Chains of jagged grey rock twist along the coastline, scattered amongst the sand and standing out in the shallow water. As the sea's tide continuously roars and undulates, dark slabs of stone appear and disappear, beaten into a labyrinth over hundreds of years. In gaps where the water recedes, small whirlpools swirl and reveal hidden crevices filled with coarse sand and bright green algae, before being blotted out by a crashing wave. Gulls coast on the breeze, calling to each other in the sharp blue sky, diving down into crevices if they spot a morsel. On sunny days like today, the maze of rock is perfect for human children to explore and hunt down crabs, but it's much too early in the morning and there are no kids around. Unless you count a certain 13-year-old, but he's not interested in prancing and probing. Nor is he human.

The nearby town is reflected against pale green eyes, the colour of which is loathed by its owner and reminds him of mud-covered seaweed despite flattering splatters of gold around the rectangle pupils. Squinted against the occasional spray of seawater, the murky eyes stay resolutely fixed on the distant sight. Imagined sounds are playing in his ears as the town bustles faintly. Human beings walk the cobbled streets and dirt paths, and although he has a better view of them other days, he still knows what they're doing. They casually stroll along the beach with a pipe in mouth, or they carry cargo onto waiting ships, ready to sail to unknown lands; they barter on the sides of streets and gather in groups, laughing, chatting, gossiping, singing. A band of humans seem to huddle around a corner before another one, brandishing a weapon, hurries over to scatter them. They ride on the creatures called horses and haul goods around town with carts. Green eyes fix on one's particular path before it disappears behind a building, out of sight. The clothes they wear look weird, but they're layered and brightly coloured and worth hours of pondering. What do humans use to dye those clothes? What are they made out of? What are the things on their feet called? Are they optional? Is their skin white on the lower half of their bodies, or is that more clothes?

The water stirs behind him, and a cheerful "Brother~!" rings out crisp and clear against the roaring waves. He doesn't bother to lift his head off his palm or turn around or even respond. Instead, he stays put, keeping his lower two arms folded under his chest and leaning against the rock. His attention is so focused that he doesn't even notice one of his tentacles idly curling and flexing out of the water, a habit when he's deep in thought. Despite this, his younger brother is smiling up at him, chin submerged in the water and brown hair dripping.

"Breakfast is ready, if you want any."

"Thanks," the elder brother says simply, just barely loud enough to hear over the tide.

Glad to have not been ignored, his brother nods happily, a single curl bobbing. He sinks back into the water and glides under a crevice, squeezing himself through a hole in the rocks and into their home. After four blotched tentacles slide through, the opening is completely concealed when a slab grinds into place.

Pale eyes continue to stare out in the distance, envying that foreign world.

"Your highness!"

Red eyes blinked into focus, and Gilbert turned his gaze away from the window, towards his visibly annoyed tutor. He was lying on his stomach, his stick of stibnite dangling limply from his hand, not serving any use. "Yeah, I'm listening."

The small room of the castle was silent, besides for the lecture the tutor had been trying to give moments before. Models of anatomy and architecture hung motionless from the ceiling and various musical instruments lay unused in the back, while the view outside the windows was deep blue and calm; a school of wrasse swam nearby, their scales reflecting the sunbeams. There was no reason for the prince to pay attention on such a beautiful day.

"You are certainly not listening," Signore Roderich Edelstein huffed. "You were daydreaming and tuning out this entire lecture." He impatiently tapped his metal staff against the map, the one which took up half the wall, the one that had been commissioned especially for the king and painstakingly carved and painted by a skilled craftsman, the one Gilbert probably should've been paying attention to.

"I was listening!"

"Then tell me what kingdom borders us in the south!"

"Masmavi!"

"Wrong!" The staff hit the map forcefully. "It's Pietra Lucida! Masmavi is in the other side of the sea!" Gilbert frowned, staring at the map with exasperation. The tutor cleared his throat and gently tugged at the bottom of his vest to straighten it out, then returned to pointing at different areas of the map. "Pietra Lucida, as I stressed mere moments ago, has been trading with us for centuries. They are known for having an impressive amount of exotic human goods from the Kingdom of Sicily–this island here–but the United Adriatic Republic on the other side of the peninsula has a far better–"

The prince blinked slowly, cheek resting against his hand, and his eyes wandered over to the window again as the tutor's words turned to mush in his ears.

"–due to their greater geographical advantage. Their borders have been relatively stable throughout their history, unlike–" Roderich turned to glance at Gilbert, noticing that he was spacing out again. "Your highness!" he shouted again.

Gilbert groaned loudly and chucked the stibnite up, then began rolling around on the cushion in protest. The models above stirred, disturbed by the current he was creating. His writing utensil gently drifted back down and landed on the ground with a tap before being tossed up again by the prince's thrashing tail.

Roderich, having long been used to the teenager throwing childish tantrums, waited for it to end.

"This is so pointless!" Gilbert shouted as he finally came to a stop, arms thrown out in exasperation as he lay on his side. "None of this geography shit is going to benefit me right now! I'd be more interested if we had enemies, but no one even hates us! Do you know how long it's been since we've been involved in a war?! We're at peace!"

"For the time being," the tutor stressed. "You never know what will happen. As the future king of Marella, you must always be prepared."

"Well it's dull. I'd rather practice another musical scale, not learn about, uh..." He squinted at nothing, trying to remember the country to the north.

"Just lie properly and let me finish the lesson, your highness."

Grumbling under his breath, Gilbert obeyed the first half of the demand, rolling back onto his stomach and supporting himself on bent elbows. But he continued to protest the lesson. "I need to take a bathroom break." When this was shot down on account of his bathroom break 15 minutes ago, he tried again. "I want to check on my slugs." When he was reminded that he had no pets, he tried one more time, pleading with a sharp-toothed grin. "I reaaaaaallly need to talk to Papa about stuff. You know, princely stuff. Secret royal business. Right now." Roderich simply stared unamused in response to that one, so Gilbert scowled. "Okay, fine. What's going to get me out of this room?"

The tutor smirked with contempt. "Well your highness is meeting with the princess of Languedoc today, so I can understand if you're simply dying to prepare for that."

Gilbert grimaced in horror and decided to stick with geography for a bit longer.

Meeting with potential brides was definitely a brand of torture, he had decided. Perhaps it was even classified as a level of hell. Because there was nothing more annoying than being pressured into marriage, and there was nothing more maddening than having to put up with girl after boring girl for the sake of a stupid alliance. Gilbert placed his royal collar onto broad grey shoulders, eyes studying his reflection in the polished mirror in his bedroom. He did a half turn and adjusted the sash draped over his hips, making sure the cape part was properly attached in the back, and then sighed. To him, silence was never very soothing, but the quiet of his room was heaven at the moment. He thanked whoever built the castle for the walls of his bedroom, which were thick enough to keep out any noise in the halls. It was also good for some therapeutic screaming-his-throat-out sessions when he was upset. Speaking of which, his mind drifted back to the lesson earlier. This whole marriage situation was probably the reason Gilbert ended up getting mad at the tutor and his dumb map. Honestly, he thought his dad would've let him off the hook for a few more years; but for some reason, as soon as the prince turned eighteen, the king started badgering him about getting wed. And the only reasonable excuse given so far was 'alliances.'

Gilbert clicked his tongue. The excuse was complete bullshit, and he wasn't going to accept that as a legitimate reason. Not even from his own father. And so, until given a suitable explanation–"Or a longer fucking deadline," he uttered bitterly–he would continue to be difficult when meeting girls. Of course, he knew the importance of appearance when it came to ambassadors and rulers, and he knew how disappointed his father would be if he skipped out, so he at least made an effort to attend said meetings. Just like today.

But that didn't mean he had to choose any of the girls.

Not to mention, the few girls he had already met were plain and boring, and why would he want to put up with that? "So fucking stifled. You'd think they grew up in a castle or something." Gilbert snickered at his own joke, staring into the mirror and placing his hands on his hips. Not too bad, he thought; at least he wouldn't be berated for underdressing this time. He ran a webbed hand through his silvery hair, not a speck of sand in it. A quick turn made the cape billow out. The rubies that wrapped above his caudal fin clicked as he swished his tail, and he paused for a moment to admire how the sunlight from his bedroom window caught his ear piercing and how it made his metallic collar glint. Ahh yes. Glorious luster. If there was one thing he was most proud of in his kingdom, it was their metalworking. They had long ago figured out a more efficient way of producing the metals that won't rust, and now their tools, cuffs, and jewelry were sold all across the sea and shown off in their fashion. Where the usual royal collar was made of intricate pearls and precious gems, theirs was notably crafted with titanium and silver and copper, inlaid with gold. Despite their peaceful stance, Gilbert couldn't help but think it made them look powerful. Plus, they looked damned good wearing it.

Grinning, he winked at his reflection. "Babe, you're the only one for me."

The muffled voice of a servant came through the door, telling him not to be late. His smile dropped and was replaced with a look of disgusted acceptance. It was showtime. He sighed and ran a finger under the collar, and finding nothing more to eat up his time, his royal highness Prince Gilbert Carriedo of the Kingdom of Marella headed towards his doom. He could already hear that stuffy title being loudly announced as he punched the wall next to his door for the third time that month.

For a country that boasted the most advanced metalworking in the entire Mediterranean, it was surprising that the capital's castle was not made of gleaming titanium. Instead, the mainly stone structure was one of the oldest buildings within a hundred kilometers of the Italian peninsula. The massive, domed throne room in particular was rumored to be the oldest part. While other sections had been added and rebuilt over the past several hundred years, the throne room was estimated to have been built almost a thousand years ago. Sometimes that age showed: large stone bricks, cut to the perfect shape, were cracked in a few areas where the walls met the ceiling, threatening to crumble under the eternal weight. Columns and arches had chips and scratches scattered on them where people had gotten too rowdy in the past, and the entire space was not as lustrous as it must have been originally. But these flaws had often been admired by rulers of the past and present; the current king, Antonio, fondly called it 'beautiful aging.' And nobody ever dared to say the place was decaying when the historic art on the walls and colourful stained glass windows were breathtaking on their own.

It was in this room that the foreign royalty were expected to arrive. On any other day, the large space would be empty and peacefully silent, with not a single sound echoing off the stone walls. But unfortunately, Gilbert was currently in attendance. Which meant that impatient grey fingers were rhythmically tapping against the eight-hundred-year-old red coral throne he was slouched in, and the taps were reverberating softly all around the room. It probably explained why the king was glaring with such intense dissatisfaction. But Gilbert figured, as he stopped and hesitantly curled his fingers up after making eye contact, that his father was also mad about the whole situation. Which was somewhat understandable. It had been a few months since this ordeal began, and patience was wearing thin between the two. Although Gilbert's was probably wearing thinner, since their visitors were running late today, and the absolute worst thing in the world was having to wait. Oh, how he loathed waiting. So as the royals and attendants kept waiting in the vast, arched room, Gilbert moved from tapping his fingers to clicking his razor sharp teeth together, subconsciously trying to fill the endless silence.

Stationed to the right of him, arms folded behind his back and royal collar perched proudly on his shoulders, Antonio was a sharp contrast to his son. Between his spotted, bright red and yellow skin and Gilbert's lighter grey and white palette, it was a surprise to many that they were father and son. The obvious truth was that Gilbert had been found by Antonio and his late wife as a toddler, and the two had raised him as their own; but even considering that, it was hard to imagine a more opposite pair. Gilbert was much taller than his dad, they had completely different taste buds, and Antonio's kind and respectful demeanor clashed with the prince's roguish nature, although the king kept reassuring everyone that Gilbert was just going through that awkward teenage stage.

And of course, today's meeting was a great example of how they clashed the most.

"Behave yourself," Antonio uttered as he glanced over at his son again. Gilbert wasn't sure if he meant the clicking thing or the refusing-every-girl-he-met thing.

A servant slipped through the large double doors a moment later, holding the oversized handles behind his back as he spoke. "King François Bonnefoy and Princess Monique of the Languedoc Kingdom, requesting an audience with His Royal Majesty and His Highness."

"Let them in," Antonio said, perking up.

Both doors were slowly pulled open. Gilbert mouthed along as the servant proceeded to formally announced him and his father, having heard the same sentence too many times. The foreign king swam in, followed closely by his daughter, both holding themselves with dignity while draped in multicoloured pearls and stunning blue clothing. François' golden hair was tied back in an elegant way that distracted everyone from the long, messy bangs and lazy stubble. Monique looked much neater in comparison, with a large mass of pearls resting on her shoulders and perfectly groomed chestnut hair, but she didn't even bother to smile like her father.

Gilbert squinted. "The girl looks unsociable," he muttered.

"Don't prejudge."

François stopped and gave a sweeping bow to the two, grinning broadly at them. "Yes, we are finally here, terribly sorry for the delay! Antonio, it's been far too long! Nine years?" The heavy French accent made Gilbert cringe, despite himself. At least it was proper Italian.

"I think the Tyrrhenian Conference was seven years ago," Antonio said, index finger pressed to his chin thoughtfully and smiling faintly. "Right?"

"No no, my friend, I swear it was longer than that!" The foreign king rushed forward and draped an arm around Antonio's shoulders, beaming. "And if not, it seems like that long. But yet here we are, reunited again! Does it not feel exuberant?"

The prince zoned out of the conversation, only slightly taken aback by the amount of friendliness between the two, and his crimson gaze wandered over to the waiting princess. Their eyes locked for a moment before she nodded, silently acknowledging his existence. The young merman grinned, making sure she saw his teeth. But she seemed unfazed by them. His expression faded. With someone as dull as her, he knew this was going to be a long day.

"Gilbert," Antonio suddenly said, getting his attention. "Greet Princess Monique Bonnefoy cordially." The last word was definitely stressed. Gilbert turned his attention toward Monique again, an eyebrow cocked in unimpressed boredom. He lifted himself off the throne and drifted closer to her, looking her up and down, not caring how rude it must have seemed to be blatantly sizing her up. She was pretty, he had to admit–sandy brown hair, blue eyes, a nice figure–kind of short though, a plain face, and seriously, did she ever smile? He stopped a meter in front of her and gave his greeting.

"Yo."

The sound of Antonio softly face-palming resonated in the quiet room, while François snorted amusedly.

"Good afternoon," Monique replied with arms delicately crossed, eyes lidded to match the prince's own uncaring gaze. The room was silent yet again, the young royalty staring each other down while the two kings waited on the sidelines. An awkward mood settled upon the older mermen, who both realized this was going nowhere.

"Your son is very..." François searched for the right word. "...Charming. Although I must admit, you two look nothing alike."

"Perceptive of you," Antonio replied, subtly making fun of the western king. "He was adopted. My wife and I were never able to have children."

Gilbert didn't appreciate being talked about as if he wasn't in the room, so he looked over at the two kings.

"Papa, may I be excused?"

"No," Antonio said without even looking.

The prince frowned, lip curled, and turned back towards Monique. His dad definitely would not let the visitors leave without him and the princess striking up some form of conversation. And having no other choice, he took a stab at it. "...So. What do you do for fun," he asked flatly. Not that he cared much for the answer.

"Gamble." Actually no, he cared very much for the answer now; that was an interesting answer.

"Really," Gilbert responded, eyebrows raised. "Then how much you wanna bet they won't let us out of their sights for the entire day?"

Monique's eyes suddenly showed a mischievous spark, her voice lowering so their parents didn't hear them. "I will wager fifty mar that they will make us take a long stroll around the garden or attend an event, followed by a formal dinner, all of which will be closely monitored." She subtly patted the small satchel at her hip, showing that she indeed had the funds to back up that bet. Gilbert got the very pleasant feeling that she was accustomed to this type of nonsense and didn't want to be here either.

"I don't know how much that translates into ranne, but you're on."

A few hours later, the two teenagers found themselves on the darkened and abandoned outskirts of town, Monique smiling successfully and Gilbert trying to hold back his snickering. The princess handed over a few hefty coins from her satchel, dropping them into the prince's opened palm. "Fifty mar, as promised. Since they weren't able to settle us for our dinner date."

"That's because we snuck out," Gilbert said, his head still reeling from the excitement. He was a professional at sneaking away, but the two of them working together proved to be simply fantastic. After suffering through an outdoor game that was more or less forced upon them, it was only a matter of time before the two were able to quietly slip out of the castle when their fathers' trusting backs were turned. Not a single guard spotted them on their way out, either. Everything went smoothly. The prince palmed the coins, still smiling wildly. "But I'll gladly accept the winnings, thanks. Do you think they're mad?"

"No. 'Mad' is not strong enough to describe how they must feel." With that comment, Monique turned and started heading west, calling over her shoulder. "I am going to visit Lipari and then head home. Good luck with your marriage plans!"

"You too!" Gilbert shouted back. "Maybe they'll give up on us eventually!"

"We can only hope...!"

The prince tucked the foreign currency into a pocket of his sash and headed off in the opposite direction, intent on having a little fun somewhere. A small pang of worry started to crawl into his gut, but he shook it off immediately. He tended to pull these kinds of stunts a lot–his dad must have been used to it by now, right? Surely he wasn't that mad. Definitely not.

Maybe not.

Actually, the farther Gilbert swam out, the more trouble was probably waiting for him back home.