Non-Heir (The Black Mage 0.5)(5)

“Yessir.” The two words slipped out as one. The boy was trying so hard to hold his breath and not run up and hug the man who was bringing him freedom.

“It will not be easy.” Sir Audric furrowed his brows. “And you are only six years of age. You will not cry.”

“Yes—” the boy let the air out from his lungs, slowly “—sir.”

“I’ve heard you are a troublemaker. Defiant. That you like to bully the other children. That stops today. One word from the servants and I send you straight back to your father.”

The boy nodded earnestly. He wouldn’t need to pick fights, not if he was sparring with a knight.

“Good.” The man seemed satisfied. “Now, the first thing to take care of is your clothes. Have you a pair of training breeches and a light shirt?”

Darren shook his head. The Crown tailor only liked Borean silk and brocade. The stuffy, fancy fabrics were befitting a prince who was supposed to spend all his time indoors. The boy used to delight in making them rip, if only for the man’s horrified shriek.

“Well, then. You can report to the regiment tailor after our training. I’m sure he can whip you up a couple of pairs. In the meantime, you will wear these.”

The knight had been carrying a brown and tan bundle in his arms. Now he dumped it on the grass. A small tuft of dirt swelled up when it hit the ground.

“Thank you, sir.” Darren ran forward to gather the bundle like it was the most precious thing he owned. He proceeded to change in a nearby stall, and when he emerged, the man gave a low whistle.

“Looks like I was right. You are the same size as my daughter after all.”

“Your daughter?”

“Eve.” The corner of the knight’s lip twitched. “Surely you remember her? You picked a brawl and lost to a little girl in the gardens.”

The boy’s memory returned and he scowled. “She broke my arm. It hurt for weeks.”

“My Eve. She’s got the looks of her mother and the spirit of her father, what can I say?

What do I have? The boy wondered. Aloud he said nothing.

“Now grab one of those staffs lining the wall. We are going to start with your basic stance. The soldiers say they’ve seen you practicing with a stick outside their drills. Let’s see where your instincts are wrong.”

The boy jogged to the rack and pulled out a simple, rounded pole that was as thick as his fist and as tall as the man. It was made of wood. He looked back at the man with a dubious expression. “This is only a stick. I thought knights fight with swords.”

“Don’t be pert.” The man waved him over. “You won’t get near a blade until you can master this ‘stick.’ All the students of the School of Knighthood do the same.”

Darren had been a master of sticks for over a year. He told the knight as much.

Sir Audric guffawed. “Have at it, your highness. You give me a flawless performance this next hour, and I will bring you a sword myself. You fail even once, and you will respect your staff and dedicate yourself to its study, never again to call it a mere ‘stick.’”

The little boy smirked. “Deal.”



The knight won the bet, and the boy quickly learned he was a living, breathing mistake. His feet were wrong, his aim was sloppy, he was too quick to judge and too slow to counter.

The man had him holding a stance for ten minutes at a time. Just the effort sent the boy’s limbs quivering. And if he ever thought to release his grip on the weapon to scratch an itch or wipe away a bead of sweat, the man had him hold the pose twice as long the next time.

Then there were the drills. Up and down. Back and forth. Left and right. Simple, but tiring. The moves seemed to echo in his bones.

Darren had watched the soldiers perform dances with their weapons—spins and swoops, the stuff of heroes. The knight just laughed, telling him he couldn’t master the footwork, that it would be at least a year before they would attempt anything half so pretty with him.

A year with a stick? The boy couldn’t believe there was so much to learn.

“You are to be the best, your highness,” the man told the boy. “And you are still so young. You can’t afford to make mistakes when you are older. You practice with that staff every day. You run your laps, and you hold those stances and complete those exercises like I taught you. You do all of that, and by the time you get your sword, you’ll be ready. Three years. Not a day sooner.”



On his fourth month of practice, the boy had successfully mastered the stances. The next morning when he arrived, there was a girl standing next to the knight.

Her hair was pale and thin, almost white. She looked like a bird—hollowed bones and light skin, a bit scrawny, and had he not known her, he might have expected her to fly away with the wind.

But Darren knew better. She was the knight master’s daughter, Eve, and she was far from helpless. If anything, she was a cat—a tiny thing with claws or, in her case, a fist like iron. Though quiet, her violet eyes were fierce.

“You are now ready for a partner,” the man said. “She will be yours. From now on, the two of you will drill together. My Eve will also be attending the School of Knighthood when she comes of age.”

The boy tried to hide his disappointment that it wasn’t another boy. This girl didn’t like him, and she was better.