The Barbarian King and The Prince

Chapter 1

The morning sun casts long shadows across the throne room of Castle Mirn, its golden light streaming through the tall windows and catching the dust motes that dance in the air.

Prince Bellamy stands beside his mother's throne, his hands clasped behind his back as he listens to the messenger who has arrived at dawn with news that will change everything.

"The Barbarian King has crossed the Everitt border, Your Majesty," the scout reports, his voice hoarse from hard riding. "His forces number in the thousands. They've made camp at Felding’s Ridge, less than a day's march from our eastern border."

Queen Amelli's fingers tighten on the carved armrests of her throne, but her voice remains steady. "How many thousands?"

"Two, perhaps three, my lady. Maybe more. The Western clans have joined him—I've never seen so many war banners gathered in one place."

Bellamy feels his stomach clench, though he keeps his expression carefully neutral.

In his twenty-two years, Mirn has seen war, but it's been nearly twelve years since the last time it was at their door.

There have been border skirmishes, yes, and the occasional dispute with neighboring kingdoms, but nothing like this.

Nothing that threatens to sweep across their lands like wildfire.

"Thank you," the Queen says to the messenger. "Rest, eat, then return to your post. I want to know the moment they move."

When the great doors close behind the scout, silence settles over the throne room like a heavy cloak. Bellamy glances at his mother and sees the worry she's hidden from the messenger etched in the lines around her green eyes that are the same shade as his own.

"Mother—"

"I know what you're thinking," Queen Amelli says quietly, rising from her throne. At fifty, she is still a formidable woman, her blonde hair still as vibrant as his own, and her bearing as regal as ever. "And the answer is no."

"You haven't heard what I was going to say."

"You were going to say that you should ride out to meet them." She moves to the window, her silk skirts rustling against the stone floor. "That it's your duty as prince to defend the kingdom."

Bellamy follows her, his boots echoing in the vast chamber. "It is my duty."

"Your duty is to survive and one day rule wisely. Not to throw your life away against a force that could crush us like wheat beneath a stone."

"So we're to simply wait? Let them decide when and how to destroy us?"

Queen Amelli turns to face him, and for a moment he sees not the Queen of Mirn, but the mother who has held him through nightmares and taught him to read by firelight.

"Bellamy, my sweet boy. You've trained with the finest swordsmen in the kingdom, yes, but you've never faced real battle.

You've never seen what war truly looks like. "

"All the more reason—"

"All the more reason to think clearly." She cups his face in her hands, her thumbs brushing across his cheekbones.

"The Barbarian King of Everitt isn't called a demon for nothing.

They say he stands seven feet tall and can cleave a man in half with a single stroke.

They say his axes drink blood and his eyes burn like coals.

He's conquered every kingdom he's set his sights on. "

Bellamy gently catches her wrists, removing her hands but holding them in his. "And yet you raised me to believe that our people's safety comes before our own. That a true ruler stands between their kingdom and danger, not behind castle walls."

The Queen's eyes fill with tears she is too proud to shed. "Your father said the same thing before he rode out to face those bandits on the western border. I never saw him alive again."

The mention of his father hits him like ice water, but Bellamy doesn't flinch.

King Eldin died when Bellamy was ten, struck down by a poisoned arrow while defending a village from raiders.

Bellamy remembers him, remembers the grief that nearly broke his mother, and he remembers making a vow at his father's funeral that he would be worthy of the crown that will one day be his.

"Then you know why I can't cower here while our people face slaughter," he says gently. "Father died protecting the innocent. If I'm to follow in his footsteps—"

"You'll follow in his footsteps by living long enough to wear his crown."

A knock at the door interrupts them. "Come," Queen Amelli calls, quickly composing herself.

General Harwick enters, his weathered face grim.

The man has served the crown for thirty years, first under King Eldin and now under the Queen.

He is tall and broad-shouldered despite his fifty-eight years, his graying hair still thick, his sword arm still strong.

To Bellamy, he's been more than a general—he's been the closest thing to a father the young prince has known since Eldin's death.

"Your Majesty," Harwick says with a bow. "I've gathered the captains. We're assembling every able-bodied soldier we can spare without leaving the castle defenseless."

"How many?" Bellamy asks.

Harwick's gray eyes meet his. "Eight hundred. Maybe a thousand if we call in the reserves from the outer villages."

A thousand against two or three thousand. The odds are grim, but not impossible. Bellamy has studied enough military histories to know that smaller forces have triumphed through superior tactics, knowledge of the terrain, and sheer determination.

"I'll need an hour to prepare," Bellamy says, already turning toward the door.

"Bellamy, no." The Queen's voice is sharp with command, but underneath it, Bellamy hears the fear of a mother watching her only child walk toward death.

He stops, his hand on the door handle, and turns back. "With respect, Mother, this isn't a request. I'm of age, I'm trained, and these are my people. I won't send others to die in my place while I hide behind stone walls."

Harwick looks between them, the conflict clear on his face. Finally, he speaks. "Your Majesty, the men will fight harder with their prince among them. And... they need to see that their leaders won't ask them to face what we won't face ourselves."

Queen Amelli is quiet for a long moment, her gaze never leaving Bellamy's face. Then she nods, sharp and final. "Go. But you listen to Harwick. You stay close to him, you follow his orders, and if he tells you to retreat, you retreat. Do you understand me?"

"I understand."

"Swear it, Bellamy. On your father's memory, swear you'll be smart about this."

The invocation of his father's memory makes Bellamy's throat tight, but he nods. "I swear it."

An hour later, Bellamy stands in his chambers while his servants help him into his armor.

The plate is well-made but has never been tested in true battle—polished steel over mail, with the golden lion of Mirn emblazoned on the breastplate.

His helm is tucked under his arm, and his father's sword hangs at his side, its familiar weight both comforting and daunting.

"You look every inch a king," his mother says from the doorway.

Bellamy turns to face her, offering a smile that feels steadier than he expects. "Not yet. But maybe one day, with your help."

She crosses the room and places a small pendant around his neck—a piece of amber with a pressed flower inside, a gift from his grandmother. "For protection," she says. "And to remember that you have people who need you to come home."

"I will."

"See that you do."

Harwick is waiting in the courtyard with their mounts, both horses already restless with the tension in the air. The general is fully armored, his scarred hands steady on his reins despite the magnitude of what they are riding toward.

"Ready, lad?" he asks as Bellamy swings into his saddle.

"As I'll ever be."

They ride through the castle gates side by side, followed by a column of Mirn's finest soldiers.

The people line the streets to see them off—merchants and farmers, craftsmen and servants, all of them looking to their prince with a mixture of hope and fear.

Children wave from windows while their mothers hold them close.

Old men who have fought in wars decades past straighten their bent backs and salute as the column passes.

Bellamy raises his hand in acknowledgment, trying to project confidence he doesn't entirely feel. These people are counting on him. The weight of that responsibility settles on his shoulders like a second suit of armor, heavier than steel.

Once they are beyond the city walls and riding east through the rolling hills of Mirn, Harwick pulls his horse closer to Bellamy's. "Having second thoughts?"

"Should I be?"

"Any man with sense would be. The Barbarian King didn't earn his reputation by being merciful to enemy princes."

Bellamy considers that, watching the familiar landscape roll by—fields where he's played as a child, forests where he's learned to hunt, streams where he's fished with village boys who call him by his name rather than his title. "What do you know about him?"

"I know he's never lost a battle. I know he united the barbarian clans through force and fear, and that's no small feat.

Those clans have been fighting each other for centuries.

I know he's been expanding Everitt's borders for the past ten years, and every kingdom he's conquered has either bent the knee or been reduced to ash. "

"But what kind of man is he?"

Harwick is quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

"Brutal. Effective. Some say he's not entirely human—that he's got demon blood in his veins.

But I've never put much stock in such tales.

In my experience, the most dangerous men are the ones who are entirely human, just.. . more than most."

"More how?"

"Stronger. Faster. Meaner. Willing to do whatever it takes to win.

" Harwick glances at him. "Which is why I need you to promise me that if things go badly, you'll run.

I don't care about honor or pride or what the stories will say—if I tell you to flee, you put spurs to your horse and you don't look back. "

Bellamy opens his mouth to argue, but the look in Harwick's eyes stops him. It isn't the expression of a general giving orders to his prince. It is the look of a father desperate to protect his son.

"I promise," Bellamy says quietly.

"Good lad." Harwick straightens in his saddle as a scout rides up to meet them. "What news?"

"They're on the move, sir," the scout reports. "Moving south along the ridge. If they maintain their pace, they'll reach the Silverbrook crossing by afternoon."

Harwick nods grimly. The Silverbrook crossing is exactly where Bellamy would choose to meet them—open ground that will prevent the enemy from using their superior numbers to completely surround them, with the river at their backs to prevent retreat.

A good place for a last stand, if it comes to that.

"Then that's where we'll meet them," Bellamy says, his voice carrying across the ranks behind them. "For Mirn!"

The answering cheer from his soldiers is fierce and proud, echoing across the hills like thunder.