“I don’t understand,” I sighed, “Why do we have to obey everything the Nobles tell us to do?”

“Weston, there are times when we have to keep our heads low, so that we can keep the roof over our heads.” Pops replied, while mopping the stone castle dining hall.

Let me back up for a minute. My name is Weston. I don’t really have a last name because, well I don’t really where I came from. Pops isn’t really my real dad, he found me when I was three. Ever since then, I’ve come to work with Pops as a servant-boy for the Nobles at the castle of Levente.

Nobles are most wonderful, glorious, outstanding group of narcissists that fate ever birthed. I mean, the snotty prince of the late king’s third half-brother (I’m not even sure why I remember that…) asked me to spend the entire day holding a mirror in front of his face so that he make sure every strand of his hair was in line for the “Walk in Front of Pretty Noble Girls So That I Look Popular” day. Gah. Why, there was that time —

“Weed boy! Stop standing there staring at a wall and take me to my room! I don’t have all day!”

I turned around to face Beachball-Princess Gertrude. As always, she was already halfway through her fifth marzipan. I strided forward to pick up the bossy mass of dough, and proceeded to trudge my way to her quarters. Up the stairs. Seven floors up. Geez.

After what seemed like an hour of “You’re taking too long!”’s and “Hurry up, my make-up is melting!”’s, I finally met the end of my quest. Resisting the temptation to roll her down the stairwell, I escorted Gertrude to the door of her castle chamber.

I left before I was tormented with a second wind of insults.

Are all Nobles whiny pain-in-the-necks? No, there were some that could be worse, like the Lord Dagart, who whipped seven servants at once just for the sport.

I really think all the Nobles were born bad — so detached from the “commoner” society, that none of them could tell the difference between a pumpkin and a melon. I mean —

Dangit. Prince Narcissus is calling me.

“Hey, mirror boy, hold this mirror!”

“I’m due to sweep the halls today by request of the head butler. No exceptions, he said.”

“Are you questioning my authority?”

His sneering reminded me of a rat. A white naked rat. I probably shouldn’t have snickered, because the next thing I remembered was lying on the front hall carpet.

I won’t list the next few, say, colorful phrases he spouted the next ten minutes, but while he was swearing off a symphony (complete with trumpets), another person came into my view.

“Hey, lay off him, Prince Rose.”

(I probably should have mentioned that self-absorbed prince was named with a “girly” name, but that’s aside the matter.)

“DON’T CALL ME THAT!”

I looked up, and saw that it was the late king’s heir, Prince Farid.

“Just because you’re the direct heir to the throne doesn’t mean you can boss me around.”

Idiot.

“…” Farid just stared at Rose, with the kingly glare that all proper leaders attain (in staring lessons…?). Rose, staying true to his wimpy nature, backed away, then ran off to the end of the hall, with his cursing easing into a decrescendo as he disappeared.

“You okay?” Farid stretched out his hand.

I acknowledged the offer, but I got up myself.

“I’m fine, thanks.” I wasn’t about to get in trouble touching another Noble, especially after what I just escaped from.

I left Farid behind in the front hall, and headed off to start my work. I reached the broom closet, and grabbed a broom.

All Nobles are born bad, but I think I can make an exception.