Nothing Left to Lose

Neylon

My hands gripped the white porcelain of my intricate mask, feeling every single chip, every single scrape that it had endured whilst travelling with me. It had been with me for many long years - three and one quarter, to be exact - and it was still the item that meant the most to me.

I brought it up to my eye level, staring at it with ease, taking in the black swirls of the raised design, the delicately carved eye slits, and the encrusted black jewels. There were no feathers or gaudy things about this very mask. It was simple and delicate and it meant more to me than anyone could ever imagine.

This mask was worn by my mother. She was a pretty woman, with fire red hair that curled ever so slightly and sparkling green eyes that sometimes changed to different shades. She had plump lips and dusty pink cheeks with a light coating of auburn freckles. I looked up to this woman and I loved her with all that I had. She was like my little tunnel of light on a stormy day, the only person that ever mattered to me.

But then she was gone, slipping through my fingers like a ribbon on a windy fall. She was there one day and the next, she wasn't. It was as if my whole world shattered around me. My light was gone, my innocence burned along with her body, and all that remained of my beloved mother was this porcelain mask.

It was the reason I was still trying to live my life.

I shook my head, flinging the same fiery hair I had inherited into my eyes, but I paid it no mind as I slid the mask over my face, hiding my identity from anyone and everything. Once the mask was securely in place, I padded over to the shack's door where my shoes were hiding, grasping them and slipping the brown leather boots onto each of my feet. The boots were so worn out from the times they've been through that they hardly even looked like leather anymore, instead slightly fuzzy to touch. And finally, with a final flick of my wrist, I took my small throwing knife and hid it in my belt.

Just in case.

Without bothering to lock the shack door behind me, I slung my brown pack over my shoulder and started to make my way over to the bright lights of the Syria Kingdom, the castle just inside the city's walls.

I had been raiding the castle for months now and hardly anyone even seemed to notice. The guards were a joke and the security of the whole place hardly worked. Besides, the only things I took were little trinkets and some food, if I ever made it to the kitchen. Anyways, it's not like they couldn't share. There were people without shelter or warm clothes or even food while the Royals just smacked their lips and refused to work, hogging everything for themselves. I was already the number one wanted bandit in about six other kingdoms - what makes a different to be a wanted man in another one? The only thing I was doing was borrowing some food to live and a bit of gold to share with some of the other homeless, parent-less children.

I watched with hungered eyes as the sky began to darken, the lights of the huge castle overwhelming the sky so it seemed brighter outside than it really would be. Hardly a soul stirred, and that's when I made my move.

They didn't called me 'Fox' for no reason. As I crept closer to the building, hardly making a sound with my large leather boots, my hair flaming in the sinking sun, I resembled exactly that - a fox.

The white walls of the castle drew nearer, the cylinder watch towers looming over me like a forty foot monster. I grabbed a hold of one of the white bricks, digging my fingers into the ledges before climbing up them quickly, at ease and confident in what I was doing. I had been practicing these moves for about three years now and I knew just exactly what I was doing.

I didn't climb for long before I came across the balcony that I used various amounts of times, sneaking into one of the Royal rooms and taking what I needed before climbing back down in less than twenty minutes. My fingers were sore as I grabbed onto the ledge, hoisting myself up so I was standing on it.

Looking around to make sure no one saw me, I slightly cracked open the sliding glass door and slipped inside, shivering as the warm air surrounded me, a contrast to what it had been outside. I smirked at my triumph for once again getting into the Royal castle without so much as a glance.

Now was the hard part. Getting the shit I needed and being discreet. The room I was in was an office or some sort, one that hardly seemed to ever be used. It was spotless with a file cabinet, a big
burgundy desk, and a huge red desk chair to go with it.

"Fit for a king," I muttered before snorting at the complete idiocy of my comment.

I wiped my fingertip onto my black jeans, noting in annoyance that I had broken the skin while climbing the wall. A stupid mistake that I hardly ever made. But nothing could be done about it, I supposed while I walked to the large mahogany door that led to one of the many hallways of the castle. I pretty much had this thing memorized by now.

I listened quietly, making sure that no maids were delivering any letters or changing any of their not-so-soiled bed sheets. Considering that it was around dinner time, I assumed that there wasn't anyone around. And I was right, as always.

While I walked around shoving gold coins and jewelry into my sack, the halls were empty. It was actually very unusual, I thought as I cautiously walked into another room, this one seeming to belong to a boy of an unknown age. It could belong to any of the three princes. Jalen, the oldest, was my guess considering the clothes lying on the floor seemed to be too big for a fifteen or eleven year old. Although, I supposed the fifteen year old could just be rather large.

I walked around the room, stopping to admire a family portrait of the royal family. I hadn't really seen any of them before, although I knew all of their names. Having a face to go with a name always helped me and I wondered if I could match the names to the faces.

The picture was painted outside in front of their rose garden, everyone looking their very best for the 'special' day. There was the queen, I assumed, with graying short hair and a blank expression on her face, and the king with a wisp of brown-gray hair, a mustache placed on his top lip. In front of them were their five children.

The eldest daughter of twenty years, Rayne, I assumed was the one with glorious locks of gold and creme colored skin. The fifteen year old son, Nathaniel, had gelled back locks, matching the color of the sister. I guessed that the eleven year old son, Tate, was the short little guy with a grin as wide as a slice of cantaloupe and darker hair. The youngest daughter, Natalia, was five, dark brown hair in pigtails and ribbons. And the last boy was Jalen. The eldest son. I brought my eyes over to his spot in the portrait, cocking my head curiously as I looked at him. He was-.

Loud footsteps interrupted my train of thought and I cursed under my breath, head flinging around wildly as I looked for somewhere, anywhere, to hide. A wardrobe sat next to the bed, big enough for a nineteen year old bandit to fit in.

I dashed over to it, heart pounding in my chest, the footsteps nearing as I flung the door open and hopped inside as quietly as I could. My heart nearly stopped when the doorknob turned and a young man walked in.

He seemed frustrated, eyes glaring at the floor as he took the tie hanging from around his neck and yanked it off, throwing it to the ground. He was muttering under his breath, something I couldn't hear and he paced the room, digging his nails into his scalp in a way that was hurting me to watch.

He was gorgeous, from what I could tell. With a head full of messy black hair that seemed feathery to touch, high cheekbones, and porcelain skin, almost as white as the mask that sat atop the bridge of my nose. Now the only thing missing from his profile was his eyes.

But then something connected in my brain.

He was the boy I was looking at in that family portrait. He was a prince, but not just any prince.

He was Jalen Alexander Syria, the successor to the throne.