Non-Heir (The Black Mage 0.5)(17)

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.