Papa always insisted that Rafail mingle with royalty.

It was, so the younger Marikas brother had come to learn, a means of reminding them of their long-lost place as rulers. They were the sons of Kings, after all, and they were expected to act like it in every regard – even in the companions that they kept.

Thus, the Marikas family had travelled to Taengea and an introduction had been made between Rafail and one Prince Zacharias of Mikaelidas. They were of similar age, so Papa had suggested, if solely because the five-year gap between them was far less significant than the gap between Rafail and Pavlos, and that alone seemed to indicate that they were expected to spend time together. Besides, Papa had indicated that they had plenty in common, for they were both military men and, more importantly, they both enjoyed charioteering. There had even been a comment that the Prince was one of the finest charioteers in all Hellas. Rafail, of course, never one to back down from a challenge to his ability in any matter, had been intrigued immediately and determined to prove his own worth, though it had only been a few months since he had officially taken up the hobby himself.

So far, nothing had arisen to make Rafail dislike Zacharias. The man was stoic, firm, and undoubtedly regal, which were all traits that Rafail found perfectly admirable. He was nothing like the rowdy friends that the Marikas possessed back in Athenia: a collection of reckless lords who each held a sycophantic streak of their own as they attempted to gain favour with their ruling Dynasteía. Zacharias was a breath of fresh air in that regard, and Rafail was eager to take what he could from the possibility of a friendship between the pair.

“I hear you are a fine charioteer,” he drawled in his trademark semi-bored-sounding fashion, an eyebrow quirked up inquisitively as he and the Prince walked out into the grounds. In the time that they had left prior to the evening meal that the two families would be sharing, the boys had pressed together by Papa’s insistence that the boys would like to spend some time together (any chance to have his son mingle with a future monarch), and though Rafail had originally thought himself to be far more suited to spending his time with one of the Mikaelidas daughters in particular, he had found himself to be enjoying Zacharias’ company. “I love watching the races. Papa has been taking me for years, and I started racing myself this year.”

Rafail’s words might have spoken to inexperience, but his tone added a certain arrogance that was likely unmatchable by most. He had learned to consider himself the best, and he did not take any suggestions to the contrary, even when faced by a man who many claimed had been blessed by the gods themselves. The boy was keen for a race, for even if he lost — though he was certain he could never — there was a great pleasure in riding around a course, and nothing fuelled his blood like the wind rushing past his ears and the dirt kicking up around him as he proved his worth.

Well, perhaps there was one thing.

“Your women,” Rafail began, his eyes darting toward a passing servant and his lips curling upwards to flash her a newly perfect smile, “are stunning. We have beautiful women in Athenia, of course, but in Taengea, well, they’re practically nymphs.” He was fifteen, after all, and his sexuality had been roaring for attention, finding an anchor in the looks of almost every young woman close to his age. The subject of conversation was one with which he was entirely familiar, for discussing the girls that they encountered at court and elsewhere was a favourite topic of discussion among himself and his friends, and he could not help the way his mind tended to think of them as objects for his interest. “Surely, as a Prince, you must have had your fair share of fine women, no?”