Non-Heir (The Black Mage 0.5)(11)

“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.”