Non-Heir (The Black Mage 0.5)(3)

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.