Free The King's Blood by S. E. Zbasnik, Sabrina Zbasnik

to hell. It did lean a bit, but he doubted his old nurse would have cared.
    Some men gathered around the table painted a cheery blue, one accidentally dropping his mug onto the doorbell that was still hooked up. A handful of others took up permanent residence at the bar itself, formed mostly from old apple crates which, judging by the piquant smell of rotten fruit, still had a few non-evicted tenants.
    "Regulars," Ciara mumbled under her breath as she turned from the bar and pointed towards a circular table, greener than a meadow's lawn. 11 She tossed her burden on top and turned to Aldrin, motioning to a chair where the back legs were sawed a good two inches shorter than the front giving it a major lift.
    He settled his things down on top of hers and watched the girl pace up to the bar, her hood starting to slip off. Aldrin tried to inconspicuously sit in the chair but the challenge to gravity caused his legs to fly up and kick hard into the green door, rattling the bright brass knob in the middle.
    A few eyes perked up at that and background conversation, undetectable at first, grew still. Each ear waited to see what the outsider would do next. As Aldrin struggled to pull himself forward, a few grizzled grunts responded as he failed to rise from his seat. This approach going nowhere, the boy then tried tipping all the way back, hoping a fall to the floor would offer some freedom, but his legs caught again, rattling the knob a second time.
    More grunts, these short and quick like a pig rooting through the ground, followed suit. Growing tired of this game, Aldrin pushed his body to one side and fell butt first onto the ground. The table of grunts erupted into full apple peals of laughter, a few even clapping, as Aldrin struggled to his feet, turned the chair backwards, and leaned upon it like a sled.
    A set of bags fell into his vision and a then a dark glare, "If you were trying to draw attention to yourself, mission accomplished."  
    Ciara slid a plate towards the prince, its gray mass congealing quickly now that it was away from the warm fire. He gingerly raised a spoon to the slop and poked it, the mass jiggling a bit as if it were laughing at Aldrin as well. Then the smell, a pungent mix of onions, old boiled beef bones, and 'them's spices what we don't ask what they is' found purchase in his nose.  
    For the first time since watching his fellow countrymen get sliced up like Soulday ham, hunger stampeded back inside twisting his intestines like a pretzel. He gobbled down the beef surprise faster than the eye could follow, getting some in his ear. Never before had mush flavored beef (or beef flavored mush, it was hard to tell) tasted of pure ambrosia, or ambrosia substitute. A small tear dribbled down his cheek, offering some much needed salt to the dish, but Aldrin didn't care. He'd have gladly eaten this culinary nightmare for a week straight. Going without was a good duller of the palate.  
    The girl watched, intrigued by the nobility's table manners, but not really surprised. If you couldn't do something however you wanted without consequence, it wasn't worth doing for the landed gentry. She, having a fairly good idea just what was inside the slop of the day, took her time trying to not throw off her stomach.
    Aldrin licked his plate clean, dragging his fingers along the edge and slopping the last bits onto his tongue. He felt the eyes upon him again from across the room, seeming to wait for something exciting to happen. The boy slowly lowered his spoon onto the plate facing to the left to signify to the servants the meal was finished. He watched the girl twitch, as if she were supposed to pull the thing away before he could berate her, but she continued to eat her meal slowly. Aldrin got the message, this wasn't a castle anymore and he wasn't a child. Sliding back off his sled chair, the boy rose, carrying his own plate back to the bar.
    The regulars didn't even flinch as Aldrin loudly dropped his plate onto the