"There's plenty more shit where that came from, Your Highness."

Hans scowled at the noxious pile of manure that had just been dumped before him. Since being returned to his kingdom as a prisoner of war, he had been branded by his 12 elder brothers as a traitor and a criminal worthy of being sent to the highest security prison on the southernmost isle of the Southern Isles. For the past two years, day in and day out, the former prince once 13th in line for the throne had been reduced to stable-cleaning duty.

The night warden sneered once more at him before turning to leave. In a flash, Hans was up on his feet.

The warden stopped in his tracks. He looked down to see the prongs of a pitchfork, slick with fresh blood–his blood–protruding from his chest. Turning shakily, the last thing the warden saw before slipping into black oblivion was Hans' smirking face as he stood gripping the weapon that had landed the fatal blow.

The man fell with a sickening thud and was still. Bright red seeped into the hay beneath him as Hans casually strolled over, stepping over the fresh pool of blood that reflected the warm orange glow of the torchlight. Stamping a disrespecting boot atop the dead man's back, Hans reached down and easily slid the ring of keys from the warden's coat, pressing the man's lifeless body into the ground for good measure as he straightened back up. When he lifted his boot, a feculent print was left behind.

Upon reaching the docks, unseen under the cover of darkness, the prince found that his companions were already waiting. Two bulky silhouettes stood ready at the sails of their getaway ship, and Hans couldn't help but crack a devilish smile.