Non-Heir

The Black Mage Prequel Novella

Rachel E. Carter

Contents

Map of Jerar & Surrounding Kingdoms

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Rachel E. Carter

Copyright © 2016 Rachel E. Carter

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Rachel E. Carter

www.rachelecarter.com

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Cover Design by Deranged Doctor Designs

Edited by Hot Tree Editing

Non-Heir/ Rachel E. Carter. -- 1st ed.

To my readers,

Because you asked for more Darren and I listened.

Map of Jerar & Surrounding Kingdoms

1

The little boy grew up with rules. The most important was that of the second-born son. He didn’t understand what it meant at first, but it wasn’t hard to learn.

“Give him that knight, your highness.” A nurse points to a discarded pile of wooden figurines. “You can play with one of the others.”

A hand taps his shoulder. “No, your highness, that seat is for your brother.”

“Darren, you walk after Blayne, not before him.”

And finally:

“How many times have I told you, son? You are not to speak unless addressed.”

A moment passes as the boy’s vision grows black and a biting sting cuts across his cheek. He falls to his knees.

“You are to be silent. Only the heir should be heard.”

No one ever saw two boys when one was destined to wear a crown.

The nurse carefully tucked his brother in at night and then walked back to the door without a second glance. The servants brought out the best sweets but smacked his wrist if he reached for one first. The adults all smiled at his brother but drew silent around him.

He was nothing, even in the eyes of his brother. He could see it in the way the older boy accepted their favor like it was the most natural thing in the world. Never once did he offer anything to the boy sitting beside him, just taking for himself. Somehow, that was the worst part.

And it hurt the boy.

So he dealt with it the only way he knew how.

He retaliated and hurt his brother back.

For that transgression, the little boy spent a week in the room lined with shadows. He was only four at the time, so he didn’t remember much—except those eyes, blue like ice as the monster attacked.

His whole body burned.

He learned his lesson though. After that, when the anger became too much, he’d pick fights with the servants’ children instead.

Bigger, older, heavier boys. Girls, even. It didn’t matter who. As long as he was trading punches and tasting hot, coppery blood, he felt something besides that ache that constantly squeezed and tugged at his lungs. He could ignore the little voice that told him he was no one and he would never be good enough.

He didn’t always seek out children. Sometimes he took out his anger on the books his tutors gave him instead. He liked to watch them burn. He dreamed about orange and yellow licking across a page. Fire was ruled by no one and nothing. The flames were free. They ravaged others’ words and turned them to ash.

And they were bright, so bright.

He couldn’t look away.

A passing scholar reported him to the king, and the book burning stopped.

He tried throwing rocks at the palace gate. When the guards dragged him away, he went back to the children—or sometimes himself, a blade along his flesh if there was no one else around.

After all, pain made it stop.

Every day that passed for the next two years, the little boy’s hatred spilled over like a festering sore. It was a poison that ate away at him from the inside.

The rest of the world only saw the sun—burning, glowing, lighting up the room.

No one ever noticed the shadow in the corner.

Second-born, that was all the boy would ever be.

* * *

“W-we t-thank you—”

“Again, Blayne, louder.” The tutor’s nasal voice rang out in an impatient huff. It was as familiar as the princes’ own. They heard it five hours a day. “You are to be a king of Jerar, not a peasant.”

Darren watched his brother stammer on, stifling a yawn from his seat. He would much rather be spying on the soldiers in the barracks or practicing with sticks and pretending to be a knight.

These lessons were of little interest to a six-year-old boy, even if they were the only time he got to watch his older brother squirm.

Blayne scratched at his arm, and his cheeks grew pink.

“We thank you for attending our yearly s-solstice. The Crown thanks you for your service and offers you this f-feast.”

“With confidence!” The man adjusted his maroon collar with a roll of his shoulders. “Square your shoulders and meet your subjects’ eyes. You cower, and no one will ever respect a trembling halfwit.”

The younger boy hid a smile. The tutor was the only one who ever acknowledged his brother’s mistakes. Everyone else pretended Blayne was perfect.

The crown prince repeated the words from a paper clutched tightly in his hand. He was shaking.

Darren knew why his brother was so nervous. He’d heard the words his father said earlier that day. “No mistakes this time.”

Shiny, fat drops of sweat slipped from Blayne’s forehead as he adjusted his stance at the podium and began again.

It was the one time Darren was grateful to be the shadow. He only had to watch and smile. There were fewer chances to make a mistake that way.

Once the tutor was satisfied with Blayne’s speech, he ordered the two boys to their books.

The princes practiced over and over again, reciting the noble families and their relation to the Crown. Darren had his own names for Baron Langli, the man who loved to bring up his holdings at every meal, and for Lady Jasmine, the lady who slapped her servants in the halls, as well Lord Havesh, the man who smiled when he was cruel.

Darren’s names were better than those listed in the books. He used his pen to etch pictures in the pages, adding tails, extra legs, and fur. Blayne never complained. He liked to look at them too.

Blayne once said those were their true faces. Darren agreed.

After what seemed like hours, the man finally set them free. Both boys were tired and hungry, and while they were required at the palace tailor for new clothes, Darren convinced his brother to steal away to the kitchen first. Dinner wouldn’t come for three more hours, and with Blayne by his side, the servants would listen. They hated Darren. Their children always tattled.

“We should go soon.” Blayne’s eyes darted nervously toward the servants’ passage. He hated being late. Their father always said a king was on time.

The boy made a face. “You always worry.”

“You could stay.” Blayne swallowed. “You don’t need me here.”

Darren peeked out at the cook, Benny, who was scowling in his direction. He would never yell at the two boys for being in his quarters, not so long as one of them was the heir. The moment his brother left, the man would take the treats away.

“Just one more?”

The younger prince didn’t care if they got caught. Blayne was the worrier, not him.

“Where is he?”

Their father’s deep baritone came thundering down the hall, followed by the clatter of boots. For a moment, Darren’s stomach clenched tight, and then Blayne was shoving him through the servants’ quarters.

A second later Blayne was gone, jerked back out into the light as the door slammed shut behind Darren.

“You were supposed to be fitted for tomorrow.” Their father’s voice was low; Darren cowered behind the wall. He knew what that tone meant. The king had an audience.

“Where is your brother?”

“I… I d-don’t know.”

“And I suppose this little trip to the kitchen was your idea, too?”

The boy could hear Blayne’s quick intake of breath. He always grew quiet around their father. He sought to appease the king with obedience; Darren knew it would never work, and so he never tried.

Still, it was better not to provoke the monster.

Darren wondered why Blayne hadn’t told their father the truth. The servants hadn’t said anything, but of course, they wouldn’t unless addressed. That was another rule.

Darren held his breath, waiting.

“Are you lying to me, boy?”

He heard his brother’s gulp and then an even quieter whisper. “N-no.”

The king made a dissatisfied tut with his tongue. “Come with me.”

“Yes, Father.” Blayne’s last word came out a squeak.

The boy pressed his ear against the wooden panel. There was the crunch of boots as the man turned to the door, and then his brother’s hurried steps to match the longer stride. A minute later, when Darren was sure the two were gone, he turned the handle and peered out into the light.

The cook was already bustling around the stoves, attending to his preparations now that the king had left the room. The air was thick with the scent of baking bread and some kind of roast.

Darren’s stomach growled. The servants scowled in his direction, resenting his continued presence.

The boy reached out to steal one last apple tart and bumped against one of the serving knives. It came tumbling down, but his nimble fingers caught the hilt just before it reached the marble floor.

It was a bit too big for his hand, not meant for a child, but he liked the heft of it. And it was better than the sticks he used when he was pretending to be one of the guards. Wielding it made him feel like a daring thief or a knight. He could be a hero like the ones in the fantastical tales the nurse used to read before bed.

And so he took the knife and the tart and scampered out of the room, no one the wiser.

Darren was just licking the buttery crumbs from his fingers when he reached the Crown’s hall. It was a bit intimidating with its stone walls and swirling red and purple tile.

Two men in matching gray mail watched him as he scurried toward his chamber door. His steps echoed across marble as he ducked his head and made his way past. The knife was hidden in the back of his too-big boots. He needed to hide it before he went to the tailor, that man looked for reasons to tattle to the king.

Darren reached for the handle, which was still a bit too high without standing on his toes, and he heard a thud. His hand stilled as it happened again, followed by a whimper.

All at once, the boy’s victory was gone, and in its place was a racing heart. It slammed hard against his ribs, over and over. His palms were sweating and there was a burning in the back of his throat. He wanted to pretend it wasn’t happening.

But he couldn’t.

Darren was good at pretending, and perhaps he would have been able to, but his brother had just lied. For him.

“Just imagine you are somewhere else.” That was what Blayne had told him the first time it happened. It was their way of coping with the monster in the dark. The secret they shared. Sometimes together, other times alone.

But now Darren couldn’t pretend. Blayne could have made Darren share in the blame and the consequence, but he hadn’t.

He just wants people to like him. Blayne always wanted to please. The boy supposed he wanted his little brother to like him too.

The problem was it had worked, and now the guilt was weighing Darren down, keeping him there. He knew what he had to do. He had the knife.

Maybe this time will be different.

It wouldn’t change anything.

But Darren wanted to be a hero, and heroes couldn’t be cowards—even if they were little boys.

So he fell back on his heels and forced one foot after the other. He tried not to think about what waited inside the chamber ahead.

None of the servants were allowed to enter the hall. They couldn’t hear what came from the dead queen’s chamber. Even if they had, they would have played the pretending game. It was the rule.

Pulling the knife from his boot, the boy gripped the hilt so tightly his knuckles turned white. He could hear the cries grow as he drew close.

Inside was the only thing that scared him.

“I am a hero,” the boy whispered.

And then he opened the door.

* * *

The man didn’t notice him at first. That was good. The boy’s whole body had gone numb, and the air locked in his lungs.

The chamber was barren and dark. The king had ordered all the furnishings removed the day his wife passed, shortly after Darren turned two. Now it was a room of shade. No tapestry aligning the walls and the marble floor was left uncovered, making it one of the coldest rooms in the palace. A great pine chest was tucked neatly in a corner, its lid thrown open to reveal an assortment of weapons: leathers, whips, and a long stick with a ball of metal spikes attached by a chain. Several hilts were stained a rusty red.

Against the back of the chamber were two sets of iron manacles chained to the wall. One of the pairs was occupied.

Blayne’s short black bangs were clumped in blood, and purplish spots were forming beneath the tears of his shirt. One leg was sprawled out in a strange position.

Darren almost lost the contents of his stomach at what he noticed next: a bone sticking out of his brother’s soiled trousers.

Blayne was doing his best to avoid the lashes from the leather strap in his father’s hands. Only Lucius never missed. Every time it landed, it returned to its handler with a hiss as hot blood splattered the walls and streaked down the boy’s chest.

Darren swallowed and it felt like glass. The hand clutching the knife felt useless, limp at his side.

He could run now. It wasn’t too late. The monster hadn’t seen him yet.

But then Blayne cried out again.

Darren’s gaze shot back to the chains. His brother was writhing, sobbing, trying to hide from the king’s rage.

Blayne should have known better. The boy understood the best thing was to face the monster head on and to let it pass.

Trying to hide only made it worse.

But the crown prince had always been weak. Darren supposed it was because of their mother. Like Blayne, she had preferred to smile. That’s what they told him, anyway. Darren couldn’t remember.

The boy only knew how to frown.

But he didn’t want to lose his smile. Blayne was the only one who ever smiled at Darren. Everyone else just played pretend because that’s what the rule demanded.

So as his brother’s sobs cut the air again, the boy dove forward, his knife slashing out against the monster’s back. He pretended to be a knight and the monster a dragon.

Lunging, he cut along its leathery wing before jumping out and ducking fire.

His first try caught the beast off-guard, but the next did not.

His father backhanded him across the face. The impact sent Darren staggering back against the wall. He never had a chance to catch his breath.

The king was holding him up, a hand wrapped around his throat.

Darren gasped for air as black spots clouded his eyes. He could feel the man’s hot breath as the monster swung him right and then left, only to toss him at the wall with all the force of a brick.

The boy crumbled to the floor as the knife slipped from his hand. This was worse than the other times. He had never fought back.

The man grabbed one of his wrists and Darren whimpered.

“Don’t!”

The king silenced his eldest with a fist to the jaw. The boy screamed and hid his eyes from his little brother on the floor. He couldn’t protest again.

Darren curled in a ball.

In one swift kick after another, the man’s boots slammed into every soft space he had. A thousand needles stuck him from the inside, and hot metal coated his tongue. Each blow burned and seared his skin until the boy was sure he was afire.

Darren clenched his eyes shut as he tried to be still. But the monster wasn’t done, and it was angry. He felt each time the dragon tore at his flesh. His talons came in many forms.

Cold marble chilled the boy as something warm pooled beneath him. Darren couldn’t breathe. The pain was back, and it was terrifying. The darkness was about to take him away, but there was one bright thing that kept him awake.

The boy with the smile.

When the monster finally stopped, when he finally left, the younger boy could barely hold his breath, but then he caught sight of the other across the room. The boy with the smile was still awake.

And it was then Darren knew he could shut his eyes.

His brother was safe.

2

When Darren awoke, he was lying on a cot in a room filled with empty beds. The air was sour, a strange mix of bitter herbs and chalky powder. He recognized it from his trips before.

Every part of him ached, and when he tried to shift in the bed, his insides rebelled. The boy just barely made it to the bucket on the floor.

He was clammy all over and shaking. His whole body heaved with the effort to breathe, and the light was playing with his eyes. His mouth tasted like—the boy shuddered—blood and something foul.

There was a table next to his head.

With a trembling hand, he reached for a water-filled glass. Darren could barely lift it, but somehow he managed to get three swallows before his fingers gave way and the contents sloshed against his bed.

The sheets were soaked, but his clothes were clean. One of the healers must have changed them while he slept. Parts of him were scabbed. He could feel the coarse material of a bandage wrapped around his ribs. Another dug into the skin on his left arm when he tried to bend it.

It was as if he had been dropped from the sky and every bone shattered upon impact, and when they were put back into place, it wasn’t quite right.

There was a rustle of movement on the cot to his left and the blankets shifted. Blayne, with Darren’s same dark hair and the blue eyes of their father, was staring right back at him.

“Darren?”

The boy blinked as the memories came rushing back.

The dark room and the monster-man. His brother in a corner. The way the first blow felt.

“When he….” A lump rose and fell against the base of Blayne’s throat. “I told you to pretend, Darren…. Why did you do it?”

The boy fisted the blanket. The memories hurt. “I didn’t want to pretend.”

“Why?”

Because he was hurting you. Darren didn’t reply.

Blayne stared at the bandage on his leg. “You knew it was hopeless,” he croaked.

“I know.” The boy flushed. But I still wanted to save you.

“Don’t ever do it again.” Blayne slid off the bed and grabbed the boy by his shoulders, shaking him. “You hear me, Darren?” His voice was pained. “It’s not worth it.”

“On the contrary, it was.”

The monster’s voice rang out, and the temperature dropped in an instant. The older boy froze. The younger shoved his trembling hands under the blanket so the king wouldn’t see. Princes don’t show fear. He told himself to breathe.

Then he let the air out through his nose.

There were two healers on the other side of the room. They were treating a soldier with a missing arm. The monster would never emerge when an audience was present. That was another rule.

The king obeyed his own rules.

The man strolled down the narrow aisle to their row and paused at the edge of Darren’s cot. He studied each son, taking in their recovery. Darren could never tell whether their father was pleased or disappointed their scars were able to fade.

The boy got the impression his father would rather they stay.

The man’s face was hard and lean. Although still in his prime, his skin was weathered and lined. His eyes were two shards of ice, shrewd and calculating. Darren’s own were garnet—an uncommon, deep shade of red, easily mistaken for brown unless he was standing in just the right light. It was the one trait he shared with his mother. Lucius’s hair was clipped short like Darren’s brother, and all three shared the coal black locks so unlike the warm yellow of their mother.

The king tilted his head as he examined his youngest, ignoring the fact that his heir was still standing, quivering from head to toe.

“Starting tomorrow, you will be training with Sir Audric at dawn in the barracks,” the man said. “He is the best of Commander Salvador’s men.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “When you are done with your training, you will bathe, take your meal, and report to the library with your brother and your tutors. Understood?”

“Yes, Father.” The boy was confused. He repeated his brother’s earlier question. “Why?”

His father folded his arms and gave Darren an unsettling smile. “Because, my son, you have finally done something right. You put your brother before yourself. And as distasteful as I found your actions at the time—and there will be no repeats—I was impressed.” He cleared his throat. “The scholars were grooming you to be your brother’s advisor, but after last night… well, I can see the error of their ways. Commander of the Crown’s Army would be a much better title. Who better to protect the first-born than the second?”

Darren’s jaw dropped. He wasn’t being punished. This was a reward. He’d been tested by the monster, and he had passed.

He waited for the next words to come, but his father had already turned heel, his cape flapping as he strode toward the door.

“Father,” Blayne wrung his hands together. Even though his voice quivered, the older boy held strong. “What about me?”

“You will be spending your mornings with me. It is clear you have much to learn in the way of kings.”

* * *

The next morning, the boy arrived at the palace training grounds well before the rising sun. His father always said a king was on time, and since he would never be king, Darren hadn’t paid the words any heed. But now he did.

A knight was a hero, someone they wove into tapestries adorning the palace walls. Always golden, respected, wanted. He’d spied on the soldiers for ages, and for the first time, he would have the chance to join them. He wanted to impress this man.

“Your highness.” A man approached. His coarse red hair matched the heavy beard framing his jaw. He was a giant, larger than the boy’s father, and his legs were as wide as the boy’s head.

Darren tucked his hands behind his back. “Sir.”

“Your father tells me he wants to make you a knight. Do you agree?”

“Yessir.” The two words slipped out as one. The boy was trying so hard to hold his breath and not run up and hug the man who was bringing him freedom.

“It will not be easy.” Sir Audric furrowed his brows. “And you are only six years of age. You will not cry.”

“Yes—” the boy let the air out from his lungs, slowly “—sir.”

“I’ve heard you are a troublemaker. Defiant. That you like to bully the other children. That stops today. One word from the servants and I send you straight back to your father.”

The boy nodded earnestly. He wouldn’t need to pick fights, not if he was sparring with a knight.

“Good.” The man seemed satisfied. “Now, the first thing to take care of is your clothes. Have you a pair of training breeches and a light shirt?”

Darren shook his head. The Crown tailor only liked Borean silk and brocade. The stuffy, fancy fabrics were befitting a prince who was supposed to spend all his time indoors. The boy used to delight in making them rip, if only for the man’s horrified shriek.

“Well, then. You can report to the regiment tailor after our training. I’m sure he can whip you up a couple of pairs. In the meantime, you will wear these.”

The knight had been carrying a brown and tan bundle in his arms. Now he dumped it on the grass. A small tuft of dirt swelled up when it hit the ground.

“Thank you, sir.” Darren ran forward to gather the bundle like it was the most precious thing he owned. He proceeded to change in a nearby stall, and when he emerged, the man gave a low whistle.

“Looks like I was right. You are the same size as my daughter after all.”

“Your daughter?”

“Eve.” The corner of the knight’s lip twitched. “Surely you remember her? You picked a brawl and lost to a little girl in the gardens.”

The boy’s memory returned and he scowled. “She broke my arm. It hurt for weeks.”

“My Eve. She’s got the looks of her mother and the spirit of her father, what can I say?

What do I have? The boy wondered. Aloud he said nothing.

“Now grab one of those staffs lining the wall. We are going to start with your basic stance. The soldiers say they’ve seen you practicing with a stick outside their drills. Let’s see where your instincts are wrong.”

The boy jogged to the rack and pulled out a simple, rounded pole that was as thick as his fist and as tall as the man. It was made of wood. He looked back at the man with a dubious expression. “This is only a stick. I thought knights fight with swords.”

“Don’t be pert.” The man waved him over. “You won’t get near a blade until you can master this ‘stick.’ All the students of the School of Knighthood do the same.”

Darren had been a master of sticks for over a year. He told the knight as much.

Sir Audric guffawed. “Have at it, your highness. You give me a flawless performance this next hour, and I will bring you a sword myself. You fail even once, and you will respect your staff and dedicate yourself to its study, never again to call it a mere ‘stick.’”

The little boy smirked. “Deal.”

* * *

The knight won the bet, and the boy quickly learned he was a living, breathing mistake. His feet were wrong, his aim was sloppy, he was too quick to judge and too slow to counter.

The man had him holding a stance for ten minutes at a time. Just the effort sent the boy’s limbs quivering. And if he ever thought to release his grip on the weapon to scratch an itch or wipe away a bead of sweat, the man had him hold the pose twice as long the next time.

Then there were the drills. Up and down. Back and forth. Left and right. Simple, but tiring. The moves seemed to echo in his bones.

Darren had watched the soldiers perform dances with their weapons—spins and swoops, the stuff of heroes. The knight just laughed, telling him he couldn’t master the footwork, that it would be at least a year before they would attempt anything half so pretty with him.

A year with a stick? The boy couldn’t believe there was so much to learn.

“You are to be the best, your highness,” the man told the boy. “And you are still so young. You can’t afford to make mistakes when you are older. You practice with that staff every day. You run your laps, and you hold those stances and complete those exercises like I taught you. You do all of that, and by the time you get your sword, you’ll be ready. Three years. Not a day sooner.”

* * *

On his fourth month of practice, the boy had successfully mastered the stances. The next morning when he arrived, there was a girl standing next to the knight.

Her hair was pale and thin, almost white. She looked like a bird—hollowed bones and light skin, a bit scrawny, and had he not known her, he might have expected her to fly away with the wind.

But Darren knew better. She was the knight master’s daughter, Eve, and she was far from helpless. If anything, she was a cat—a tiny thing with claws or, in her case, a fist like iron. Though quiet, her violet eyes were fierce.

“You are now ready for a partner,” the man said. “She will be yours. From now on, the two of you will drill together. My Eve will also be attending the School of Knighthood when she comes of age.”

The boy tried to hide his disappointment that it wasn’t another boy. This girl didn’t like him, and she was better.

“You don’t get better without adversity,” the girl declared.

Darren stuck his tongue out the second her father’s back was turned.

She kicked him in return.

It was the start of several long months.

* * *

The girl beat him every time, not that he didn’t try. The little boy had never tried harder in his life. Strike. Block. Strike. Block. But Eve’s blows were heavier than his.

Darren’s hands were blistered and shiny and red. The knight warned him not to let the nurse make a fuss. “If she gives you salves, you tell her no. A real soldier is proud of those ridges and bumps. They make him a man.”

When Sir Audric finally let them train without orders, their drills got harder. Trying to think up moves and guess the girl’s wasn’t easy. He found himself making simple mistakes because his mind was too busy trying to anticipate a move in the future.

It was three months after his seventh year that the boy could finally block the girl half the time. He wondered why he was never better until he saw her later that day practicing on her own. It was then he realized how he could better himself.

So the boy started to train in his rooms. The knight wouldn’t let him take the staff off the training grounds, so he just practiced the exercises. Lifting heavy objects helped. Running every chance he could strengthened his legs. Another couple of months and he could block almost all of her moves.

But never win.

It was another year and a half before the boy and the girl were equals. By the time Darren reached nine years of age, he was ready, and so was the girl.

When Sir Audric finally gave them their practice blades, it was the best day of both their lives.

The boy was so caught up in his new world that the Crown lessons his father had ordered hardly seemed worthy. What feat was there in sitting in a boring library with his brother when there were enemies to slay? Darren skipped a couple of lessons, leaving Blayne in the hands of the angry scholars so he could practice behind the Crown stables with his sword.

One of the guards found him a couple days later. Lucius was furious when he found out what his youngest had done. He told Darren he was disappointed, and when the boy readied himself for the monster, it took Blayne instead. The king informed him that would be his price.

“Every time you neglect your studies for your own amusement, you are neglecting your duty to the Crown,” the man said. “Your brother will be the one to pay the price. This is but a small taste of how you could affect his reign. Perhaps now you will think twice about playing the fool.”

The king dragged his twelve-year-old son by the arm and slammed the door shut in front of his youngest, locking Darren outside in the hall.

Blayne’s screams haunted him all night.

The boy swore never to make the same mistake again.

When the healers finally released his brother from the palace infirmary, there were dark circles underneath Blayne’s eyes. He wouldn’t even look at Darren as the boy apologized. It was then, for the first time, that Darren understood what being the monster’s heir meant.

There was no freedom from the Crown for its heir.

* * *

When the knight master found out about Darren’s antics with the tutors, he was in trouble. The master had him sit out of drills as Eve practiced by herself. Meanwhile, the knight spent all five hours lecturing him on the importance of his Crown lessons.

“What they have to show you is important,” the man declared. “Numbers and maps will tell you how to plan your soldiers’ battles. Crown policy will dictate how you honor your brother’s rule. Knowing your noble families will tell you which are most likely to stray from the Crown. Those studies of science are what the healers and apothecaries use to treat your men’s injuries. If you find yourself bleeding and alone, you will need to know what plant can save your life.”

“But why do I need to learn about the past?” the boy complained. “What good is it to learn about old battles and people who are dead?”

Sir Audric gave him a lofty look. He’d been doing that more and more often, in addition to addressing the prince by his name instead of his title as the rest of the palace court did. The boy liked that. “History repeats itself all the time, Darren. Your enemies know this, and if you do not, they will be able to anticipate your next move. As a commander, your mistakes will have more impact than the others, you need to make sure the ones you make are not ones that could have been prevented.”

“You are lucky,” the girl told him later, following him into the dining hall. It was a grand thing, swirling marble and giant tapestries with several long tables and lots of color. Darren hated it. The others always stared at him while they ate. “My father says you have the best tutors in the land. That it’s just you and your brother.”

“So?” Darren sat down at the far end of the Crown’s personal table. It was smaller than the rest. His father had a different room for private affairs and dinner, but the king preferred they take most meals with the rest of his court. Many of the highborn families had apartments inside the palace, after all, and a wise king kept his best men close, even if it meant putting his sons on display for the rest of the world.

Eve dropped down into the seat beside him. Darren watched her in amusement. In the last three years, the girl had grown comfortable with his stony silences and biting remarks. He supposed somewhere along the line they had become friends. What surprised him was he didn’t mind.

“So I have to take lessons with the rest of them.” She raised her hand and made a sweeping motion around the room. “Not everyone is serious like us,” she added. “Half just want to be mages.”

“Mages.” The boy scoffed. “Won’t they be in for a surprise when their magic never shows.”

“I know.” She made a face. “They should be training to be soldiers or knights like us.”

“Who would ever want to be a soldier?” His tone was dry.

She just gave him a long look. “Darren.” She’d grown more comfortable with his humor, too.

The prince rolled his eyes. “If they are highborn, they have no excuse. Lowborns, well, they aren’t really that keen, are they? I doubt they’d know a staff from a stick.” He had conveniently forgotten he once hadn’t either.

“My father is lowborn.”

Darren’s confidence faltered. “But Sir Audric is a knight…”

“Yes.” She stood abruptly, her food untouched. Her lips were pursed. “Perhaps you should think about Sir Audric the next time you make fun of those less fortunate than you. No one likes a braggart, especially one that isn’t really that clever.”

Darren stared at the girl as she got up and exited the hall, a fist curling into his side. How dare she! Who did she think she was? His whole face burned in indignation. He had come to think of her as a… friend.

What a fool was he.

For a moment, he was tempted to seek out his father. The price... It would serve her right for insulting him—a prince. She should know she couldn’t talk to someone like him in such a condescending manner.

But…

Darren hesitated.

But that would make him lose the only confidant he had, and then she would keep the words inside and pretend to smile like the rest of his father’s court. At least when she spoke now, he knew the words were honest.

Nice? No. But honest.

Did he want another parrot? Another smiling, meaningless lie?

The truth was better.

Honesty, even if he didn’t like it, was better than the false platitudes of the others. She was the only one he could trust.

The most dangerous ones, the boy decided, are the ones that tell me what I want to hear. At least Eve was honest.

* * *

Darren found Eve later that night practicing her drills in front of the palace barracks. A small flare of anger rose up as he remembered her earlier words.

But he shook his head in resignation. He didn’t want to lose the only friend he had. So he pulled out his blade instead.

The girl watched him start up his drills out of the corner of her eyes. They narrowed after a couple moments of silence. “Did you tattle?”

“I have better things to do than run to my father."

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Her lip tugged up. “Because I don’t like being friends with a coward.”

“We aren’t friends.” His pride was too hurt to let her know he believed otherwise.

“We are. You just prefer to sulk.” Eve drew her own weapon in return. “If we weren’t, you would have gotten me in trouble.”

“I told you, I didn’t have time.”

“Humph.”

She didn’t bring it up again. They spent the rest of the evening practicing until dusk. But when he finally left that night, it was with the barest hint of a smile.

She’d let him win for the first time. He knew Eve had cheated, but he didn’t call her out. It was her apology, just as his apology was keeping her earlier words to himself.

Yes, he decided, a stubborn girl was twice the worth of a simpering lie. Maybe more.

* * *

A week later, Darren was on his way back from training when he noticed a figure duck behind the stables. Naturally suspicious, he’d waited for it to emerge. He knew some of the servants’ children were still waiting to avenge his bullying from the past. It was only a matter of time before they made their assault.

Let them try. He had his sword, and Sir Audric couldn’t very well blame him for defending himself.

A minute later, it reemerged.

When it did, he was surprised to find his brother.

“What were you doing back there?”

The heir smiled without blinking an eye. “Thought I saw something, but it must have been a bird.”

“A bird?”

Blayne gave an irritated sigh. “Yes, little brother, a bird. A thing that pecks and preens and flies around in the sky.” He scowled in irritation. “And what were you doing following me?”

“I wasn’t.”

“Well, you might as well now. Father will be expecting us at dinner in an hour.”

Darren shook his head. “Sir Audric wants me to practice a bit more in the evenings, says it’ll improve my aim.”

“Sir Audric sure asks a lot of you.” The prince’s mood swung dark. “You chose to obey a doddering old fool over your own brother?”

“He wants me to be the best.” The boy bristled. He liked the man, and the knight was far too young to be the cripple his brother claimed. “Don’t you?”

Blayne looked at his hands, picking out little flecks of dirt that had gotten caught underneath his fingernails. “I suppose.” He sighed rather loudly. “Just don’t stay out too late, little brother.”

“I won’t.”

Darren waited until Blayne had vanished and then sprinted over to the stables. The thick scent of horse dung and straw assaulted his nostrils as he crept around the back of the building. He wasn’t sure whether his brother had been lying or not.

It had been hard to read Blayne’s eyes in the dark.

But he was hiding something, and Darren wanted to know what.

After a couple of minutes, Darren frowned. Everything looked the same. Heavy pine, a light sprinkling of grass, nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps his brother had been telling the truth after all.

Still, his mood had been so abrupt…

Darren turned back around, and as he did, his boot brushed a mound of dirt a bit higher than the rest. He paused. The soil was looser here.

Now that he was bending down, the boy could see a small patch of black peeking out beneath the pile.

Is this what Blayne was hiding? Darren fell to his knees and began to dig.

When he touched something soft, he pulled away and peered down the hole. What he saw had him stumbling back on his hands, a horrified sound falling from his mouth as he recognized the creature inside.

A small kitten, barely four weeks old.

Darren had broken enough of his own bones to recognize the odd way the head hung off its tiny frame.

Maybe it was dead when he buried it. Maybe it broke then.

Or maybe a pair of twelve-year-old hands had snapped it in half.

Darren fought against the latter thought. Blayne never hurt anyone. If there had ever been a question of which boy would commit such a violent act, the resounding answer would have been Darren. Never Blayne.

Darren pushed himself up off the ground. His brother might have been capable of lying, and perhaps he’d grown a bit colder than years before, but he wasn’t capable of this.

The kitten must have been dead before he buried it.

It was the only explanation that made sense.

3

Another year passed with the sword, and Sir Audric decided both Eve and Darren were ready for their next weapon. The two would continue with the former, of course, but they would now also be taking up archery, which was something the boy had been looking forward to for weeks.

When the knight master pulled out three painted targets, Darren wondered who would be joining them.

“Ah, your highness, so nice of you to join us.”

Darren spun on his heel to find his brother trotting down the field. Blayne was wearing a pair of training breeches like his own, and the same shirt and wrist-guards.

Blayne smirked. “Don’t look so surprised, brother. Every king knows how to shoot.”

Sir Audric didn’t seem surprised. “I trust Commander Salvador has taught you well?”

The crown prince nodded as Darren gaped at his brother. The head of the King’s Regiment had been giving Blayne private lessons?

“For how long?” Eve’s voice rang out.

“Two years. One hour most days.” Darren was sure he detected a note of pride in Blayne’s response.

Still, the boy couldn’t help himself. “Two years?”

“So I could participate in this year’s hunt. Father wants me at the head with Salvador’s best men.” The thirteen-year-old laughed. “It’s all for show, of course, but the hunt is, after all, the Crown’s favorite sport.”

That it was. And Darren had been looking forward to impressing the others with his skills. He didn’t have any yet, but he had hoped six months would give him enough time to learn before the event was held. He was ahead of the boys his age with the sword and the staff, why not the bow too?

It irked him that his brother was already better. Darren was supposed to be the best, and yet Blayne had been receiving lessons with a better knight than him. He liked Sir Audric, but four years of playing “who is the best knight-to-be” with Eve had left him more competitive than before.

Sir Audric finished lining up the three targets atop their straw bales. They were fifty yards away. “This is one quarter the distance you will be practicing with later on,” the man declared.

Darren looked to Eve, who was already studying their newcomer with narrowed eyes. He wouldn’t be surprised if she fancied him. Lately he’d noticed his brother surrounded by young women wherever he went. Several had even started to sit at their table. One of them, the daughter of Baron Langli, was especially persistent. It was unpleasant. Darren had started to take lunch at the barracks with the rest of the palace’s regiment. At least the soldiers talked about something besides the dresses they were going to wear for the next ball.

Eve had joined him that very next day, but Darren had to wonder now if she might have preferred to stay like the rest.

He told himself he wouldn’t care if she started to prefer Blayne’s company to his. But he would, because it would mean losing the one friend he had.

“Now, let’s head out to pick your bows.”

The knight led them to the regiment’s armory as he had for the swords just a year past. Blayne walked straight up to a small double-curved bow that looked lean and light, pulling back on its string with his thumb. Darren watched as his brother did this to three other bows before finally coming back to collect the first.

“Very good, your highness.” Darren and Eve exchanged a look at her father’s praise. The man was never that friendly with them. “Now, you two, notice how Blayne tested the draw of the bows before deciding. That weight should always be three-quarter’s your strength. Since you are young but well on your way in training, I expect the draw to lie anywhere between twelve and eighteen pounds.”

The girl obediently went to follow Sir Audric’s instruction, but Darren was determined to prove himself. He plucked a bow much taller than Blayne’s.

He couldn’t pull the bowstring back even a little.

“It’s too heavy for you,” Blayne called.

When Darren returned the bow to its rack, it rattled the bars.

“The longbow is intended for battle.” Sir Audric handed him a bow like his brother’s. “You want one that curves forward at the tips. These bows are lighter, easier to carry during the long hours of a hunt.”

Darren tested the draw, trying to imitate Blayne’s movement as he pulled the bowstring to his jaw with a straight arm. He had to test five more bows before he was finally able to make a choice.

After a couple more notes on the proper fitting of a bow, the knight led his charges back out to the field. Each carried a quiver of arrows on their back.

Five hours later, Darren’s shoulder was on fire. His arms ached and the pads of his fingers—even with the gloves the knight had given them to wear—were sore. He could barely hold a fork during dinner; he spent most of the time picking at his food with his hands.

“Your brother beat both of us.”

“I know.” Darren scowled into his palms. “He is years ahead.”

Eve cleared her throat. “We’ll be better soon. Blayne’s aim was sloppy.”

“You think?”

“I know.” She gave him a nudge. “It won’t always be like this. One day we’ll be the best at everything, you’ll see.”

* * *

A couple weeks later, it was the end of spring, but the storms had yet to cease.

After a rough session of training, with limbs shaking and every article of clothing soaked to the bone, Darren headed back to the palace. He could barely see in the thick stream of rain; it had made practice particularly unpleasant. Worse, while he had missed most of his targets, Blayne and Eve hadn’t.

Something soft and solid slammed against his legs.

The boy glanced down to find what could only be described as a pile of bones. Small, matted tufts of fur clung to its sopping skin. Beady, black eyes peeked out from its head, and the ears were small and frail twin flaps twitching from the cold.

The mutt couldn’t have been more than a couple months old. It didn’t look like one of the palace hounds. Its fur was too long and its frame too small.

“How did you get in?”

The pup just gave him a glum stare.

The guards would never let in a stray. It was probably one of the lower city pets left unattended. Perhaps it snuck onto the grounds through the shuffle of feet at the palace gates.

The pile of bones let out a keening wail.

Father’s going to be furious. The boy bit back a sigh. He couldn’t just leave it behind. It would freeze, or one of the lords’ sons would use it to fuel their own entertainment. He never understood why they did that. All the fights he had picked were with a peer who could fight back. There was no glory in a poor, defenseless stray.

Just another reason he avoided them when he could.

Maybe he could bring it to Heath. Darren picked up the pup. It settled into his arms without a moment’s hesitation.

“Don’t get comfortable,” he warned.

The pup ignored him, nestling closer against his chest.

By the time Darren had reached the kennel, he was already regretting his choice. The pup had all but made a nest in his arms.

“What have you brought ‘ere?” A giant of a man peered down at the boy. He was missing three of his front teeth and his voice was gruff. Most of the servants found the kennel master a bit intimidating, but Darren never had. The real monsters kept their true faces hidden; it was the beautiful ones that made him wary.

“Found it wandering the grounds.” The man took the pup from his arms and the boy stepped away.

“Don’t look like one of ours.” Heath paused. “I’ll ask around the market… but if no one claims ‘im, I’m gonna ‘ave to let the mutt go. Your father would never approve.”

The prince nodded and started back toward the training grounds. He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter either way. But a lump still stuck in his throat as he walked away.

* * *

The boy returned to the kennels the next day, and the next couple of days after that. He wasn’t sure why he did. He was busy enough with lessons and trying to out-shoot Blayne in training. He had never visited the kennels before, and he had no reason for coming. But somehow, every evening he found himself leaning against the pen post inside the kennel master’s building, watching the pups play.

The mutt was a frail thing, hardly an equal to its counterparts. The hounds were lean and built for speed. The only thing the shaggy-haired mutt had in excess were its fleas.

But there was something about the way it kept fighting to keep up with the rest of the pack. The hounds kept knocking it to the ground, baring their teeth and nipping at its heels when it tried to play, but it still refused to give up. And for that, Darren admired it.

“The others continue to ‘og the scraps, your ‘ighness, but look at that. Still growing. I say, if it’s that determined to survive, then it deserves a real ‘ome.”

“Does that mean you are going to keep it on?” The boy tried to keep his tone as level as possible.

“I’ll take ‘im back to my quarters if I hear of your father’s coming. It’s the best I can do, lad.”

The boy picked at a burr in the pup’s coat.

“I know this ‘un misses you when you’re gone.”

Darren scowled and withdrew from the pen. He didn’t want to know it was attached, not when he was trying so hard to ignore the way he looked forward to these visits.

The kennel master gave the prince a long look. “You know, your highness, the king plans on you and that brother of yours picking one of the litter as your own for the ‘unt—”

“No.” The prince’s reply was instantaneous.

“But—”

“It is kind of you to keep it on, Heath.” The boy let go of the fence and started toward the doors. His life was a series of choices, and in this, the rule was clear. “My father wants a hound. So I will pick a hound.”

* * *

“And your archery, how is it coming along?”

“Very good, Father.” The crown prince sat a bit straighter in his chair as he lifted his chin to meet his father’s scrupulous gaze. “Today I shot one hundred and fifty yards.” Blayne hesitated for just a moment before adding, “And I hit four of every five targets.”

Darren glowered at the king’s right. He knew what was coming next.

“And you?” Lucius turned his steely gaze on his youngest.

“Well.”

“I was asking for a number.” The king’s tone made the room turn as cold as winter. Blayne sunk low and turned his attention to his plate while Darren set down his drink, his fingers numb.

“One hundred, Father.”

“Only a hundred after five and a half months of training? I expected more.”

The boy ground his teeth. “I didn’t have two years with the commander to guide me.”

“Your brother isn’t training to be a knight. You have had four years under Sir Audric training for that blasted school.” The king’s voice was a growl. “A knight should be best at all weaponry. There is no excuse for your negligence.”

The ten-year-old gave his father a forced smile. “Yes, Father.”

“Tomorrow during the hunt, you will not partake. We will say you injured your arm in practice and you will only speak to the others when directly addressed to praise Blayne’s performance.”

“You don’t want me to shoot?” Darren had been training for months on end, every spare second of the day. He might not be as good of a shot as Blayne, but he was certainly better than other kids in his year. Even Sir Audric had remarked on Darren’s incredible progress.

“We can’t have the court witness any blemish on the Crown. Your poor skill would only call embarrassment to our name.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” The boy knew he was treading in dangerous waters, but he couldn’t seem to stop the words from spilling out. “Why have me participate at all?”

“Because you are my son and you will do what I say.”

Darren hated those words. Just another rule dictating his life, and now stealing the one dream he had. He ate the rest of his roast in silence and listened as Blayne flourished under their father’s approving remarks. What a change from just a few years before.

The boy hated the both of them at that moment.

When he was finished with his dinner, Darren didn’t wait for the others to finish. He knew it would upset his father, as did most things, but the boy didn’t care.

Lucius’s voice rang out, hard and sharp when Darren reached the door. “I will be informing the lords you have a broken arm, Darren. Should you report to the stables without one, I will have the guards break it in three places instead of one.”

The boy paused a moment as fear took hold of his lungs, and then he made himself continue on. To a bystander, he would look careless, unaffected, aloof. It was the only face he knew, the only one that was safe.

He made it all the way to his chamber. Then he let the mask fall. Roiling anger hit him in a wave, followed by a sick sense of shame that the man could still make him feel fear after all this time. The tremors started in his limbs, and he sunk to the floor, clutching his knees to his stomach until the darkness passed.

“Heroes don’t show fear.” He whispered the words over and over. But just then, it didn’t seem to make a difference.

There was a knock on Darren’s door much later that night. It wasn’t locked, so by the time he rose, Blayne had entered the room. The older boy’s gaze fell to the red rims around the younger boy’s eyes.

“Darren, I’m sorry.”

“You were so eager to please Father, you didn’t think twice about me.” The boy fixed his older brother with a glower. If Blayne had not detailed his shots, the king would never have compared his performance to Darren’s. If Blayne had just replied “very well,” the king would never have asked for specifics.

“What is a broken arm,” the boy added bitterly, “so long as it isn’t your own?”

“I never wanted that!”

“Well, you certainly didn’t prevent it.” Darren pointed toward the door, indicating for his brother to leave.

“I...” The heir wore an expression of guilt; he wasn’t used to being the one to blame. “You don’t know what he’s like!”

“You are a coward.” The words were cruel, but they were true, and both of the boys knew it.

“Nothing I said was a lie.” Blayne’s expression had gone from guilt to defense in an instant. “If you really wanted to avoid his anger, then perhaps you should be better with a bow.”

Flames licked at Darren’s skin as anger sizzled beneath his veins. Blayne knew how hard Darren had tried. “You are no better than him!”

“I’m to be king,” the crown prince replied. His eyes were hard and empty. “That’s more than you’ll ever be.” Then he slammed the door shut behind him, leaving the second-born alone in the dark.

* * *

Darren stared at the broadsword resting on top of his bed. He knew what he had to do, what he should have done hours before… and now he had even less time to do it. Now, before the rest of the palace awoke. Before Blayne heard his cry through the wall. If he cried.

The boy wouldn’t give his brother the satisfaction.

Resting the nook of his arm along the open drawer of his dresser, Darren slammed the drawer shut as hard as he could.

He narrowly avoided screaming as his wrist banged against the wood and a terrible jolt of pain lanced across his arm like a wave.

For a moment, the sensation numbed him, providing a temporary release of everything but a hot burn, and then it reared back and tore at his wrist twice as terrible as the first. But it still wasn’t broken.

The boy had known it would take more than once.

Two.

Darren threw the drawer shut with all the weight he could give. This time bright flares of light momentarily crowded his eyes. The pain was back, but worse. His throat burned from trying to hold back his cry. When the boy finally blinked, there were tiny trickles of wetness pooling in the corner of his eyes.

The tears only upset him more. Darren swiped at them with his sleeve and then slammed the drawer shut again, harder.

Three.

The boy dropped his hand with a sob as the sickening crunch of bone met his ears. His wrist was on fire, a stabbing throb running up and down his arm as the contents of his stomach roared up inside. The pain was terrible, but now that the act was done, he could finally breathe. Darren had broken bones before in his training. They ached like nothing else, but they weren’t something he feared. It was the act that had cost him so much.

Darren cradled his arm as he stood. He might be the victim, but he would have the last laugh.

There was one more thing the boy intended to do before he greeted the rest of the court for the Crown’s annual hunt.

* * *

When Darren arrived with the mutt in stride, it was enough to see the look of utter shock—and then wrath—storm his father’s face. Not much surprised Lucius; the king was used to getting his way, and the fact that Darren had deliberately humiliated him…

The boy heard the soft gasps and quiet whispers from the crowd. Those closest betrayed not so much as a tightening of the lips.

“Where is the hound we picked out?” Lucius’s voice came out like a growl, gravelly and rough. It was a tone he usually reserved for his boys in private: the fact that he had used it in front of his court hinted the rage behind his words.

“I thought this one would suit me better, Father.” Darren refused to cower under the king’s expression, even as it was plunging ice into his blood with every second he held it. “With a broken arm, I can’t hunt very well, can I?”

Darren knew he would be punished, but inside was a churning pit of ravenous hate, and at the moment, all that mattered was shaming the monster in any form that he could. He wanted the fight that would follow in private, even knowing he would lose.

The price of humiliating his father would be worth a dozen broken limbs and more.

The king’s eyes flashed twin streaks of lightning as clouds rolled across the expanse above, but he regained his composure in seconds. He had an audience after all. “Perhaps, but a true knight would take up the hunt regardless.” Lucius’s tone was as smooth as Borean silk. “Sir Chadwick, please stand next to Commander Salvador and Sir Torrance.”

A gangly knight known for his skill with the bow withdrew from his steed and followed the king’s order, his face paling as he took his place beside the head knight and his second-in-command.

Darren’s mouth went dry as his father’s gaze fell to him.

“My son has shown me the errors of my ways.”

A cruel smile graced the king’s lips as he continued. “No man shall be excused from duty because of injury. It isn’t befitting the world’s best army, and how else do I set my kingdom apart from the gluttonous Caltothians of our north?” His eyes flit to the head of his personal regiment. “Sir Torrance, please hold Sir Chadwick in place.”

“N-no, your majesty, p-please!” the thin man cried out as the second knight grabbed hold of his arms.

“Commander Salvador, please render Sir Chadwick’s shooting arm useless.”

The commanding knight pulled out his blade, and the other knight grabbed hold of his right wrist.

The pit of Darren’s stomach dropped as the scene played out before his eyes.

What have I done?

The boy’s shoulders heaved, his chest rising and falling as the Commander swung the dull edge of his blade down, a blow so swift and hard that it cracked the bone and broke the archer’s skin in an instant. There was a terrible keening wail that followed as the man clutched his useless arm to his ribs.

“Mage Killian, please bind Sir Chadwick’s arm, but use no magic. Should he fail to perform on today’s hunt, we will be ridding him of both arms. I have no use for weakness in service to the Crown.”

The man’s words ripped at the boy like a knife.

“And Darren…”

The youngest prince raised his bloodshot eyes to his father, biting his tongue to keep from spewing the words choking him inside.

“Should you fail to perform on today’s hunt, you will be held responsible for this man’s death, and that curr you insisted on bringing along.”

His father had won.

* * *

If the knight failed to perform, he would lose both his arms.

If Darren failed to perform—with his bad arm in a sport he had yet to best—he would be responsible for the death of two: an innocent man whose only crime was his skill with a bow, and a pup that loved freely and asked for nothing in return.

The young prince had no one to blame but himself. Darren should have known better than to invoke the monster’s wrath. How had he not learned? His father was always one step ahead, and this time the king had known. He had seen through Darren’s intentions the moment he arrived.

Darren had hoped his father would target his brother like the last time he disobeyed orders. He had wanted to hurt Blayne for his betrayal. The plan was supposed to be foolproof, but he would never beat the monster at his own game.

Darren sat uncomfortably against the saddle, the mare’s progress jostling his broken arm with every step. His teeth ground into his gums and he felt every movement right down to his bones. But it was nothing next to the guilt if he failed the knight and his mutt. And so for that, he bore the pain with as much patience as he could.

They were following some forest path north just outside of the capital.

Most of the king’s hunting party had spread out across the trail ahead. Darren would have liked to follow along. His best chance was to avoid the stragglers and go after game on his own. But he had orders to remain at his brother’s side, even if it was the last thing he desired.

Blayne refused to acknowledge him. Their father was up ahead, but the two princes and half the court remained behind. Their mindless chatter was deafening.

His brother wasn’t a fool. Blayne knew what Darren had attempted, and any peace between brothers was gone.

Sure enough…

“Father’s not here,” the older prince snarled. “Why don’t you get out of my sight?”

Darren fisted the reins but didn’t bother to reply. If he did anything to disobey the king now, there were others to take the blame. His selfish act had a price; he’d be a fool to tempt the gods twice.

So he dealt with his brother in silence instead.

They rode across countless ravines and spent the first half of the day hacking a makeshift path into the deeper parts of the Iron Mountain forest. Anything to give them a chance at the game that had been chased off by hunters before. Still, the only sightings they had were few and far between. And each time they missed.

Blayne grew irritable the longer the day progressed. His remarks to their guards were biting and increasingly cold. Darren might have had a lot on the line, but he wasn’t the heir. Blayne’s consequence would come behind closed doors.

Darren, for his part, had a splitting ache in the back of his skull. His eyes were strained from staring so hard into alternating shades of darkness and light. But he had no other choice.

The hours beat away like a drum at his chest, louder and louder as each minute passed.

The rest of their party was gone by the time the sun had started to dim. Half the procession had already returned to the palace in Devon, but Darren and Blayne pushed on.

It was then that they finally came across a family of deer. There was a buck close to the marsh; its antlers gleamed against the sun’s rays next to a thick cluster of trees.

Blayne’s hound let out a keening wail and took after the pack on command. Darren didn’t even have a chance to raise his bow or call on the mutt at his side. But before either boy could claim victory, the buck collapsed, an arrow right through the bottom of its chest.

The rest of the deer scattered before the hound could reach its prey.

Both boys looked for the source of the arrow; a quarter mile away on the raised hill was the knight from before, Sir Chadwick. He had two hares strung to his saddlebags and he had just bagged himself a buck. With a broken arm.

For a moment, Darren forgot to resent the man—his admiration was too strong—but his brother didn’t.

Blayne was seething in the saddle as he whistled for his hound. “Should have been mine,” he snapped.

Before Darren could say a word, the crown prince had loaded his bow, aiming the arrow straight at the man ahead.

For a second, the boy just stared with disbelieving eyes. What was Blayne doing?

The shaft whistled across the air and alerted the man seconds before it would have matched the buck’s arrow to his chest.

Sir Chadwick swung violently around to spy the two princes across the ravine. His gaze locked on Darren—the prince with the reputation for pain—and then he took off, his prey forgotten.

Darren stared after the knight with a scowl, not bothering to look at his brother as he said, “And I suppose you’ll tell father the buck was yours.”

The sound of a second arrow releasing and Blayne’s command for his hound alerted the boy something was wrong. Darren jerked his head to the side and found Blayne smirking, his eyes locked on the fleeing shadow beyond.

“Who needs a buck,” the older boy drawled, “when there are other animals to hunt. Father might be expecting a hare, but when I bring him one of his own…” There was a low laugh as Blayne notched the next arrow into place.

And Darren finally realized his brother’s intent. There was a pinch in the back of his throat as he remembered the mound behind the stables from months before.

Darren snatched his brother’s wrist just as he released; the arrow went soaring harmlessly to the right.

“Let him be!” Darren ordered. “Take the buck and call it your own.”

Blayne swore and jerked back, nearly throwing Darren from his saddle.

“The man is a cripple,” the older boy snipped. “Let me have this, brother. You know father will be impressed.” His eyes were as merciless as Lucius himself.

Darren did the only thing he could manage; he snatched his brother’s bow and brought it against the horn of his saddle as hard as he could.

There was a satisfying crunch as the stave splintered in two.

“How dare you!”

Darren kneed his mare in the sides, dancing just out of Blayne’s range before he could land a hit. Let Blayne try to hunt a man without his bow.

The boy savored a moment of victory as he took off in a gallop across the trail. He would find game away from his brother while the older boy sulked. The mutt yipped as he followed along.

And that’s when Darren heard Blayne’s call, a sharp whistle, and the baying of his hound. There was a blur of black as the animal took off down the ravine, tearing up roots and grass as it lunged.

Darren had forgotten the animal. Blayne could still hunt the knight.

The boy turned just in time to see his brother take off after his hound in the same direction that Sir Chadwick had fled.

The sun was starting to set, the bright orange and crimson a fire against a sea of black, as Darren pulled on his reins, taking a sharp turn after his brother.

And then they were off, headed down the ravine, through a sea of branches tearing up his arms and legs, and up the other side of the ledge.

It was close to an hour when Darren finally caught up to his brother.

Sir Chadwick was trapped on a ledge. There was a narrow valley below, but the fall was treacherous. Blayne’s hound was snapping and nipping at his heels.

The man was pleading for his life as the older boy pressed in, fingering a knife Darren hadn’t known he had.

The sky was a looming cloud of violet as Darren urged his own steed forward. The rocky face was precarious, and the last thing he wanted was to break another arm. He already felt weak and dizzy from too many hours on the road. It wasn’t an unbearable pain, but it wasn’t pleasant, and his temper ran shorter than most.

“Blayne!” the boy yelled. “That’s enough.”

“I didn’t ask your opinion, brother.”

Blayne was still furious at Darren’s betrayal. This wasn’t the crown prince; it was a boy who had spent too much time in the dark.

Somewhere behind them, a bay of wolves called out to the night.

Darren stifled the chill that ran down his spine as his horse fidgeted, skittish after the answering howl.

For a moment, Darren caught a flicker of indecision in his brother’s stance. The boy latched onto it with a sharp command. “Let’s get back to the palace, Blayne. It’s too dark and Father will be looking for us.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Please, your highness…”

Darren’s gaze shot to the knight.

The man’s chest was rising and falling, his hands white against the sword in his grip. The offense for striking a prince was death, even in self-defense. But from the twitch of his fingers, Darren suspected the man was going to fight if it came down to his life or the prince’s.

Something squeezed at Darren’s lungs; he didn’t want to choose between an innocent man and his brother.

There was another howl, this time much closer than before.

Darren swung in his saddle just in time to spot the first beast making its way through the brush. Another black snout joined the first. In seconds there was a pack of eight. Bristling bodies with yellow eyes locked on the trio above.

The hunters were now the hunted.

“Blayne.” Darren’s warning was low. The leader was on its haunches, teeth bared in a growl.

But the crown prince was too busy taunting the knight. “Should have known better. And now you’ll—”

There was a snarl from the hound, then a panicked shout and the whinny of a horse. Darren spun—forgetting the danger ahead as he turned, his bow ready and armed—to find only his brother on the ledge.

There was a loud crash below.

More commotion followed, tumbling rocks and a man’s scream as he plummeted down the cliff’s side.

“Blayne!”

Blayne’s eyes were wide and his lips were white. “Darren, I didn’t mean…” His words trailed off as he spotted the predators behind him.

Too late.

The beasts had just spotted much easier prey than two princes. Their eyes locked on their steeds and hounds.

The leader, a black wolf with a silver chest, took off down the ravine, the others following. Excited yips crowded the air as the hunters gave chase.

Darren heard rather than saw the moment they reached the horse down below.

Blayne’s eyes were wide and afraid. Whatever bravado he’d carried before was gone, and now he was looking to his younger brother—his protector. “We’ve got to get out of here!”

But Darren was already dismounting. In a second, he was on the ground as he handed his brother the reins. “Go find us help, Blayne.”

“Darren—”

All his life he’d faced a monster that won; these monsters weren’t the way it would end. Not them, and not his father.

Darren wasn’t afraid.

The boy took off, splaying dirt as his boots hit the slope, kicking up roots and pebbles as he slid down the steep ravine, fighting to keep hold of his bow.

It was times like this he wished he didn’t feel pain. His arm throbbed each time he hit a bit of brush.

The mutt beat him to the man. Darren hadn’t expected it to follow; the little dog was half the size of his brother’s hound.

When they reached the base, two of the wolves were tearing into the knight’s mare several yards away. The boy jerked his gaze away, feeling a pinch in his throat.

Sir Chadwick was on the ground, rivulets of blood dripping down his face as he struggled to stand, a blade shaking in his fists.

The shaggy dog growled and leaped, catching the nearest wolf off-guard as it ripped a bloody trail from its throat.

The wolves were circling the knight, getting closer as their barks took on an excited pitch. They didn’t even notice the boy and his mutt.

The next great animal leaped, and Darren’s first arrow missed.

The boy drew another, cursing Sir Audric’s insistence that he kept his sword in the training grounds, and let loose not a second too soon. Fire burned down the length of his wrist.

The wolf went down with an arrow to its side, letting loose a keening wail that had the others on guard.

The remaining six lunged, two at the boy and four for the knight.

Panic hit the boy’s chest like a kick to the ribs, but there was something much worse than fear, and that was cowardice.

Darren fired the final arrow with surer hands, but it missed. He dove forward with only the stave as a weapon. He brandished it like a staff, swinging and stabbing out any way he could.

But a stave wasn’t a sword. His cuts weren’t bringing enough pain to keep the predators at bay.

The boy was halfway through a swing when the second animal surged. Darren lost control of his aim as his boot caught on a pile of loose dirt.

He stumbled.

Dust plumed around him in a haze as he struggled to his knees, coughing and spewing blood. The stave dropped from his hands.

Two rows of teeth tore a jagged line down Darren’s bandaged arm, and the boy roared. At the same moment, the mutt let out a bark as a wolf’s teeth caught it’s shoulder.

The wolves were going to kill them both.

Darren could hear the dog’s whimpering cry as something hard and sharp tore into his already injured flesh.

No.

A hero was better than this. And so was the boy.

Sheer will overcame his pain, and the boy took hold of that control. He reined it in and grabbed the stave, swinging hard.

Darren would fight. Again and again. Hard. He threw out as much concentrated weight as he could. The wolf went down. The prince’s arms burned and his shoulder was on fire. His injured arm felt like someone had submerged it in needles and ice. But the boy kept on.

And so did the mutt. With a writhing twist, the dog broke free of the wolf’s teeth and ripped a bloody trail across the predator’s neck, dripping scarlet from its snout.

The wolf collapsed just as Darren reached the mutt’s side.

And then the two made their way to the knight.

The man shared a look with his saviors, but there was no time for thanks.

They aligned back-to-back with the mutt standing guard between them. The man had taken out one on his own.

Only four wolves remained.

It wasn’t impossible odds.

Swisssssh.

Down went the nearest wolf. Someone’s arrow must have caught it from above. Blayne? Darren didn’t have time to check as the three predators lunged.

The knight swung as did the boy; the mutt caught the next by the neck.

Howls and snarls ripped the air as blood sprayed out across the forest floor.

There was a roar in Darren’s ears, and he couldn’t hear his pulse. He was fighting just to keep the closest animal at bay. So. Close. But he was dizzy, and it was growing harder just to stand. His thrusts were weaker each time.

Spots danced before his eyes. He blinked and cursed as he narrowly avoided a row of teeth.

And then all at once, his world was shrouded in violet. The commotion dimmed as the boy dropped to his knees. He could hear shouts from up above, but they were too distant to make out.

Am I dying?

Darren couldn’t hear the wolves anymore. He shut his eyes.

“Your highness,” Sir Chadwick gasped, “we’ve been saved.”

They were enclosed in an amethyst globe. A shield of magic. The wolves were dead just beyond it.

The boy looked up.

And then he saw him.

Up ahead on the ledge were his father and Blayne and the rest of the Crown’s personal regiment. At the front of the line, with ebony hands raised toward the sky with magic hovering above his palms like a fire of violet sparks, was a middle-aged man. The infamous Black Mage, Lord Marius. On one of his ears was a single golden hoop that glittered against the dying light from above. He wore the infamous black robe of the Combat faction, and his shield had just saved their lives.

* * *

Later, when they asked him what happened, the boy lied.

Sir Chadwick had opened his mouth to… lie? Tell the truth? Darren would never know. He cut the man off with an explanation of his own.

All it had taken was one passing look between his father and Blayne.

The king might have applauded his heir for hunting a knight, the monster was despicable enough, but causing a huge scene that had almost cost his little brother’s life? And failing the actual act of hunting itself? Darren didn’t believe in luck.

Blayne’s eyes were rimmed red, and he was cowering under the monster’s angry glower.

So Darren lied. And the knight, perhaps knowing it best not to counter two princes of Jerar, kept to silence instead.

Sir Chadwick’s horse misstepped, and the two brothers witnessed his fall. Darren, soon-to-be a future knight of the realm, had immediately sought to rescue him, while the heir, a future king whose life was too valuable to risk in a fight, had gone to seek help.

The two had managed to fend off eight feral wolves, killing off most by the time the King’s Regiment had finally arrived, with two broken arms, a broken leg, and a mutt not fit to be called a hound.

The knight, a man who had fought bravely and whose only crime was an unsteady mare, was immediately sent to the infirmary to be treated by the palace healers and then given a month’s respite from service.

Darren, for his part, was celebrated. He had succeeded in the hunt, aiding an injured knight and bagging two wolves on his own, which was far more impressive than a hare or even a buck.

The scrupulous dog was given a permanent place in the palace kennels. Like it or not, the mutt had earned its stay, and no one could question its devotion to the prince.

“What are you going to call ‘im now that ‘e’s yours?”

The boy stared out at the little heap of gray matted fur. Heath had sweet talked one of the palace healers into visiting the kennels and seeing to the worst of its wounds. The little mutt would make a full recovery, and now it was asleep at his feet.

What should he call the pile of bones that had beaten all odds? What name would give it a title above the rest?

It wasn’t like the other hounds. It was special.

It was underestimated, just like him.

“Wolf.” The boy finally said. It was a name to remind the others of its accomplishment and its unquestionable loyalty to those of its pack. “I want his name to be Wolf.”

4

When the boy turned twelve, Sir Audric introduced a new weapon to their daily rotation: the battle axe.

It required more precision and skill than the sword, but Darren immediately felt a connection he had previously lacked. There was something primal about hefting an axe in each hand, and though his shoulders burned like nothing else after each session, he never wanted it to end.

All of the knights fought with swords or arrows from afar, and some soldiers used polearms. But as far as the boy could see, no one used the axe, and he wanted to be different. If he was going to stand out from the masses, he wanted to do it with the weapon everyone else was afraid to use.

Fear was a powerful thing. It was also a motivator to push on long past the point of exhaustion. Sir Audric and Eve were first to remark that he pushed himself too hard, but Darren didn’t care.

It felt good to be the best, and with the axe, he finally was. Eve still beat him in archery, and they were evenly matched with the sword, but the axe required a strength she didn’t have. Darren pressed that advantage, lifting special weights at every opportunity.

Eve teased him—Darren had shot up six inches in the course of a year, adding muscle to his frame so that he now towered over her by a whole head and outweighed her by half. But Eve had the agility he would always lack. The girl was fast and she was smart. Any victory over his slim opponent was hard earned, and he had a sense it would never, ever, come easy.

On their fifth month using the axe, Sir Audric finally permitted the two to intermix their weapons in a freestanding duel. Previously, they had only taken turns with patterns, trading off the sword for the axe.

Hook in then out, slash and cut. It was a dance, a heavy pattern that took more strength and dexterity to parry. The swift movements of Eve’s sword and shield were a challenge for two hefty blades, but Darren was getting better. Every day he was getting used to the weight.

And today he was determined to win.

He might have, too…

But as he swung with what should have been the winning blow, an overpowering gust sent him sprawling against the wall instead.

For a moment, he just lay there, stunned.

What in the gods’ blasted names just happened?

He should have won. Darren hadn’t tripped. His form had been perfect. He had spent far too many hours making sure he cut with just the right amount of weight, and that he had full control of his swing—

And then, as the boy was pushing himself up off the dirt, dust coating his arms, he saw Eve.

Her weapons were on the ground in a heap. Normally Sir Audric would chide them for such careless regard, but both he and his daughter were too busy staring at her hands. She held her fingertips close to her face as she studied them with wide, unblinking eyes.

All at once, the boy knew exactly why Eve had won.

“You have magic.” Darren was first to speak the words, torn between disbelief and something else, something that burned in that far corner of his chest.

“But I…” The girl couldn’t finish her sentence. She couldn’t deny it. Darren hadn’t miraculously tripped and thrown himself across the grounds. Eve had cast magic unconsciously, but with enough force to blast him several yards away.

It was the only explanation that made sense. Eve’s instinct, her need for self-preservation against Darren’s winning blow, had called on a latent pool of magic from somewhere within.

It wasn’t unheard of. Magic only emerged during adolescence, and both Eve and Darren were of the right age. It was one of the many reasons the realm’s three war schools—the School of Knighthood, the Cavalry for Soldiers, and the Academy of Magic—recruited as early as age twelve and as late as seventeen.

Darren simply hadn’t considered his friend a candidate. Magic was rare. The two had always shared a laugh over the countless courtiers’ children wasting away in the library, pouring over magical instruction with stuffy tutors when their time would be better spent investing in something more practical, like battle formation and sparring. If their magic never emerged, and most of theirs never did, then they were ill-prepared for anything else. And then, instead of earning the high prestige of knighthood, they would have to settle for the life of a soldier.

The Cavalry had the easiest acceptance of all. Three of every four applicants passed their trial year. In the School, only four of every ten were allowed to become squires. And at the Academy, only one of every ten was accepted as an apprentice mage… The odds of succeeding, even if you were one of the lucky few with magic, were minimal at best.

“Eve.” Sir Audric cleared his throat. “Go and see if you can find Mage Marius in the Council of Magic’s chamber. He isn’t supposed to depart for another week. Tell him that we need a recommendation for a tutor here in the palace.”

What? Darren’s eyes shot to the knight master. A mage tutor, but that meant…

“We’re going to need the best we can get. Combat is the most competitive faction, and they only apprentice five students to each study after the first year.”

“But, Father—” Eve swallowed, her hands tucked in at her sides “—I thought you were training me to be a knight.”

“If you fail the Academy’s trial, we will still send you to the School.”

“But I…” Her shoulders fell. “I want to be like you and Darren, Father.”

“And you still can. You would just be an apprentice instead of a squire. You could still serve in the Crown’s Army among your friends when you ascend.” The man’s voice was a bit gruff. “Now, go on, child. Marius is a busy man.”

The girl shot one final look at Darren, a hesitant glance that bespoke her guilt, and then she was gone.

The prince scowled. The one friend, the only person he actually trusted in this place, let alone could bear the company of, was never coming back. Darren had always held onto the belief that they would be leaving the palace for the School together.

That dream was gone.

Later that evening, Darren begged his father to admit him to the School early. There was no point in remaining behind at court. But Lucius refused to grant his request.

“You need to be the best,” the king snarled. “You will apply at sixteen when you are sure to stand out. I won’t have you dishonor the Crown by letting another perform better, and Sir Audric reports you still have much to learn.”

Darren had a few choice words for what he thought of the knight master now that he had stolen his one friend away from his training. He had even more when he arrived at the training field the next morning and found someone else who was not Eve waiting in his old friend’s place.

He would recognize those sharp violet eyes anywhere. He was familiar with the way her body curved and how those long beautiful tendrils of dark auburn hair curved along her face. He’d become aware of that two years before.

Priscilla was beautiful, and she knew it. That was never the problem. Darren admired confidence. His issue was with the implication of her presence.

Priscilla was Baron Langli’s daughter, a man well-known for his temper and braggart nature in court. The king put up with the baron because the Langlis had more wealth than most of Jerar’s noble families combined.

If Priscilla was here now, it could mean only one thing, and it was the same reason Darren had avoided the girl’s presence for so long.

A forced friendship and, if the baron had his way, betrothal. That was something the prince wanted to avoid at all costs.

Blayne was free of the intrigues of court. Lucius was already working on an alliance between heirs with the Borean emperor. The crown prince didn’t have to deal with plotting courtiers and the countless daughters that followed—all of which would lie through their teeth, save Eve.

“Priscilla is to be your new sparring partner. The two of you will train together from here on out. She also plans to enter the School.”

“Does she?” Darren’s smirk was cruel. He looked the girl up and down. She was just like the others who pretended to share his same interests in hopes of ensnaring a prince. She might have been beautiful, but she was a flower. And a flower belonged in a glass, not in his training court.

The prince wondered if his father had sold the role of his new training partner to the highest bidder. Baron Langli certainly had the most coin, and the court liked games.

The girl gave him a demure smile, blatantly ignoring his tone. “How nice that we share the same interests.”

He would see about that when their practice began.

Darren looked to the knight master. Priscilla was already outfitted for sparring, so he would prefer to end this charade before it began. Once Sir Audric saw how ill-equipped his partner was, surely he would petition the king to allow one of the others to take her place—someone who knew how to wield a sword instead of counting jewels. King Lucius would not want his son’s education to suffer, no matter how pretty the price might have been.

The knight motioned for the two to grab a scabbard and take their starting positions across the way.

For a moment, Darren was surprised to find Priscilla’s posture mirrored his own, not a muscle out of place.

And then the drill began.

“Block left, half-crest right. Reverse…” The knight trailed off, clearing his throat. They were only two minutes into the drill. “Very good, Priscilla.” The shock in his voice was unmistakable.

The girl hadn’t just performed the moves, she had done so with the same vigor as Darren. There were no flaws to her stance. The strength she projected, the way she adjusted her sword for each cut… it was perfect.

She knew what she was doing, and she was doing it well.

The girl batted her eyes at the prince, having noticed his open-mouthed stare. “I’ve been training as long as you.”

So she didn’t lie about everything.

The rest of the practice followed the same turn as their initial drill. It was pleasant, even.

But that only made it worse. Darren wanted his friend back. He didn’t want this… imposter, even if she really was as good as she claimed. And she was good, but every moment they had a bit of respite, she was sidling up next to him, trying to win him over with compliments. When that didn’t work, she used blatant flirtation.

She might fight like Eve, but she wasn’t his friend. She was just like the others, a part of the endless circle of courtiers masquerading as gentry, and Darren wanted something else. There were enough wolves roaming the halls as it was.

* * *

“I don’t know why you are complaining.” Blayne gave Darren a raised brow. Months had passed since his new sparring partner had been announced. “Priscilla all but throws herself at you. She’s miles above that knight’s daughter you were always practicing with. If Father wasn’t so set on the Langli girl for you, I’d bed her myself.”

The younger prince didn’t reply. Darren didn’t share in his brother’s conquests. As a prince of Jerar, he was presented with more than enough opportunity—women twice his age, girls fresh from the convent, it made no difference. All they wanted were favors, and false flattery did not impress him. Darren cared about making a name for himself as a knight, and the only girl he could even stand to be near preferred the same gender as herself.

He wasn’t upset that Eve had another she preferred to kiss. Darren had never once been compelled to try; she merely felt like an extension of himself, and one that he missed. Even if he had, Eve might have been born highborn, but her father was not, and that was another well-established rule: a prince could only enter into relationships with those of standing, old blood, and prestige… girls like Priscilla.

And while Darren might find girls like Priscilla attractive, it wasn’t enough to compel him to courtship. Well, he had kissed her once—because it was expected after months in her company, and partly because of Blayne’s endless mockery—but that had been a mistake. It had only encouraged her.

Anyone else might have compelled him to feel shame, but Darren knew the girl secretly shared his same sentiment. There was more than one occasion where he had lashed out at her endless string of compliments only to see a flash of irritation in return. She quelled it better than he ever could, but it was there. Disinterest too. Her words were rehearsed, and her gestures too overt.

Once the prince saw anger, but that was directed at the baron when he prompted her to steal Darren for another dance during the last feast. He had caught the way her eyes lingered on another young man. Priscilla resented their situation just as much as he, only she seemed determined to serve out her father’s wish, even if it went against her own.

The longer they kept company, the easier their show for court became. Priscilla had long since dismissed Eve as a threat, but any other female in close proximity, and the girl would attack. Perhaps Darren should have stopped her, but one girl was far preferable to the masses. And there was no one worth fighting for.

“Our definition,” Darren said, finally returning to his brother’s earlier comment, “of ‘miles above’ is miles apart. Eve is worth twice what Priscilla would ever be.” Eve told the truth, and she didn’t fake attraction to garner his favor.

“You are a lowborn sympathizer.” Disgust dripped from the older boy’s tone.

“Eve isn’t lowborn.” Darren’s hands fisted at his sides. “Sir Audric earned his new status when he was knighted.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Blayne snorted. “That girl is no different than the others. She’s a lowborn whelp and she’d spread her legs soon enough for a chance at a prince. They always do—”

Darren slammed his brother against the wall. The nearby courtiers scattered like ants as the crown prince hit stone with a hard thwack. Darren wasn’t as tall as his brother, but none of that mattered as his hands locked around Blayne’s throat.

“Speak ill of my friend again,” Darren snarled, “and I’ll make sure you walk around with scars.”

The crown prince just laughed, his rasp a bit strained thanks to the fingers clamped around his neck. “Perhaps,” he wheezed, “she p-prefers the company of o-other girls because you a-aren’t man enough to b-bed her y-yourself.”

Darren lost control of his fist. One moment he was in control, the next his knuckles were flying at his brother’s face. Blayne’s head snapped to the side as blood trickled down his nose, turning his pale skin to red.

The next second, Darren was staggering back. His brother had matched him fist for fist. Darren’s lip was split; he tasted copper and salt.

Darren might have been a better fighter—Blayne only practiced one hour a day in the training courts—but three years still gave Blayne an advantage in size.

The crown prince threw another punch; Darren used his forearm to block the fist and then lunged, throwing his weight into the attack.

Blayne ducked out of the way and then tackled his brother against the wall.

Darren’s face collided with stone and pain roared up inside of him, a hundred hot-tipped daggers in the back of his shoulders and head. Something seared the inside of his lungs, and then there was an airy feeling, like wings beating off against his chest.

“You’re still my little brother,” the older boy said. “It’s time you—”

Something rushed through Darren’s veins, and then there was a roar. The whole room seemed to shatter as his mind exploded in pain.

Darren heard his brother cry out, and then the pressure was gone as he stumbled blindly around.

The hallway was swathed in light. For a moment, the boy couldn’t see anything; it was too bright.

When his eyes adjusted, he found Blayne clutching a large shard of glass that was embedded in his arm. Crimson blood dripped onto the marble tile below.

Darren watched the rivulets of blood. They met with bits of glass scattered around his feet. All sorts of colors blended together, red and violet and green, even a royal blue. The stained glass window just across the hall was gone. In its space was an open view.

The afternoon sun was blinding. The rays beat down like rays of gold, hot on his skin.

For a moment, all he could hear was his pulse.

Darren wasn’t a fool. Blayne hadn’t stabbed himself. The glass window hadn’t suddenly shattered on its own.

Magic.

Like Eve, he hadn’t expected a thing. He wasn’t even sure what it meant. All he knew was the gods had given him a gift.

And he was going to use it.

* * *

The red robes came and went. The glass wasn’t embedded deep, but that didn’t wipe the glower from his brother’s face, even after he was healed.

Darren didn’t pay Blayne any heed. His focus was on his father across the table.

“Make me a mage,” he repeated. “I have magic. I can train for Combat like Eve.”

“You are meant to be the Commander of the Crown’s Army, not a black mage.”

“I could be the Black Mage. Like Marius.”

“Potential isn’t something you can control. For all we know, you are like most of the others, a bit of magic but nothing special.”

“Maybe I’m not. Maybe I’m the best.”

The king stroked his trimmed beard as he studied his youngest. Darren folded his arms, back erect.

“If you were the best,” the king surmised, “the Black Mage would be a better role than Commander Knight.”

It would. They both knew it. A mage of Combat was a knight with magic, the best of both. It was the reason the king sponsored the trial and apprenticeship years in the Academy. Lucius funded all of the war schools, recruiting the best of the best for his armies, but mages received better compensation. Darren didn’t care about the coin, but the chance to study with Eve, and carrying the most prodigious title of all was too tempting to turn away.

“But, Father,” Blayne interrupted, “the Council of Magic forbids the Crown to interfere with matters of magic. No one of royal blood can become a mage—”

“No heir, but they can be of royal blood.”

“But the Colored Robes signed a treaty—”

“I’ll talk them around. The wording is very precise. Darren isn’t my heir. And if I throw more coin toward their Academy, I am certain they will support his study.”

The boy could hardly believe it. His father had agreed. His heart was beating so loudly in his chest.

Darren turned to leave.

“Son.” King Lucius’s voice stopped Darren midstride. “I will get you training with the mage tutors in the palace. Should you prove that your magic is as… capable… as we hope, you will enter the Academy.”

Darren didn’t dare speak.

“If you are not selected as a Combat apprentice, you will take up the rest of your studies at the School of Knighthood the following year, and you will leave this mage business behind.”

“Yes, Father.”

“And Darren, you had better be the best.”

It was a hard thing to forget.

5

The two brutes introduced themselves as brothers.

“Jake,” grunted the first.

“William.”

Darren cocked a brow. He needed no introduction. The prince had seen both of them in the training courts. They were part of the mage lot he and Eve had mocked years before. They were more dedicated than some; he’d seen them training to fight, not just memorizing magic techniques in the library, but they were still clumsy. And they relied on their strength more than brains. That would only get them so far.

Still, their flattery was present, but they were better than most. Darren could only tolerate so much. And the boys had a competitive streak he admired. They were fine sparring partners; their bulk gave the boy a different sort of challenge than Eve. One he was determined to win.

Their group was small. It consisted of the two brothers, Eve, and another three whose magic had yet to arrive. Darren couldn’t comprehend the idiocy of taking up this training without it. But they were all highborn children of privilege, and the ones in his group were the wealthiest in the land.

They had the best tutors gold could buy.

They also had the most riding on their shoulders if they failed.

Magic wasn’t so difficult for him to command.

It was for most. Darren saw the way the rest of his comrades struggled just to bring about a flicker of light, but Darren and Eve had years of discipline, and Sir Audric had always led them through a meditative exercise at the end of their drills.

Projecting all of his senses to cast a flame was child’s play, as simple as flint and steel. Darren’s will struck out at the details built up in his mind, and he had a fire in his hand.

The challenge was building up the harder projections in his head. Combat magic called up weapons from thin air. Darren knew what those weapons were—he had memorized the feel of them in his fist for months on end, but he didn’t always understand the way the casting created a sword.

Their tutor spent a great deal of time directing them to the armory, or visiting with the blacksmith, watching the way metal melded with flame. Training expanded beyond casting itself, and Darren soon realized why the other children had spent so much of their time pouring over scrolls.

There was so much more to casting than will.

Soon Darren was up late every night, studying those same books. He forgot what it meant to sleep. The second his head hit the bed, he was rising with the sun.

There were two other branches of study: Restoration and Alchemy. But they weren’t a part of the prince’s education. The cluster of students Darren was a part of believed in Combat and nothing else. The other two factions were prodigious in their own right, but the highest honor was Combat. They lived in a country infamous for the largest army in the realm. It made sense that the best of the best would go after the calling with the highest prize.

There was no alternative.

* * *

A year came and went, and in no time at all, Darren had reached his thirteenth year.

It was only fitting, he supposed, that the day began with a freestanding duel.

Mage Marius had arrived back from the south. Since the man wasn’t currently involved in the rebel investigation, Lucius had wasted no time securing the man’s expertise for the next month’s set of lessons until he went back out to check on another disturbance near the bordering villages up north. The Black Mage didn’t have time to waste on highborns preparing for the Academy… unless the order came from the king.

It was the first chance Darren would have to train with the realm’s most notorious mage. It was a first for all of them.

The students were gathered in the training arena usually reserved for the king’s personal regiment. Everyone was tense. Failing in front of a man with his stature was… not something that would easily be recovered from. The man had been the champion of Combat during Jerar’s last tourney for mages. It was the reason he bore the title and served as one of the three Colored Robes on the Council of Magic.

Marius was also a judge for the Academy’s trials. If they impressed him now, their shot at an apprenticeship was increased tenfold. More than ever, it was important to stand out.

Darren and Eve didn’t waste time going first.

The tutor mage and Marius observed as the boy and girl took their place across from one another in the arena’s center.

The boy shot his friend a cocky grin. Her response was a roll of her eyes.

“And begin.”

Darren’s magic shot out first. A great gust of air kicked up dirt as it sprung across the dais. The wind spun inside his mind; he could feel it whipping round and round, faster and faster as he ground down with his teeth.

Bam. The casting collided with a shield across Eve’s arm. She had thrown up her projection just in time.

Eve’s stance was perfect—two legs braced, one forward, one back, with a slight tilt to the angle of her shield, slightly up and to the right.

The prince’s magic went hurtling to the left, harmlessly colliding with the fence instead. It was an easy deflection instead of taking the brunt of his casting head on.

The boy had his second casting ready as a staff appeared in his fist. Wood was easy. Darren had yet to master the melding of metal in projection, and he wasn’t going to try now. He didn’t trust a sword or axe casting to hold.

The girl shared his same mind. Eve drew closer with a staff of her own.

And then they were a shoulder’s width apart.

Darren, again, was the first to strike. The boy didn’t believe in dragging out an attack.

The girl parried and swung left. Darren’s boots crunched the ground as he stepped to the side and blocked.

The two swung and took turns trading blows. The longer the exchange lasted, the more advantage he had. A lot of one’s fight came from the force of their footwork, and Darren had added strength in his arms from all those months practicing with the axe.

Sweat started to pool just under his bangs; he fought to keep from blinking in its sting under the hot summer heat. Eve was breathing hard, and he could feel her arms trembling each time their staffs collided.

It wouldn’t take much longer.

Her weapon vanished, and Darren swore, dropping his staff as flames licked out at his hands.

Eve had cast fire.

The girl was always better at finding an advantage.

Darren leaped back as she came at him with a gust of wind. Darren didn’t have time for a shield; he threw out a force of his own.

There was a loud clap as both their magicks collided and collapsed.

Darren ducked low, his hand finding the earth just as Eve lobbed an arrow inches from where he had stood. The ground crumbled and quaked.

Then, like a serpent burrowing into the earth, his magic lit up a trail that ended at her feet. The casting exploded, and she fell back onto the dirt, her shoulders connecting with the ground in a harsh thwack.

Eve struggled to rise, her fingernails clawing at the grass as she fought to stand.

Darren lunged forward to cast an invisible grip at her neck, just enough to invoke a surrender, and then he was flying back against the fence.

Eve stood easily with a smirk.

The girl had feigned injury just to capitalize on the confidence she knew he had.

Very well. The prince still had one more trick up his sleeve as the girl advanced. She played with a casted dagger in her grip, knowing full well Darren couldn’t master steel if he tried.

The boy’s left wrist throbbed where it had hit the bordering post. He could vaguely hear the cheers of his comrades just behind him. He might be arrogant, but he wasn’t vain; he wanted to win.

The boy ripped one of the wooden planks from the post and slammed it against his fractured wrist.

Pain tore up his arm as the magic came roaring awake. With a spark of violet, the force erupted from his hand. The casting shot across the arena to knock the girl to the ground.

Eve collapsed. She didn’t try to stand. One faltering hand raised in surrender and one of the healers, who were always present during exercises such as these, came rushing onto the field.

Then the clapping and shouting began. Darren turned and saw the other five students, his tutor, and Marius outside the perimeter fence.

They weren’t alone.

There was also a cluster of regiment warriors joining in for the applause. Darren hadn’t realized it at the time, but a quarter of the castle’s staff had gathered outside to watch. Soldiers, knights, mages, and even some of the servants… they had all heard rumors the prince wanted to be the next Marius, and they had come to see him perform.

Darren was used to an audience, but that didn’t stop the pride from swelling in his chest. He and Eve had performed well, and it wasn’t something the court would soon forget.

* * *

“Well, the reports certainly weren’t exaggerated.” The throaty chuckle came from the Black Mage as he pulled Darren to the side long after all the other students had been dismissed for the day.

Darren knelt to scratch Wolf’s chest. The mutt had taken to following him around the palace grounds during the day. Most of the regiment soldiers had taken to feeding him scraps, and he was thriving in his new life.

The prince was trying hard not to let on how much the man’s praise meant. “It was nothing.” It was something. It meant a lot, but the gods would have to pry the truth from his tongue.

“What you did at the end, though, that was dangerous. Pain casting isn’t something you should be practicing with your peers. You could lose control.”

“I didn’t.”

“And why was that?” the man halted in place, peering closely at the prince’s face.

Darren willed his gaze to give away nothing.

“You know,” the man said slowly, “there are third-year apprentices who’ve spent years fighting for that level of skill. Pain casting isn’t something they even teach the first-years at the Academy. The magic is unstable and unpredictable at best.”

“It wasn’t for me.”

“Pain casting is even rarer than magic itself. Perhaps one out of every three even have the ability, and the ones that do...” The man studied Darren’s stance. “To perform that well, this young, with that much control… it means you must have had great practice controlling pain in your past.”

The prince said nothing. What was there to say? Most of the court knew what his father was; they were just wise enough not to voice the word aloud. A monster.

The mage placed a firm hand on the prince’s shoulder. Darren cringed. He wasn’t sure what was worse, sympathy from a man who had once saved his life or the fact that he found himself wishing for more.

It was so hard holding up a wall, shutting out the pain and expectation, giving the world the prince they expected. He was good at it. Gods, Darren was good at everything he tried, but sometimes he wanted to be someone else. He wanted to leave the palace and the parts that made it so hard to sleep, flee this life that was equal parts poison and pride.

But Darren recognized that as weakness. And so like all of the other feelings that haunted him, he shoved it back down.

He gave the world a cold, condescending face. He would never show them anything else. His jaw was set.

The man seemed to recognize how uncomfortable he had made the prince.

Marius released his shoulder with a sigh. “It won’t always be like this,” he told the boy. “I know what it’s like to grow up with expectation. I have a younger sister that reminds me of your Blayne. She and my parents made things… difficult. When you go off to that school, it will get better. It might not be what you want, but away from the chains, you might find someone with whom you can be yourself.”

Ha. Not even Eve knew the darkest parts of his past. But Darren held his tongue. Despite the man’s uncalled for assumptions, he respected his words. Marius had a humor and a gravity the other men didn’t. Darren could immediately see why the man had performed so well in the Candidacy. A mage had to be able to read others if they wanted to go far, and Marius had an uncanny ability for seeing the truth after two hours observing the prince.

“Your father asked me to give you additional lessons for the time being,” the mage added. “We can meet each dawn in the indoor training court, and then you can join up with the others for the rest of your drills. I am happy you live up to Mage Dargon’s praise, I wouldn’t like to waste hours with one of the others…” The man’s eyebrow rose, his green eyes twinkling in the fading sun as they finished crossing the threshold to the palace doors. “Perhaps Eve, but those last three couldn’t even cast.” Marius gave a confiding snort. “I don’t know why their parents waste so much coin on children with no magic.”

Darren hid a grin. “Half the court is made up of fools.”

The man winked. “Only half?”

The prince decided right then and there; he liked the man.

6

It was his least favorite part of being a prince. A formal ball. This time it was being held in honor of the visiting Emperor Liang and his daughter, Princess Shinako of the Borea Isles.

It wasn’t that Darren didn’t like the princess. She wasn’t pretentious like the rest of his father’s court. She also wasn’t his intended. And the emperor was certainly more tolerable than his father.

But a ball meant rules, and since King Lucius was in talks with the emperor to have their two heirs wed, that left Darren to every ruthless family in court. Mothers thrusted their hapless daughters into his presence. There was only so much mindless conversation the boy could take.

If he danced with one more fool who insisted on choking him with rose-scented oils and shoving herself into his arms for a dance….

Darren hated dancing. He hated the string of compliments and the way the girls all looked alike, a parade of endless faces, powdered and pressed, just waiting to catch his eye.

He suspected the most irritating one was Priscilla. Somehow she too had discovered magic just weeks before, and now that she was a part of his training once again, she had marked him as hers.

In some ways, they were alike. Priscilla could fight and she carried her pride like a knife. The girl didn’t fall for the courtiers’ lies; instead, she reigned. But she still irked him with her calculated assault.

Darren didn’t want to play those courtly games. He wanted something… different than the walls closing in.

So he avoided her at all costs. He was lurking near a tapestry when Eve broke free from the crowd to find him.

“Stop hiding.”

The prince shot his friend a look. “I’m not hiding. There is just no one worth my time.”

A smile curved the side of her mouth. “I think there is.”

“If you say Priscilla…” he warned.

Eve snickered. “Never, but you haven’t looked hard enough. Or did you fail to notice Sir Theron’s daughter in the crowd. She looks awfully pretty tonight.”

Darren had noticed her, but he had no interest in a convent girl. At least with Priscilla, he’d have a wife he could respect. Perhaps also despise, but respect.

The girl elbowed him. “Ella is like us, Darren. She’s friends with Kora”—the girl Eve favored, one of the more intelligent young women in court—“and I’ve heard her telling anyone who will listen she wants to be a knight like her father. People say she trains with her father’s sword when no one is around.”

Darren smiled despite himself.

Eve pushed on, noticing her friend’s interest. “She might not be as good as us, but she’s good, Darren. And she speaks her mind, not like the others.” The girl made a face.

The prince supposed there were worse things than meeting this Ella. He cast a glance around the ballroom and found her, dancing with one of the brutes. He believed it was Jake, though it was hard to be sure, the brothers looked so alike. The girl had a forced smile in place as he stepped on her feet.

He’d noticed Ella on more than one occasion. She was one of the darker-skinned girls, with curling ebony locks and sharp eyes. She hadn’t looked fragile like the other useless flowers in court, that was the first thing he remembered. Of course, now he knew that was because she secretly trained for the School.

“Would you like me to—”

Darren smirked. “I think I can make my own introductions.”

The girl rolled her eyes. “Just don’t present your usual arrogant self. She might be inclined to punch you in the face.”

“Like you?” He hadn’t forgotten the first time he had picked a fight with Eve. The memory made him grin.

“Exactly.”

Darren wasted no time making his way through the crowd. He didn’t offer any apologies for the incompetence of those who failed to notice a prince in time.

Then he tapped Jake on the shoulder. The boy jerked his head to the side and then paused, mid-dance.

Ella shot the prince a startled glance.

“Would you like a partner who can actually dance?” Darren gave the girl a rare smile. He knew very well its effect.

She laughed, and Jake gave the prince an irritated look. The boy knew better than to complain, but his expression clearly said he would give Darren a run for his joke in the training courts the next day. Darren welcomed him to try.

“So,” the girl said as they took their stance. One hand rested lightly on his shoulder, the other in his palm. It was a traditional dance accompanied by stringed rebecs. “What brings the palace’s most notorious prince to ask me to dance?” There was a sparkle in her amber eyes.

“I heard you want to be a knight.” Darren was surprised at his own honesty. “Is that true?”

She grinned. “Well, I wouldn’t mind being a commander, but not all of us share your luck.”

“If you were, would you pick my father’s personal regiment or the army?”

She didn’t waste any time. “Crown’s Army. Why would I want to guard when I could fight?”

Exactly. A knight serving the palace regiment was nothing more than a puppet in his opinion.

“Wow. Was that an actual smile?”

Darren tensed. “I smile.”

“But that one was real. The first one was the one you give the other girls. That look that says I’m supposed to find you irresistible.”

“So you’ve noticed?”

“Please.” She gave him a knowing look. “You make it your life’s work to be noticed. I’ve heard it from ten different people tonight that you are a prodigy.”

“Only ten?” He was grinning now. He wasn’t even paying attention to the music as he spun the girl around the room. “And nothing about my looks?”

Ella blushed. “You are handsome enough, but you know it. You don’t need to hear it from me.”

“Maybe I want to.”

“Well, you just did.” She looked embarrassed, and Darren enjoyed the fact that she didn’t try to spout flattery instead. The girl was ashamed she had complimented him, and that somehow made him like her more.

“What is your favorite weapon?”

“The sword. I know I should like archery the best because it’s what all of the other girls pick, and everyone says I won’t last against an opponent twice my size…” Ella’s expression turned defiant. “But I practice with my father’s broadsword when he’s asleep. I wager half the boys entering the School can’t manage the same.”

“Mine is the axe.” He wasn’t sure why he was just giving information freely without being asked.

“Wow.” Her tone had risen in respect. “The axe? Just one or…?”

“Two. I’m still trying to figure how to—”

“May I cut in?”

The dance had long ended, and Darren and Ella hadn’t moved. A highborn was waiting for his turn.

Darren scowled and shot the boy a look. “No. You can’t.”

Ella snickered as the boy sulked away.

“So you still want to dance with me?”

“Do you still want to dance with me?”

She didn’t say anything; she just nodded.

Two more dances came and went. Darren lost count. He was too entranced with the girl to care if he was causing a scene. He knew Priscilla was off somewhere in the crowds, glaring at the prince she fought so hard to claim. But for the first time, Darren was enjoying himself at a ball, and he wasn’t about to give all of that up to please his father and his unspoken expectations with the Langli girl.

There was another hand on his shoulder as the next dance began; Darren turned to send the fool running, only to find his brother instead. Princess Shinako was standing not far behind, in an elaborate dress of Borean silk.

“Father is furious,” the boy drawled. “You’ve monopolized this one’s time and all but ignored the rest.”

Darren’s smile was gone and his jaw was clenched. “Go away, Blayne.”

The crown prince ignored his request. “How about I steal a dance with the beautiful young woman that has stolen my little brother’s attention?” He smirked as he took Ella’s palm and pressed it to his lips. “Would you care to dance with an heir instead?”

The girl’s gaze flit from Darren to Blayne, her cheeks reddening.

Darren’s hands fisted at his side. Blayne could have the attention of any girl in the room, but he had chosen Darren’s. It was a play for power and one Darren couldn’t win. “Take her,” the boy said curtly. “She’s hardly a prize.”

The girl flinched, and Darren immediately regretted his words. He had hurt her, but he couldn’t let his brother see how much it bothered him.

When Darren met her eyes, Ella looked away. Then she smiled up at his brother. “I’ve always wanted to dance with an heir,” she said, a hard lilt to her voice.

There was a kick to his gut. The boy ground down on his teeth as his older brother shot the girl a knowing wink.

“My dear,” he said, “there is much you have been missing. Shall I show you?”

“Please.”

Neither looked back as they made their way to the center of the floor.

“Your brother isn’t very nice, is he?”

Darren turned to the princess at his right. He was thinking of how he had insulted the one girl he actually liked.

“Neither am I,” he said tightly.

“You are.” The princess was far too observant for her own good. “You didn’t mean what you said to her. You were just doing it to hurt your brother.”

Darren’s gaze shot to the princess. His brother was a fool for leaving her side.

“Would you care to dance with a non-heir?” The title gritted his mouth; he hated it, but he was mocking his brother’s earlier words. “Your highness?”

Shinako gave him a small smile. “Only if you call me Shina.”

* * *

It was an hour later when Darren left the Borean princess’s side.

Blayne and Ella had left for a stroll through the gardens. Hot anger burned Darren’s lungs. His older brother wasn’t just content to steal the girl for a dance, now he was determined to make her like his other… conquests.

And Darren wasn’t about to just stand by.

Ever since that day in the forest, there was a gap between the brothers, and it had only continued to grow. Everything had become a test. Blayne was still charming among others; but with Darren, he’d grown cold. Everything was a rivalry, and Blayne almost always won.

Darren had never cared. He had his magic and his group of… friends. He knew Blayne had their father, and as much as he might pretend it was all privilege, there was also pain. There were times Darren had seen it hiding behind the crown prince’s easy courtier smile.

Darren knew there was a part of Blayne that lashed out because he wanted what the non-heir had.

But that didn’t mean the boy wouldn’t fight. And something told him he would be a fool if he let that girl fall under his brother’s spell. Someday Blayne would be marrying a Borean Isle princess and this girl, Ella, well, maybe someday Darren would like to win her for himself. His father was in talks with Baron Langli, but all these years and the king had yet to set a betrothal between Priscilla and himself.

But maybe would never come if he didn’t apologize first.

It took a while for the boy to find them. By the time he did, they had left the gardens, and the girl was clutching a glass of wine and laughing a little too loudly. Her face was a little too red as the prince drew her toward an empty hall.

If Darren thought he was angry before, it was nothing next to his reaction now. Blayne had more than once boasted about what transpired here.

The prince lost any semblance of indifference as his brother pulled the stumbling girl into the nearest chamber door.

Darren wasn’t sure who he was more furious with, his brother or himself. How could he be such a fool? Of course the girl was just like the rest. She had chosen the heir. How many more times would it take before Darren learned the rule.

Why had he thought Ella was any different?

Why did he still care?

Darren wasn’t sure why he was still standing there in that hall, staring at that door. He should leave. There was nothing left for him here. He needed to leave.

He stood there another minute telling himself it didn’t matter. He was better off for discovering this now, before he felt something more.

The boy turned to leave. He was halfway to the next corridor when he heard a muffled shout.

And then a girl’s scream.

It was coming from the chamber. No one else was in the hall. They were in an abandoned wing of the palace.

Darren spun.

And Ella screamed again. It was followed by a crash.

The prince took off running. He kept hearing her scream in his head. Or perhaps it was aloud. He wasn’t sure.

When he twisted the handle, the door swung open.

Darren’s eyes shot to the scene before him. Blayne was wrestling the girl onto the ground. Her dress was ripped.

Ella’s fingernails were dripping blood as she clawed at his brother’s neck. Her gaze immediately shot to the door. To Darren.

He stood there for a moment, his body frozen in place. There was no mistaking this scene.

Walk away. There was a rule screaming in his head. Walk away. He’s the heir. This doesn’t concern you. Blayne is to be king; he can do whatever he wants.

Blayne still hadn’t seen him; he was too busy raising a fist.

Everything inside him was telling Darren this was wrong, that he needed to help.

But the rule wouldn’t let him go. He was to be his brother’s savior; the girl was nothing. No one. It wasn’t a matter of life or death.

Loyalty to the Crown was the only thing that mattered.

Darren turned and left the room.

Ella screamed again, and Darren slammed a fist to his mouth to stifle his own. His back was to the wall, just seconds from the door. His fingernails drew blood in his palms. He bit down so hard on his tongue he tasted hot coppery blood.

He couldn’t just walk away.

The kitten with the broken neck. That knight in the woods. Ella.

This was their father. This was the monster rearing its ugly head.

And Darren was tired of letting the darkness win.

His magic shot out. The projection had been building in his head since the moment he heard her scream.

Darren stood just long enough to watch his brother collapse.

Something snapped in his chest as his brother fell, unconscious, to the ground.

I betrayed him.

The girl was hobbling to her feet, staring at her hands. She was doing something with her fingers as she stared at the fallen prince at her feet, and then she started to turn.

Darren had two choices.

He could stand there and be a hero, a hero that had just hurt the one person he had sworn to protect, or he could walk away. Walk away from this girl and the shame that was digging into his throat, squeezing until he couldn’t breathe, squeezing until he was locked in a darkness of his own, eating him from the inside.

The boy walked away. He didn’t want Ella’s thanks. It would only remind him of just who he betrayed to save her.

* * *

The girl was gone the next day. Darren found out from a servant. Ella’s family had left court and returned to their principality in the west.

Ella hadn’t reported his brother, not that it would matter one bit; the crown prince was protected, and a highborn girl only had so much leverage within the king’s court. But a part of the boy—a foolish, vain part—wished she had found him first.

Ella had looked him in the eyes. She’d known it was him.

But she had just left.

Darren told himself it didn’t matter.

It did.

But he refused to acknowledge it.

He would never see that girl again.

Blayne, for his part, was furious. He didn’t confess what had happened though. When the healer Darren summoned found the older boy, Blayne claimed he had tripped and fallen. Alone. But Darren could see it in the way his brother stalked around court.

For a while, Darren was able to convince himself what he had done was right.

But the next day, Blayne challenged their father in the midst of an important feast. The older boy’s anger sprung out like a whip, and he lashed out. He lashed out, ignoring the rules, and never looked back.

Darren found Blayne later. The boy had to be rushed to the infirmary. There wasn’t a part of him that wasn’t bruised. Bleeding, bones jutting out of his broken skin, Blayne couldn’t even open his eyes.

It took his brother over two weeks to recover. It took another week before he could show himself in court. That’s how long the bruises and cuts took to disappear.

Darren hated himself. That roiling darkness that had made his brother challenge the king, it was his fault.

Not for the first time, the boy had failed to protect his brother. But this time, he swore it would be the last.

7

He had waited for this day for years, and it was finally here.

It had actually come two days before, everyone else had already departed for the Academy, but obligation kept Darren in court longer than the rest. A round of promotions had gone out among the army and king’s personal regiment, and as a part of the Crown, Darren had to be present for both ceremonies.

Sir Audric was now Commander of the Crown’s Army. Darren couldn’t have been more pleased. If he had to trust someone with his brother’s life, now that Darren was to be a mage instead, there was no one he trusted more than his former knight master.

Blayne wasn’t pleased to be left behind. Darren could read the unspoken wrath in his brother’s frosty gaze. But the crown prince had long since stopped voicing his complaints aloud. Coming of age, Blayne had as many responsibilities as Lucius’s himself. Darren had no doubt his older brother would be too busy to notice his absence much.

In five years, how much would his brother change?

The only other thing Darren would miss was Wolf. Heath had promised to look after the mutt in Darren’s stead, but it wasn’t the same. That dog knew his darkest secrets and fears that the prince never spoke aloud. And in some ways, Wolf was a part of himself, a part that would go missing for five long years.

Now, Darren was on the way to the Academy, and nothing and no one would keep him from an apprenticeship at the year’s end. He was sixteen years of age and the best of the training mages in court. Even Marius had taken to calling Darren his protégé.

And everyone knew, if the Black Mage thought Darren was the best, then he was. It wasn’t arrogance. The boy had suffered more than his share to outshine the rest. If the other students were smart, they would pick another faction.

Because Combat was his, and anyone who thought it was theirs… well, he wasn’t too concerned about that.

Darren and his escort, eight intimidating knights in heavy chainmail and helmets of steel, cut across the central fields of Jerar in no time at all. The King’s Road was almost barren—most of the men and women were out harvesting the last of the late summer crops—and they reached the narrow plains and climbing hills within four days’ time. The final leg of their journey was three days through the forest.

Their party was on the last day before they would reach the seaside town of Sjeka, the location of the Academy itself, when they came across a pair of straggling lowborns on foot.

Darren took in their apparent dress—little more than dirt-stained rags and hand-me-down boots—and scowled. The girl was openly staring at him and made no attempt to look away.

Who did she think she was?

The girl had been staring so hard that the horses almost trampled her in the middle of the road, but at the last second, a boy pulled her back.

Why did lowborns even bother with the Academy? The boy would never understand. They had to know its reputation.

Every highborn in court—with years of study and the best mage tutors their family’s coin could buy—was attending. One lowborn might secure an apprenticeship every five years.

If the girl had any brains, and he suspected she didn’t from her slack-jawed expression, she would turn around and apply at the Cavalry.

Jerar needed soldiers. He doubted she would ever make it as a mage.

* * *

It had to be the worst kind of luck that the person who came seconds away from knocking him to the floor was the same lowborn from before.

Darren had been patiently listening to the orientation given by Master Barclae, the head mage of the Academy, when someone collided with his back. The force was enough to jostle him forward so that he tripped on his cloak and nearly ridiculed himself in front of the man he most wanted to impress. Only a swift recovery kept him from face-planting on the floor.

The bumbling oaf was mumbling an apology as Darren turned, condescension written plainly across his face.

And he found himself face to face with that girl from before.

“Sorry.” Her cheeks were flushed, and they darkened when she realized who he was.

Only a fool wouldn’t. The prince was wearing the black hematite stone of his family around his neck, and it was plainly visible over his black cloak and equally intimidating boots.

He had made a point of wearing all black. It was the best way to tell the others exactly which faction he intended to select.

Not only was the lowborn late to their introduction to the Academy—by hours—but she also smelled something foul. Sweat and dirt streaked her face and her scarlet hair looked like a rat had made a nest and decided it wasn’t fit for habitation. Horsehair covered her rags. Did the girl know anything about first impressions? Just because she was lowborn didn’t mean she had to dress like a creature from the swamps.

Darren didn’t want to miss another second of the master’s speech. The girl had already wasted enough of his time. He wasn’t sure why he had spared her any time as it was.

The master concluded his speech and called for his manservant to direct the first-years to their assignments. The crowd dispersed. Darren didn’t bother to stick around. He had already dropped off his supplies at the men’s barracks. When he arrived, the masters had offered him private accommodations on one of the Academy’s upper floors. But the prince had known that would be a mistake. Convincing the Council of Magic to admit him in the first place hadn’t come easy, and the last thing he wanted was someone questioning his place.

No, when Darren secured his apprenticeship at the end of their trial year, he wanted to make certain no one questioned the validity of a prince.

* * *

The prince walked the Academy that night. He took in the looming castle of gray stone and stifled a snort. The place was meant to replicate the decadence of the palace back home, but it wasn’t even a quarter of its size. The stairwell might have been a bit impressive—spiraling in to separate cases as it touched off against the second floor, with a looming many-paned window overlooking the ocean at its center—but from what he had heard, most of his father’s coin went to the mage library and the apprenticeship.

There were a little over a hundred applicants, and from first impression, most would never amount to much. An older boy had even confessed to no magic. He’d shown up at the Academy with hopes it would emerge since it was his last year to apply to the three war schools and he wanted to be a war mage.

Fool. Hadn’t the boy listened to anything Master Barclae said? The masters didn’t take to incompetence. Just like Darren, they despised people who wasted their time. And that older boy was sure to fail.

Only fifteen apprenticeships. The prince already knew the masters would be doing everything they could to discourage their students. After all, the fewer students they had, the more energy they could invest in training the ones who mattered.

Darren looked forward to the next morning. He had a feeling many of the others would be in for a surprise.

He couldn’t wait.

* * *

“The accommodations are terrible,” Priscilla declared over the morning’s meal of porridge and some sort of raisin roll, not exactly the spread from back home. “You would think they would offer separate chambers for those who matter,” she continued. “Or at least a bath house free from the lowborns. They smell. And, Darren, you should see what some of the girls look like. There is no way I can survive an entire year with that rabble.”

The edge of the prince’s lip curved up in a smirk. If Priscilla left because of the accommodations, he would have an entire apprenticeship without her presence. Five years. It was a tempting thought. “Perhaps you should leave then.”

The girl sneered at him. “You would like that. You and Eve both. Well, unfortunately for you both, I’m not going anywhere.”

Eve rolled her eyes. “A shame.”

Jake and William snickered. They had heard this argument many times around the training court back home. It had become all the more common the older they got. Any day now, the king would be announcing Darren and Priscilla’s engagement.

“You don’t like me,” Darren said plaintively, “and I don’t like you. Why don’t you do us both a favor and go end this betrothal before it begins.”

“It’s not about what I want,” she hissed. “It’s about freedom. My freedom. And if earning my robes and marrying you to escape my father and the buffoons at court is what it takes, so be it. At least we share the same indifference. I can serve the Crown’s Army and you can go off with your mistresses in the palace. Perhaps I’ll take a man myself, someone who doesn’t brood at every possible occasion.”

Darren grimaced. Priscilla painted such a… lovely picture. But at least with her, there would be no misunderstandings. He had long since given up the notion of a harmonious marriage. And since Priscilla had dropped her flattery, excluding the times when other rivals got in her way, things had been a lot more pleasant.

If pleasant meant only wanting to stab out his eyes half the time.

“Well, it looks like you are all still here. I will try my best to discourage that.”

All conversation fettered off as the Master of the Academy entered the dining hall. Barclae was a handsome man with a sharp face and even sharper gaze. He had a graying mustache that still sported stubborn black hairs that refused to relinquish their youth. The man was the epitome of strength.

He was just as intimidating as the night before, except now he appeared annoyed.

“Have I bored you?” the man drawled loudly, his eyes fixated on someone to the back of the room.

Darren shifted on his bench to see who the man was glaring at.

It was the lowborn from earlier, and… Ella? Darren couldn’t tell for certain, but she had an uncanny likeness. Both were staring at the floor, shaking their heads in response to the master’s question.

“Really, I insist, what is so fascinating that you needed to interrupt my lecture?”

The lowborn said nothing, but the second raised her head with a defiant lift of her chin.

“Him,” she said. It was Ella, and she was pointing at Darren.

The prince’s jaw clenched as he saw the disgust in her eyes. The look she shot him made it clear she hadn’t forgotten that night at the ball.

Fury filled his chest. How dare she. Not only had Darren saved her, but his brother had nearly lost his life in the infirmary because of it. Blayne never would have been foolish enough to challenge their father if he hadn’t been so humiliated.

And now here she was at the Academy.

“Ah.” The master’s gaze flit from the prince to the girl. “Him. What about this him?”

Ella stood, and Darren’s nails dug into the wood. “The Council’s Treaty states no heir of the kingdom can undertake training as a mage. T-to prevent the Crown from interfering with matters of magic.”

Not only was Ella there, but she was also trying to get rid of him. A prince. The future Black Mage. And she did it all with the audacity of a snake, except now she couldn’t even meet his eyes.

“True,” the master agreed, and Darren’s fingers gripped the wood so hard they hurt. “But the doctrine was alluding to first-born children who would be inheriting the throne. Prince Darren is not.”

“But we’ve never had a prince before—”

“You’ve never had one before because nobody was good enough!” Darren snarled.

The lowborn, at least, had the audacity to wince. Ella just stared at her hands.

Master Barclae laughed harshly. “Ah, my dears, you are so young to have already made an unpleasant impression with a member of the royal family.”

Unpleasant? Darren’s eyes burned crimson fire. Those two had just earned his permanent wrath. And for a moment, when he had first realized it was Ella, he had thought… no, it didn’t matter what he thought. That girl was not worth his time. And that lowborn, that stuttering redhead that continued to find herself in his way, he didn’t know who she was, but she would regret the day she ever questioned a prince.

They both would. And he would be laughing all the way.

* * *

“What happened at that dance?”

Darren shot Eve a look that stated clearly the earlier event was not up for discussion.

Priscilla looked pleased. Of course she would. The only girl she had ever deemed as competition was not on good terms with her prince.

“That lowborn,” Priscilla declared, “that one that was with Ella, she’s the one that smelled like manure last night in our barracks. I could hardly stomach the stench.”

“And yet somehow you managed.” Eve’s remark was quiet but dry. She, of all people, harbored the best intentions toward the lowborns in the Academy. Darren supposed it was because her father, Commander Audric, had once been a lowborn at the School, and squires were just as competitive.

Darren didn’t care for lowborns any more than highborns. Each had their own way of ruining his day. The less he dealt with either, the better.

“At least she was polite,” Eve added. “Not everyone can afford to stop at every inn along the way for a lavender oil bath.”

“Doesn’t look like much,” William grunted.

Jake nodded along. “In the lessons, she was quite slow.”

The girl wasn’t the only one who was slow, but Darren didn’t have the energy to critique the brutes. He was too busy concentrating on the rest of the day’s events. After lunch they transitioned from book learning to casting.

It would be his chance to make an impression, and he wanted to make sure it was something the others wouldn’t forget. After all, like the masters said, the more first-years they discouraged, the better.

And he knew of two first-years he wanted to leave.

* * *

As he was turning the corner, someone collided into him, knocking the contents from his arms and stuttering an apology. It took Darren of all two seconds to recognize the culprit.

Darren ground his teeth as he knelt to the ground.

Scattered parchment and books he had painstakingly arranged for his study were littered across the marble tile.

It was her. Again.

The gods had a cruel sense of irony.

“I’m so…” The lowborn’s apology faded away as she realized exactly who she had hit. He heard her hitched intake of breath.

The idiot lowborn was everywhere. She had to be the clumsiest fool in the Academy.

She reached out a pale, freckled arm to help, but Darren snatched the scroll out of her reach. He was not about to entertain any notion of friendship with the likes of her.

“Your grace,” she stammered. “I want to apologize for earlier.”

Your grace? It was ‘your highness’ but she couldn’t even manage the correct greeting. He bit down on his tongue. He had more pressing concerns than the likes of her.

Darren glared, but the girl kept rambling on. “It wasn’t right. You deserve a chance just as much as anyone else, especially since you are not the heir—”

Enough was enough. “Thanks,” Darren bit off, “but I don’t need some backcountry peasant asserting what I can or can’t do.”

Gray eyes flashed angrily. “I didn’t mean—”

“Look,” the prince spat, “I didn’t come here to socialize with commoners and learn about their feelings, I came here to be a mage.” Especially inept ones like her. “I’ve got more pressing affairs than listening to you apologize for your own incompetence.”

Darren didn’t bother to stick around. He saw her face flush red as he shoved his way past. For a second, he contemplated the fact that he had been a bit too cold, but it didn’t matter. The girl was friends with Ella and had no problem making assumptions about what he could or couldn’t do. Her attempt at an apology had come a little too late, and if there was one thing Darren had learned, it was to never look weak.

The girl wouldn’t last the year. Girls like her were soft and easy to break. Lowborns always wanted glory until they realized the hard work it entailed. Darren had worked hard for everything, and a girl who tried to take that away? Well, she wasn’t worth very much.

* * *

The rest of his lessons went exactly as planned.

It started with a bit of fire. The knight master in charge of physical conditioning wanted a demonstration on the importance of casting and endurance. Darren was only too happy to oblige, and if the hushed whispers and looks of awe were any indication, he had surpassed even Sir Piers’s expectation.

Conditioning… Darren wanted to laugh. All of those highborns preparing for the Academy had failed to invest the time to train outside of a library. Most couldn’t run five miles without choking. And the lowborns, while better than expected when it came time for endurance, failed miserably at weapons. They didn’t even know how to hold a staff.

Meditation was a bit more enlightening. He still did well, exceedingly well in comparison to the hundred or so first-years practicing the same, but Darren was a bit jealous of Eve. The girl had a patience he would never master, and it was the one thing in which she would always have him beat. Perhaps swordplay as well, but the years had been good to him, and he towered over her most days.

Three-quarters of the prince’s year were halfwits. By the end of the day, he could see there were perhaps ten true contenders for the faction of Combat. The students wouldn’t be picking their factions for another two months, but even so, it wasn’t hard to hear the rumors as he passed.

“Next Black Mage.” Darren heard it almost as often as his name.

“Pick another faction. Don’t stand a chance now that he’s after Combat.”

“Wish I were him.”

“Wish I were her.” That was most often directed at Eve and Priscilla. Both had stood out—Priscilla in physical trials, and Eve in meditation and study. They were easily the best females of their year.

Jake and William suffered a bit during study, but overall they were miles above the rest.

The five of them were the best of their year. Even in their weakest lesson, they had never underperformed the top quarter of their class.

When they took dinner, Darren made it a point to sit with the best of the best. Or rather, he was the best, and he sent away anyone—highborn or lowborn—who was not worthy of his rank. It was a common rule in his life: surround yourself with those you admire, never those beneath you. And now that Darren was finally pursuing his dream, he wasn’t going to waste time with lazy courtiers’ children or peasants that couldn’t perform.

“Some brawny lowborn tried to flirt with me in training,” Priscilla drawled. She had spoken rather loudly; Darren expected she had done it to pique his interest. Too bad for her, he couldn’t care less about whatever fool thought he had a chance with the cold-hearted beauty. “But he could barely run. He won’t last the week.”

“Perhaps you could offer him lessons,” Darren remarked dryly.

She scrunched up her nose. “I heard he’s the redhead’s brother. You know, the girl with Ella.”

And that was the end of the conversation. Darren stood up, finding the meal suddenly lacking. “I’m going to wash up. Let’s meet up for study later in the library?”

The others agreed.

Darren exited the hall, not bothering to look back. Something told him, if he did, he would see her somewhere in the crowd. He wasn’t sure why it mattered.

But it did, and he just couldn’t figure out why.

* * *

The next night, Darren waited until the servants had performed their final check. He could hear the groans as the boys staggered back to their beds, disgruntled as they dimmed their mage light and the sconces lining the walls.

Study was hard, harder than even the prince had come to expect. Darren could feel their exhaustion clouding the air.

People were already starting to fall behind on the second day.

Not Darren, but others.

Everyone was fighting just to stay awake, complaining loudly that there was no way they could possibly keep up with the masters’ expectations.

Darren smirked. He didn’t have to worry about that.

But the prince did desire more time among the Academy’s books. The school’s library was a towering fortress—two levels of shelves as far as the eye could see. Scrolls dictated the magical history of Jerar, the practice of casting, and warfare. And if there was something Darren desired, it was more of the last.

The prince was used to long hours, and his lessons were nothing new, but those books...

The servants had made it very clear that first-years were not allowed to wander the halls at night. The masters had established routines for a reason. Students needed a clear mind, and one that was heavily fatigued would suffer, but Darren never backed away from a challenge.

So, like the night before, the prince waited until the boys were all settled away in their beds and the barracks was a shadowy den. Then he slipped out, his hood pulled low over his eyes.

Darren slunk along the dark passages filling the Academy walls. He traced familiar sandstone as he drew closer to the library itself, but he cursed when one of his boots scuffed the floor.

Somewhere behind him there was a scuffle of feet as one of the patrolling servants rushed in his direction.

Quick as a flash, the prince ducked into the room, softly shutting the heavy doors behind him. There was a moment’s indecision as he debated which shelf to hide behind. As the voices drew closer, he ducked behind a bookcase to his right.

A second later, the doors swung open and torchlight lit up the entry just yards from where he stood.

Two servants entered the room.

“But I thought I heard someone—”

“You think you hear a lot of things,” the second snapped. “But once again, you’ve managed to waste my time.”

“But shouldn’t we still search?”

“Really, Frederick, who would sneak off to the library of all places?”

“I don’t—”

“Out!”

“Yes, sir.”

And with that, the voices vanished as the doors swung closed with a loud thwack. Their footsteps faded moments later; Darren suspected the servants were returning to check on the barracks.

Darren chuckled as he withdrew his hood, palming a bit of casted light in his hand. The thrill of almost being caught had been a rush he hadn’t felt in a while. These nightly sessions in the library might become routine just for that.

The prince settled comfortably into one of the many couches, a pile of books resting on the table nearby. This was better than the palace. He was miles away from his father and Blayne and finally enjoying the freedom he had fantasized about for so long.

Here, Darren wasn’t second-born. No one cared that his brother came first. He wasn’t a non-heir when all they saw was a mage. Darren was still a prince, but he was free of the Crown. The masters admired magic and physical prowess, and that was all that mattered.

Darren was no longer the shadow in the corner. He was now the sun lighting up the room.

* * *

Much later that night, there was a clatter as Darren was gathering the last of his notes.

It came from up above.

The prince’s gaze shot to the stairs. Someone was here. He wasn’t alone.

Darren got up to investigate, and as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw a shadow descending a ladder from the higher floors. As it lowered itself to the stairs, the figure came into the light. He could see its outline through the flickering light in his fist.

When it finally turned around, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

“You?” Darren rasped.

“You’re not the only one who wants to get ahead,” the lowborn stated primly. Her gaze was defiant again. There was no hesitation, just challenge. “You know, us commoners, not all of us are just here to ‘socialize and talk about feelings.’”

For a moment, just a moment, Darren flinched. He had been cruel to her the day before in the hall. They both knew it, and the girl looked like she wanted to slap him across the face.

She was with Ella when she questioned your place.

Darren’s shoulders tensed and his eyes narrowed. He couldn’t believe he had almost apologized.

The girl seemed to recognize his expression. She sighed and broke his gaze, starting toward the door.

She was going to get caught if he didn’t warn her.

“Wait!”

The lowborn spun and Darren cursed his tongue, wondering why he had called out to her in the first place.

The girl shifted from one foot to the other, waiting for him to continue whatever he was planning to say.

“Don’t take the right hall.” The words spilled out of his mouth, and he couldn’t understand why. She was nothing to him. “Barrius had Frederick patrolling there last night.”

“A-all right.” The girl looked so confused. Her face was still lit up by the light in his palm—and Darren stared a moment too long. Her eyes weren’t just gray, he realized; there were flecks of blue too.

Not the blue of ice like his father and Blayne, but blue like a clear, rushing falls. Blue like the sky during that moment, that single moment at dawn, when everything ceased to matter, everything but that moment...

And despite the smell—she must have been mucking the stables, because it was something foul—the girl wasn’t nearly so ragged when she was fighting back a smile.

She might even be pretty.

What in the gods’ name is wrong with you? Darren scowled as he realized he had helped the lowborn despite all desire for the contrary.

“The last thing I need is for you to get caught and make it harder for me to come here at night,” he snapped.

The girl’s smile faded back to a glower of her own. “My furthest intention.” Her tone stated very clearly she shared his sentiment… for whatever this was.

Darren watched her go.

There was something about this girl. He wasn’t sure what it was, but every single time they crossed paths, she had found a way to get under his skin.

She’ll be gone by the end of the month. He had seen how she clutched her books. She was terrified of failure, and she was lowborn.

He was caught between admiration and distaste.

But she snuck out like you. Of all the first-years, she’s the only one who cared enough to risk her neck. She might not be the best, but she’s resilient.

Not even Eve or Priscilla had thought to go to the library. But this girl, whoever she was, had. She was going to fight for her place at the Academy. He had seen it in her eyes.

Something told Darren she would pick Combat. Not just any girl would challenge a prince.

And tonight, the girl hadn’t backed away.

She hadn’t shown fear.

She might be reckless, naive, and stubborn even, but she was a fighter.

And something told him he would want to know her name.

Ryiah and Darren’s story continues in First Year, Book 1 of The Black Mage series.

Author’s Note

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Acknowledgments

This book would’ve never been written without the FANS. You guys are the ones who begged and wheedled for Darren, so thank you for finally convincing me to write this book.

Thank you very much to my awesome sauce beta reader SAKINA MADRAS for giving me the honest truth and your invaluable feedback on this (and also advocating for the fans and begging me to write this in the first place).

I’d also like to give a big thank you to my lovely PROOFERS who helped me in a last-minute crunch. You guys are much better at spotting those pesky typos than me: MIRANDA STEED, SANDRA DEEB, MEGAN MCGORRY, and ASHLEY CHEESMAN.

Special shout-out again to MEGAN. Thank you for cheering me on throughout the writing process (also teasing me with all of her yet-to-be-written story ideas and Fletchy!) and your (and Monica’s) lovable loathing of my favorite non-heir. You took a chance on my books from the very beginning, and I’ll never forget all your support. Can’t wait to read your finished books one day!

As always, my career therapist, best friend, and partner-in-crime, R.L. BLALOCK, I owe you an acknowledgement in every book I write. You’ve literally seen my writing at its worst (Cat-Sand-Rain, enough said) and I’m so proud of you for publishing your first book. We’ve been inseparable since seventh grade, and here we are still sharing the same dreams and hopes together over a decade later. Let’s make it until we are crusty and old, shall we?

My EDITORS (Hot Tree Editing) and my amazing COVER ARTIST (Milo) who have been with this series from start to end!

And finally, my HUSBAND. You let me take a part-time job and sell my car to write the first draft of The Black Mage series when I realized I needed to follow my dreams. I’m sure everyone else thought I was crazy to give up everything for a chance to write, but you’ve stuck by me through every trial and turn, and look how far we’ve come in just a couple of years. We’ll never fall; we’ll never fade. No matter what, until the bitter end, we’re going to be the last ones standing. I love you with every part of my soul. Nice guys do finish first in real life.

About the Author

RACHEL E. CARTER is the USA Today bestselling author of The Black Mage, a YA fantasy series about magic, love, and war -with future projects to come. She hoards coffee and has a weakness for villains and Mr. Darcy love interests.

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Also by Rachel E. Carter

The Black Mage series

Non-Heir

First Year

Apprentice

Candidate

Last Stand