Non-Heir (The Black Mage 0.5)
Rachel E. Carter
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.