Running With Wolves

Lukas was gazing at Keya with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. What could this woman possibly tell him that his own elders could not? Part of him understood that whatever she told him would change everything—and he was not so sure he wanted that.

She was peering out across the crystal clear water with a soft smile on her pale lips and a gentle sadness in her dark eyes.

“Well let’s see, I suppose the first thing that many leave out about Razvan and Christof is that it was not just the two friends on an adventure. There was Christof and Razvan, yes, but there was also another. A girl by the name of Salvia who sent their lives into a dizzy.
Second of all, their tale was no adventure but very much a tragedy.”

“What happened?”

“I suppose their story began when Salvia Lupei, a princess, first took pity upon a Royal’s bastard when she was fifteen years old…”



Salvia Concordia Lupei was a curious and spirited girl by everyone’s standards. She had long shiny hair that fell passed her lower back and it made every woman envious and eyes of the most beautiful shade of green; such as that in the gemstone of a crown. She was also an obedient child by nature who had been taught from a young age that to disobey her parents was a terrible offence. Of course, just because she obeyed her parents did not mean she particularly enjoyed doing so.

Most days Salvia dwelled within the confines of her room rather than roam about the grounds of her home or socialize with other royal girls her age. She would much rather be in her room than listen to her mother prattle on about potential suitors for a future husband, or listen to other princess’s gush about their newest silks.

Many times, like today, Salvia sat upon her red velvet window seat peering down at the square full of people going about their daily lives. Sometimes Salvia would make up stories about why the baker was yelling or where the young mother with her toddler son was going in such a hurry.
Salvia usually found herself wishing she was one of these simple towns folk. To be but a real person with their own actions and decisions and not a puppet of her parents every demand.

The sun was shining on this particular day and there were pretty red birds outside her window singing cheerfully; Salvia herself could not manage such a cheerfulness. Her parents had left earlier in the day to attend a wedding out of the country. They would be spending a great majority of the summer there where Salvia knew that they would be also hunting for a husband that would tether others to them; making them allies through her marriage.
She tried not to think about this so today, more so than any other day, Salvia would imagine what her life would be like outside these castle walls.

Down below a big burly dirty looking man with thinning raven colored hair was yelling at a much smaller man. At a closer look, although the one being scolded appeared older, do to the fact that he was just as tall as the angry man, he was but a boy. In fact if Salvia could guess he was no older than herself.
The man was swearing angrily at the boy when he suddenly struck him, causing the boy to fall over backward. He did not let out a cry of pain at the violent action, just peered up at the man from the cobble stone ground. Her heart clenched for the boy and a lump formed in her throat. Salvia glanced around at the other people within the square, not one had bat an eye, not one person would come to this boy’s aid as the man drew his belt and began whipping the boy.

Salvia did not know what had took over her but she had finally found herself racing from her room, down the stairs passed the servants, out the large lavishly decorated front door, through the terrace, and out into the square.

“Stop!” She yelled, running toward the man. “Please, I beg of you stop!” Yet still the man did not cease his attack, probably not realizing that she, royal, could mean to speak to someone so beneath her as he, a blacksmith.

Salvia could see the dirty torn up shirt the boy wore was slick and stained with blood and it momentarily made her feel faint; she had never been so close to blood before.

“Stop it! I demand it! Stop!” Salvia did not know what came over her as she ran up to the boy, fell to her knees and threw her arms across him, shielding him from the whipping. The belt struck her shoulder with a biting edge and she let out a cry of pain, tears springing to her eyes. Yet Salvia did not move from where she sat protectively over the boy.

The man’s hand was raised in the air to inflict another blow when he paused, surprised by the girl’s boldness.

“Get out da way girl,” He demanded gruffly, not at all apologetic for his accidental blow to the girl.

“Hey!” A voice barked angrily. The new voice caught the beater’s attention and he turned in surprise to see a lavishly dressed young man in decorative armor. His hand was on the hilt of his sword as he approached. “Surely you are not raising your hand against the princess of Bucharest.”

A wave of relief washed over Salvia at the sight of him; distantly she wondered when he had arrived to Romanian. He was her dearest friend but he was here now as no more than a babysitter in her parents’ absence.

“Princess of…” The beater had gone pale, his face slacken, as his small blood shot eyes landed on Salvia. Suddenly he fell to his knees. “Forgive me princess, I meant ye no harm. Surely I wou’nt never laid a hand against ye had I but known.”

“Then what is it exactly you thought you were doing?” His voice was cutting and distantly Salvia thought he had been spending too great a time around his father.

“Th-the boy,” He spluttered. “TIs the boy—I-I was teachin’ him a lesson, she put ‘erself in der way of me belt.”

“You blame the princess for your actions?” His voice was cold but filled with surprise by the man’s boldness. He glanced over his shoulder. “Guards! In the name of my father, the King Of Budapest, I order you to seize this man.” His eyes narrowed on the beater. “Surely if the King of Romania will not have him, I shall.”

Four guards flanked the prince, grabbing for the man who was suddenly begging for his life.

“Please I beg of ye!”

“Perhaps the next time you may rethink your methods in—teaching.”

Then the guards took the beater away and Salvia never saw him again. It was only now that she realized that while the beater assaulting the boy had not drawn any attention, she had; the square had stopped in the bustle of their own lives to stop and stare on at the commotion.

He was standing over her then, his eyebrows furrowed in a mixture of concern and disapproval, his chapped lips pressed into a thin line

“Princess,” he muttered reaching for her hand.

“How many times must I insist upon you not to address me that way, Chris.”She grumbled accepting the help to her feet. It was only than that she glanced down and realized that the boy had not moved from where the beater had struck him down. His large hazel eyes were wide with adrenaline and fear as he peered up at the two.

Christof reached for the boy’s hand and apprehensively he accepted the gesture, half afraid he too would be dragged away for insulting the prince if he did not take the hand.

“What is your name?” questioned Christof curiously.

The boy swallowed “My name is Razvan.” He’s gaze slid to Salvia and he bowed. “Thank you for your kindness, m’lady.”

Salvia swallowed hard but said nothing as she took in the boy. He was bloody, dirty, and scared, nothing a royal would glance at once much less twice and yet Salvia had found herself inexplicably throwing herself over him to protect a boy she did not even know; she wondered distantly what it was like to be so dirty and scared.

“Why were you being beaten?” Christof demanded.

Christof himself was only a few years older than Salvia but at eighteen he was very much a man. He had seen the harshness of war, had killed men with the very sword his hand rested against lazily, and sooner rather than later he would become King of Hungary.

The boy’s eyes fell shamefully. “I sold a sword that was not mine to sell.”

“You stole it?”

“No, m’lord.”

“Explain yourself.”

“I am but a Blacksmith’s apprentice. I made a sword that a knight developed a liking for and wished for it to be his own. I told him I could not sell it—everything I make is property of my master, but he insisted. I was but a coward, m’lord, I feared the knights wrath more so than my master’s and so I sold him the sword.”

“But you made the sword, surely it was yours to sell.” Salvia argued not understanding the logic. Razvan’s eyes flickered to Salvia but he said nothing more. Only a fool would disagree with a royal.

Salvia glanced at Christof, her best childhood friend, for some sort of help for surely there was something that could be done.

But when Salvia glanced up at Christof she saw his face contorted in a momentary look of puzzlement. Christof reached for Razvan’s chin with his hand and forced him to look Christof in the eye. A look of recognition flashed across his face and suddenly Christof let him go, suddenly looking elsewhere, his mind’s eye remembering something that left him troubled.

“You shall come with us,” Christof announced.

The news pleased Salvia to know that he would be within the sanctuary of her home but when she looked at Razvan she saw nothing but deeply rooted fear in him.

“Don’t worry,” Salvia smiled cheerfully. “you’re safe now.”

Yet Razvan did not find comfort in the young princess’s words.



“What were you thinking Salvia?”

They were within the castle walls, in the wing set aside for guests. Salvia was standing with her back to Christof in the dimly lit chambers of his bedroom. The right shoulder of her dress had been pushed down to reveal her milky skin that was now blemished with discoloring and cut open bloody.

She was biting down on her lip to keep from crying out as Christof cleaned and dressed the wound. They had decided that it would be best if the king did not know his dearest daughter had run out of the castle and into the square, not only alone but to throw herself onto a dirty orphan boy being belted and ending up receiving a lashing herself.

“I don’t know,” She mumbled. “I just saw him in the square and I wanted to help him. No one would help him.” She frowned. She turned to Christof then with large innocent eyes. “Why would no one help him?”

“It is no one else’s business for how one punishes his ward.” he stated roughly.

“Ward?”

“Yes Salvia, the boy is an orphan.”

“Yes I know, but how could an orphan boy possibly afford a learning from a blacksmith.”

Christof paused in his dressing of her wound and for a long moment he stared at the gash, frozen in thought. “You pay too much attention to the inner workings of this city, Princess.”

“Papa says it is good to know how our people live.” She turned to Christof. “What are you hiding from me?”

Hesitation flickered behind his eyes but then Christof sighed, if he did not tell her surely Salvia’s curiosity would find answers, and trouble, elsewhere.

“Someone has paid the blacksmith to educate the boy in the craft.”

“Why?”

“It would seem, someone has taken an interest in the bastard of a duke.” He stated quietly.

“A bastard of a duke?” she echoed in surprise. “Whose?”

“Princess,” he begged quietly, suddenly becoming wary. He knew Salvia would not let this go—he knew her curiosity and ignorance would get them both into trouble.

“Do not call me that.” She snapped, her eyes narrowing on him at the term ‘princess’. “Whose is he?”

“Well,” Christof swallowed. He knew she would never let this go. He had known Salvia long enough to know that when she wanted information she would find a way to manage it. “He does appear to have an uncanny resemblance to the Duke of Constanta…”

“The Duke of Constanta!” Salvia exclaimed scandalized, her eyes wide with shock. “But isn’t Lord Flavin your mother’s brother?...for that matter is he not also married?”

“Yes,” Christof stated warily. The last thing he wanted was to get caught up with the politics of saving his drunkard uncle’s bastard. Salvia would never let this go and both of their fathers would have a great deal to say about today’s events if it ever became known.

“But that would make Razvan—“

“My cousin—illegitimately.”

It was silent for a long time. Even Salvia knew what that could mean. Lord Flavin’s wife could not bare children. His sexual escapades were wide and varied and he was not very discreet by any accounts. However, it was only now that anyone had ever actually heard from one of his bastards.

“Does that mean…”

“Don’t.” Christof begged warily. He didn’t want to hear her say it. He did not want to have to acknowledge just how much trouble he may have evidential gotten himself caught up in.

“…that Razvan, because Lord Flavin has no legitimate airs, that he could be a Marquess ?”

“Princess Salvia,” Christof mumbled warily. “you are far more trouble than anyone has ever given you credit for.”



“Razvan was a bastard son?” Lukas questioned genuinely surprised. No one, not one person had ever retold this version of Christof and Razvan the way Keya was now. Yet Lukas had a strange feeling, like distant déjà vu that Keya was more right than any of the elders back home.

“Yes he was,” Keya smiled. “and the biggest thorn in the royal family’s side.”

“Did Razvan want the title, any title from his father?” Somehow Lukas doubted it.

“No,” She stated with a certain fondness, “He did not. Razvan had known the cruel harshness that could be Salvia and Christof’s families. Razvan simply wanted to go on living in peace without making any waves.”

“…but that did not happen did it?” Somehow Lukas was beginning to feel like he had heard this story before and yet he had no idea how that could be possible.

“No, it did not.”