mole dotting creamy flesh. He briefly wondered if all hands were this fascinating or if this was just another captivating trait so exclusive to the prince.

On some level, Derek wanted to snap at the boy, demanding why he was there and what he could possibly want from him. That would be too bothersome, though, so he continued his silent vigil. At some point, Derek stopped consciously ignoring the young man's rambling words, and listened in quiet annoyance.

"...I don't really come to these things. I don't like the violence. I feel like it's pointless, watching men cut each other up for money, and fame." The prince stopped, looking nervous; littering the air with his apprehension. Then he spoke again.

"I've heard of you." Derek mentally flinched at that. Of course the prince had heard of him. The cruel, blood thirsty, monster Black Wolf. How could he not? The humans of this kingdom prided themselves on their gossip, and begrudgingly Derek would admit, he is found at its center.

"But I never realized you were so... big. Or real, for that matter. I mean, seriously. Your armor must weigh seven stone all on it's own! And your... Big... stick thing...What ever is that even?" Derek's tongue flexed inside his clenched mouth, his weapons name at the tip of it. He just barely managed to stifle it, though.

"For what it's worth, I don't really know your reasons for fighting in The Crucible, so I can't condemn you for it. I'm reluctant to support any part of this... barbaric demonstration. But... I think, today... I will be rooting for you. I don't believe the things the others say about you."

'You should.'

"I don't know if anyone has really taken the time to talk to you, or try to at least, but if more people did, then I don't think they'd misunderstand you as much as they do."

'Oh I think they would.'

"I guess what I'm trying to say is that I think there's more to you than this... silent mass of dark brooding eyebrows, and I have this habit of curiosity where I need to know things other people don't. So I hope you don't mind but I will likely be annoying the hell out of you for a while. And even if you do mind, I'll still do it, so you might as well resign yourself to your fate. I'll make a friend of you yet, Black Wolf."

Derek jerked to look at Stiles, staring at him intently, as if the boy were stupid. Why the hell would he want to befriend the most hated man in the kingdom? He realized his mistake in acknowledging the prince's words with his movement when Stiles' face lit up.

"Ah! So you are listening! I knew it!" His face split into an even wider grin than the one he'd made earlier, and this time Derek was looking right at him. Rolling his eyes and looking away, Derek stood up finally, his plate armor rattling in place as he shifted and grabbed his weapon.

"Hey...hey where are you going?" Stiles stood up as well, confused.

Just in time, the horns blared, and the announcer's voice rang out through the echoing arena, calling for the warriors to come take their places. Derek didn't look back to the prince as he started to move forward. He had no intentions of fueling the boy's deranged fantasy that they might become friends, nor feed any notion that he'd expect a duplication of the prince's presence. He would not look back.

Of course, Stiles didn't know his resolve, or how weak it really was. The prince's hand came up quickly, catching Dereks wrist gently. The boys grasp was nothing to Derek. He could easily break free of it, and if it had been any other man, he'd have killed him on the spot for touching him.

Instead he felt a calmness resonating from that meeting point, and froze in his steps. Derek looked back in frustration and bewilderment. What power did this simple boy have over him that his very touch could soothe the beast inside of him? More and more, as he experienced the prince's company, he wanted to know what he was. If Stiles even knew himself... Which Derek doubted for some reason.

Swallowing quietly, Derek watched as Stiles pulled something from his pocket. A thin slip of material, fabric, silk by the looks of it. A deep blood scarlet handkerchief, embroidered on the corner with the princes own symbol, an intricate knot of fine gold thread. The fabric was pressed into his hand, fingers curling around it instinctively. He stared at the token for a moment, before looking up to the prince quietly. His face was more a mask of confusion than annoyance at the moment.

Then his whole body tensed with the memories of his old kingdom. His old life; of his family and its traditions. Did this boy not know of what he offered? Of course he didn't, he was benign and ignorant of Vilkas' customs. For the second time in the same hour he heard his mother's voice ring true through his thoughts.

'The beginning of a courtship begins with a token, Derek. A personal gesture, usually of value in the form of a fabric. Something that easily carries their scent. They will only offer it to the man they deem worthy a mate. If you accept this token, this will immediately initiate the process of courtship. It signifies that you accept the person to be yours.'

As the words faded into the recesses of his mind, his gut twisted at the simple implication. Which is why he knew he should have dropped the token and left in haste. Why he knew he should roar in the prince's face to watch him run in terror; to get as far away from Derek as possible. To vanish from his sight and never to return.

Only he didn't.

He clutched the fabric in his grip tightly, it's non-existent weight like an anchor in his hand.

"It's for luck, Black Wolf. Wear it, and you'll live this match through."

Frowning, he finally pulled his wrist away from the prince, and turned back to the gate. Derek pulled on his helmet, after taking a bracing breath, walking away finally. He couldn't tell Stiles that he couldn't accept the token. He couldn't look at the boy and tell him he had joined The Crucible for the precise reason of dying. He didn't want the prince to watch him fail for the first time.

Stiles watched for a moment longer, before deciding it was time to rejoin Scott, and his father, in the stands. It wasn't until after the prince turned away that Derek quietly tied the fabric around his arm, in a tight double knot.

Scott was eyeing his friend with heavy judgement and an even heavier suspicion. Even his father had taken notice of the prince's sudden intense interest in today's match. Where Stiles would usually be hunched over, donning a putrid posture in spite of his father, he was sitting upright and proper. There was a glowing excitement glazing his features. The obvious stature of anticipation when the warriors had taken their places in the large, dome-like arena, was just as revealing.

Stiles' eyes had quickly, and easily found their mark. It was not difficult to spot that hulking ebony armour. The prince watched with weary eyes as the battle commenced. The sheer brutal ferocity of the Black Wolf was indeed unmatched. It was hard to say why, though, when an enemy's blade came dangerously close to him, Stiles could feel his entire body cringe and his heart weigh heavy.

However, the king had a knowing eye, and already there was gossip circulating around them. Not that he needed gossip. The proof that his son had been consorting with the abomination known as the Black Wolf was as clear as the scarlet cloth the warrior wore. Even from his perch, high above the arena, the silky gleam did not escape his gaze, nor did the unique and familiar gold crest.

Through his peripheral he could see his son to his right, lip caught between his teeth, an obvious nervous habit that he shared with his mother. How his hands clenched tightly to his breeches as he spectated with an ever watchful eye. It was common knowledge of his son's palpable loathing of the Crucible. He voiced his opinions to all on the matter. He was adamant on his position, just like his mother. The king knew without a doubt there was something that had transpired between his son and this ominous warrior in black.

The king was no fool of the prince's more intimate inclinations. The thought of how he caught his son, half-clothed, in the clutches of that slave boy had his body vibrating with aggravation. Though Stiles had sworn that they had done nothing, that it was just a fleeting curiosity and his body remained pure, the king could see it was true. His son had not committed an act of immorality. The king was fair and he even liked to think of himself as a pioneer in modern concepts. There was, of course, whispers of men and women who were of that nature, choosing to align themselves in eternal partnerships with those of their own gender. He personally did not condemn them like the churches did so readily.

However, the prince was his only heir; his only male. The fate of the bloodline rest in his son's ability and readiness to reproduce. He had a duty to marry and produce an heir of his own, lest the name Stilinski end with him. It had been a favor to his son, and his late wife's wishes, that Stiles remain unmarried until the young man found a woman of his choice. It was a heavy burden on the king's heart, to know that the rift between them stemmed from his son's obtuse nature, but tradition was tradition and the bloodline must flourish. So he took measures to assure that his son was kept away from queer temptations.

That is why when looking at the excited and nervous gaze of his son, so discernibly fixated on the Black Wolf, anger boiled within his chest.

Stiles turned to whisper to his friend, though his voice was always so boisterous, it was a pointless endeavor. All those within his immediate vicinity could hear him.

"Scott, what else do you know of the Black Wolf?" The prince asked, with troubled eyes. As he watched, the trepidation was almost unbearable. Though the Black Wolf was highly skilled and an expert in his swordsmanship, Stiles found that the distance of the other warriors' blades made him uneasy.

Perhaps it was caused by his earlier revelation? When the prince had first laid eyes on his handkerchief, fastened around on the Black Wolf's person, he felt his chest swell. Perchance their prattle was held on higher regards than Stiles had thought? That alone had him smiling far brighter than he thought appropriate.

Scott, who stood behind the prince's chair, leaned down to whisper into his friend's ear.

"I could not believe it when I first heard it myself, but today amongst the gossip of townsfolk I had discovered his true identity. He is Crown Prince Derek, Son of Joseph of the Hale family. He is the rightful heir to the ruined Kingdom of Vilkas." As the words fell from his friend's mouth, Stiles felt himself gaping unto the battlefield, eyes instantly finding...finding...Derek Hale. Crown Prince. Rightful Heir to the Kingdom of Vilkas. Stiles felt his heart sink into his stomach, but his mind had ignited into a whirlwind of awe, and a newfound desire to know more.

The Black Wolf, most feared, savage, brutal and ferocious warrior Stiles had ever heard or seen of, was a Crown Prince. The enlightenment excited the prince to his core, though he could not discern why.

"Derek Hale..." Stiles echoed, voice but a whisper.

Oh yes. Stiles would most definitely be seeing the Black Wolf again.