The Mage and His Stolen Prince (Stolen Groom #3)

Prologue

The child had no name, no home, and no control over the world around them. They did, however, have bread. For now, that was enough.

The bread was the first food they’d had in days, unsold product a baker had tossed away. The child clutched the stale loaf to their chest as they scurried through the crowded street, weaving between couples and families, intent on finding somewhere safe to devour the whole thing.

The crowd slowly thinned, and the child spotted an open alleyway. The thick shadows would be the perfect place to sit and eat, away from watchful eyes. With new energy, they dashed across the street.

In their haste, they accidentally collided with a young woman.

The child knew what would come next—screaming, fists flying, condemnation and threats of ‘removing filth from the streets.’ The child hunched over to protect their bread and their stomach from the oncoming assault, but they didn’t stop running.

“Look out!” Not the expected threat, but a warning.

The child looked up in time to see the carriage racing down the street. Instead of slowing, the coachman whipped the horses faster with every step. The huge black horses could crush the child with a single hoof and the carriage probably wouldn’t even slow.

The child dove out of the way, landing roughly on the side of the road. The bread they’d clutched so tightly fell from their hands, landing in the dirty street. It didn’t matter though. They’d eaten dirt before.

“You fiend!” the woman who had called the warning shouted after the carriage. In her fury, she threw her purse straight at the coachman. It thunked against his head before landing on the other side of the street. “You almost killed a child!”

The coachman yanked on the reins, guiding the carriage up and onto the sidewalk.

The remaining crowd screamed and scattered.

One woman dove out of the way, performed a perfect somersault, and landed upright, arms in the air.

The rest of the crowd politely clapped, and she blushed prettily as she bowed to her admirers.

Only two people refrained from cheering: the coachman, who scowled in her direction; and the child, who she had bumped into.

The child lost hold of their bread again. With the carriage’s arrival on the sidewalk, the crowd had condensed, pushing against each other. As people moved, their feet brushed against the bread, kicking it further out of the child’s reach.

They squeezed between legs to chase after their lost prize. It finally came to a stop beside the carriage. The crowd was still giving the carriage a wide berth, creating a small clearing in the street.

The child pushed past the edge of the crowd, hand outstretched. They’d grab the bread and run before anyone realized they’d caused the commotion.

The carriage door flung open, crashing against the side.

“What the fuck is going on?” a man in black demanded as he stepped out.

His heavy boot fell perfectly onto the bread, squashing the whole loaf into the ground.

He looked down, a snarl curling his lip, and raised his boot.

Half the bread clung to it while the rest remained a flattened lump in the street.

He hobbled toward the sidewalk and scraped his boot on the edge of the curb, removing the brown gunk.

The child’s heart dropped into their stomach as they watched the complete ruination of their meal. Could they salvage any of it? Would the dirt maintain the hearty taste of grain?

“What’s going on?” a sweet, high-pitched voice asked, repeating the man’s question without expletives.

“Stay inside,” the man barked.

The other speaker immediately disobeyed him, hopping down from the carriage.

The boy was small, seven or eight, with flaming red curls and freckles dotting his cheeks.

Like the man, the boy was dressed in stark black from head to toe, harsh against his pale skin.

He scanned the crowd, his bright blue eyes unerringly landing on the only other person his age.

“Master, someone attacked the carriage,” the coachman announced.

The woman who had thrown her purse gasped in affront. “Because you almost killed someone!”

“People should know better than to be in the road.”

The man in black whipped around to scowl fiercely at her. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

The boy ignored their argument and inched closer to the other child. “Hello,” he said.

The child flinched and backed away, looking for an escape. They spotted the alley they’d meant to hide in earlier and ran toward it.

“Wait!”

The boy followed them!

They raced through the crowd, one running, one chasing. But the child was hungry, small for their age, and the boy was well cared for and full of energy. He caught up to them and grabbed their arm.

Though his grip wasn’t painful, the child struggled, squirming and twisting until they wrenched their arm free. They stumbled a few steps away, skinny chest heaving as they stared at their pursuer with wide, black eyes.

The boy was too pretty, too clean, while the child hadn’t bathed in weeks. Dirt stained the boy’s palms, so dark it might never come off. He didn’t seem to notice as he held both hands up where the child could see them. “Were you hurt?” he asked, scanning the child for injuries.

They shook their head frantically, hoping that once he confirmed they were fine, he would leave.

The boy sighed in relief and smiled. Two of his teeth were missing, one on the top and one on the bottom.

The child stared in wonder. Until now, they’d thought losing teeth was a sign of being poor and sick, but the boy looked like neither. The child tentatively smiled back, showing off their own two missing front teeth.

Seeing that smile, the boy’s smile widened, until they were competing to see who could smile wider, who had more gaps to show off. The boy stuck his tongue out and waggled it, accompanying the silly expression with sillier noises.

The child giggled and tried to mimic him, but suddenly their stomach cramped, and their expression pinched with pain.

The boy’s eyes widened in dismay. “You were hurt!”

The child shook their head. Licking their lips, they rasped, “Hungry.”

“Oh!” The boy sighed in relief, then stuck his hand into his jacket. He pulled out a small paper bag and a wax covered package. “I have a sandwich,” he said, holding out the wax package, “and some candy.” He offered the bag next.

The child watched them with hungry eyes but didn’t dare take either. Last time they’d accepted a stranger’s offering, the person had smacked their hands away and laughed cruelly.

“Go ahead,” the boy said. When the child still didn’t take either of them, he set the wax covered package on the ground and carefully stepped back.

The child inched closer to the package, never taking their eyes off the boy. When he made no sudden or threatening moves, the child snatched up their prize and bit straight into it.

“No!”

The child flinched and dropped the package onto the ground.

The boy bent to pick it up and dusted the dirt off the wax. “You have to unwrap it first,” he said in exasperation. “You can’t eat paper!” Then he carefully opened the package.

As the wax paper was peeled back, the smell of meat, bread, and cheese wafted toward the child.

Drool filled their mouth. When the boy handed the sandwich back to them, they gobbled it down in three bites.

When was the last time they’d had meat? Cheese?

Bread that was soft instead of hard and crusty?

The boy grinned at first, but as he watched, his smile slipped into a frown. “Why are you so hungry? Don’t your parents feed you?”

The child shook their head. “No parents.” The closest they’d ever had were the ‘administrators.’

“None?” the boy exclaimed in shock. “No father? No mother? A nanny? A tutor?” Each time the child shook their head, the boy’s expression became more terrified. “Who takes care of you?”

“I do,” the child said, tapping their chest.

The boy examined them again and although he didn’t comment, his expression said loud and clear: “Not very well.”

“Treasure! There you are!” The man in black had returned. He stomped down the alley, eyes blazing with fury as he glared at the boy.

“Father!” Treasure called and ran toward him. He tugged on the man’s black cloak. “Father, they don’t have anyone to take care of them.”

The man looked between the two children, his lip curling in disgust. “Obviously.”

“We could take care of them,” Treasure said.

“Evil mages do not perform charity,” the man sneered. His eyes fell onto the crumpled wax paper. “Though it appears you’ve forgotten that lesson.”

“But Father—”

“How many times must I tell you? Call me Master.”

Treasure’s expression became mulish. When he spoke again, he didn’t offer the man any address at all. “Don’t evil mages need an apprentice?”

“When I take an apprentice, it will be someone skilled, not a filthy street urchin who accepts handouts.” The man looked pointedly at the wax paper again. “Now, come along, we have somewhere to be.” He turned on his heel, the cloak swirling around him, and strode down the alley.

Treasure crossed his arms and glared at his father’s back without moving.

At the mouth of the alley, the man finally realized his son had not obeyed him. He stomped back and plunked his hands on his hips as he looked between his son and the street urchin.

“First lesson,” the man declared. “An evil mage does not accept charity. If he wants something, he takes it for himself. Learn how to steal to feed yourself, and perhaps I’ll consider taking you in.”

“Show them a spell,” Treasure insisted.

“Why should I—”

“It’ll make it easier for them to steal.”

The man threw his arms up in exasperation, then crouched down to be on the same level as the child.

They inched away from him, eyeing him warily, but all he did was give them instructions on a simple telekinetic spell.

He mumbled some words that meant nothing to the child, then twitched two fingers toward himself.

A pebble lifted into the air and lazily floated into his hand.

“Magic is like wind—you can’t see it, but you can feel it, and with a little effort, you can create your own breeze. ”

The child concentrated on the pebble, the air brushing their skin, and something else light and buzzing they’d never noticed before. They repeated the spell, stumbling over the words, and gestured at the pebble. With the barest flick, it flew straight into their palm, hitting hard enough to sting.

The man’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “Well, it seems you have some talent.” He reached into a cloak pocket and pulled out a pure black card. In white font, it said:

Brutus Arnulf, Evil Mage. Title Pending.

The child took the card and clutched it so tightly that the corners crinkled.

“Keep practicing,” the man said. “Apprentices begin their training as early as thirteen, so when you’re old enough, come find me, and I’ll consider taking you in.”

Thirteen. That was only four more years. If the child could survive until then, they’d have a master, a home, and—their eyes cut to the boy—a Treasure.

Brutus awkwardly patted the child’s head, then straightened and turned to his son. “Now will you come with me?”

“Yes, Father!” Treasure chirped cheerfully. At the end of the alley, he paused and looked back at the child. He still had the bag of candy in his hand, and he held it out in offering.

The child stepped toward him, then remembered what they’d just learned.

Concentrating on the magic saturating the air, they crooked their finger and called the bag to them.

The bag flew from Treasure’s hand into the child’s.

They opened it and pulled out a piece of hardened sugar, slipping it between their teeth.

Nothing had ever tasted so sweet.

Treasure waved cheerfully as his father dragged him away.

The child waved back, disappointed to see their first friend leave. They looked back down at the black card in their hands. They would see him again one day. Everything they wanted, they could have once they became an evil mage.