Chapter 23
Logan
We don’t make it past the first checkpoint before our convoy is hit.
I feel the impact before I hear it—metal crashing against metal, the sickening lurch as our vehicle careens off the road.
My head slams against the window, vision blurring with the sudden violence of it.
The world spins, gravity shifting as we roll once, twice, before settling with a groan of twisted metal.
For a moment, there’s only silence and the metallic taste of blood in my mouth.
Then Ares groans from the front seat, a string of colorful curses that tells me he’s alive, if not unharmed.
Poe is quieter, but I catch the controlled rhythm of his breathing—measured, deliberate, the way he always sounds when assessing a threat.
“Everyone alive?” I ask, my voice rougher than usual.
“Functioning,” Poe responds from the passenger seat, already moving. His hand goes to the gun at his hip, a motion so fluid it happens in a blink. “We were hit by an improvised device, I think. But there are three vehicles up ahead. Six men, minimum.”
Ares kicks his door open, the metal screaming in protest. “Ambush,” he grunts, the single word carrying a universe of meaning. Not random bandits. Not common thieves. This was planned. Targeted.
I force my own door open, glass raining from the shattered window. My body protests—ribs bruised, possibly cracked, a cut above my eye bleeding freely—but I push the pain aside. Pain is just information. Useful, but not commanding.
Outside, the road is quiet except for the tick of our cooling engine and the soft crunch of approaching footsteps.
I straighten to my full height, ignoring the flash of pain from my ribs.
Ares moves to my right, Poe to my left—a formation we’ve held a hundred times before, in a dozen different battles.
Three black vehicles block the road ahead, their engines still running.
Professional. Efficient. Six men in unmarked tactical gear approach in standard formation, weapons drawn but not yet aimed.
Not king’s guards, then. They would have announced themselves, would have demanded surrender in the name of the crown.
Something else, then. Something worse.
A seventh figure emerges from the lead vehicle, and the air around me goes cold despite the summer heat. I know that silhouette, that careful, measured gait. Have known it since childhood.
Willam. My half-brother. Tenth in line for the throne, so far from succession that most forget he exists at all. Which makes him perfect for the kind of work that can’t have the king’s official sanction.
“Logan,” he calls, his voice carrying the same aristocratic drawl I remember from court functions. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
“Willam.” I keep my tone neutral, betraying nothing of the calculations racing through my mind.
Six armed men plus Willam. Three of us, only one with a visible weapon.
The forest on either side offers cover, but running means abandoning the vehicle, the supplies, any hope of reaching the summer palace on schedule.
“I’d ask what brings you to this remote stretch of road,” Willam continues, approaching with the casual confidence of a predator who believes his prey is already cornered, “but I think we both know the answer to that.”
Beside me, Ares shifts his weight subtly, preparing to move. I catch his eye, a minute shake of my head. Not yet.
“Enlighten me,” I reply, keeping Willam’s attention on me. “Since you seem to know my business better than I do.”
Willam laughs, the sound as hollow as I remember. “Always the diplomat, aren’t you? Even now.” He gestures to our overturned vehicle. “You’re running. From Father. From your responsibilities. From the consequences of your... indiscretions.”
My jaw tightens at the reference to Maya, but I keep my expression neutral. Show nothing. Reveal nothing. The first lesson of court politics, drilled into me since before I could walk.
“And you’ve taken it upon yourself to stop me?” I ask, injecting just enough mockery into the question to sting. “I’m flattered by the attention, brother, but surely you have better things to do with your time.”
Willam’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. It never has. “On the contrary. Bringing you in will earn me considerable favor with Father. Perhaps even enough to improve my standing at court.”
Ah. There it is. The real motive, laid bare with surprising candor.
Willam has always craved recognition, has always resented his position as an afterthought in the royal hierarchy.
Capturing the fugitive prince—the king’s rebellious son—would indeed earn him the attention he so desperately desires.
“And my companions?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
Willam’s gaze flicks to Ares and Poe, dismissive and cold. “Traitors to the crown. Their fate has already been determined.”
Execution, then. No trial, no mercy, just a quick death on a forest road where no one will find their bodies until long after we’ve disappeared. The king’s justice, delivered through by one of his most expendable sons. The mere idea of it is insulting.
I feel rather than see Poe’s subtle shift, the nearly imperceptible tensing that signals he’s identified his first target. Ares remains outwardly calm, but I know him well enough to sense the rage building beneath his controlled exterior. Like a kettle about to boil over.
“I see.” I keep my voice conversational, buying seconds while I assess our options. “And if I surrender willingly? Come back to court, beg Father’s forgiveness, resume my duties as the dutiful second son?”
“Then perhaps I could be persuaded to show mercy to your... pets.” Willam’s smile widens, cruel and confident. “Though I can’t promise the king would be as generous.”
He’s lying, of course. If I surrender, Ares and Poe are dead before we reach the capital. And I’ll be locked away until Father decides what to do with his wayward son—likely something that involves a great deal of pain.
“A tempting offer,” I say, as if actually considering it. “But I think I’ll decline.”
Willam sighs, a theatrical display of disappointment. “I expected as much. You always were stubborn to the point of stupidity.” He gestures to his men. “Take him alive. Kill the others.”
The men raise their weapons, and time seems to slow. I have perhaps two seconds before they open fire. Two seconds to decide how we all die—or how we might, against all odds, survive.
I meet Willam’s gaze directly. “You know, Willam, there’s a much simpler way to resolve this.”
He pauses, curiosity momentarily overriding caution. “Oh?”
“You and me. Hand to hand. No weapons, no interference.” I spread my arms, showing empty hands. “If you win, I surrender and you can drag me before the king, knowing you’ve earned the right to claim the right to be heir. If I win, we walk away. All of us.”
Willam laughs, genuinely amused. “You can’t be serious.”
“Afraid?” I inject just enough challenge into the question to prick his considerable ego. “I understand. You’ve never been much of a fighter.”
The barb lands exactly as intended. Willam’s expression hardens, his amusement vanishing like morning mist. “I’ve trained with the royal guard for fifteen years.”
“You’re the last of us that the king would ever make his heir,” I counter, pressing my advantage. “This is your chance to prove you don’t deserve to be overlooked.”
I can see the calculation in his eyes, the weighing of risk against reward. On one hand, defeating me in single combat would add a layer of personal glory to his victory. On the other, he risks humiliation if he loses—and worse, the king’s displeasure at letting me escape.
But Willam has always been predictable in one crucial way: his pride invariably overrides his judgment.
“A true challenge, then,” he says, removing his jacket with deliberate care. “I’ll enjoy presenting the king with whatever pieces are left of you.”
I don’t point out the obvious. Willam has never fought for his life, has never felt the desperate clarity that comes when survival is the only goal.
The fact that I have no choice but to win is the only advantage I need.
“Sir,” one of his men protests, “the king’s orders—“
“The king isn’t here and I don’t need six armed men to subdue one traitor” Willam snaps, handing his jacket to the nearest guard and turning back to me. “I assume you have enough honor to stand down your guard dogs.”
I shrug out of my own jacket, passing it to Ares without taking my eyes off Willam. “No interference,” I remind him. “From either side.”
Willam nods, already circling to my right. “Agreed. Though I doubt your pets will honor that when you’re bleeding at my feet.”
I don’t bother responding to the taunt. Instead, I center myself, drawing on years of combat training. Assess the opponent. Identify weaknesses. Exploit openings.
Willam is only slightly shorter than me, but with the lean build of someone who exercises for appearance rather than function.
His stance is textbook perfect—royal guard training, as he claimed—but there’s a stiffness to his movements that speaks of theory without practical application.
He’s never had to adapt to an unpredictable opponent, never had to improvise when the standard forms fail.
He strikes first, a quick jab that I sidestep easily. Testing my reflexes, my training. I let him land the second blow, a glancing hit to my shoulder that tells me exactly what I need to know about his strength and speed. Considerable, but not exceptional. Not enough to end this quickly.
“First blood to me,” he says, confidence growing. “Shall I let you land one for the sake of your pride?”
I smile, the expression calculated to unnerve rather than reassure. “I don’t need your charity, brother.”