Non-Heir (The Black Mage 0.5)(4)

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?”