Chapter 2
Derian
“You cannot be serious about this!” I snarl, hurling my magic toward my brother. Satisfaction flares in my chest when he stumbles back a few steps.
Luceron raises his hands in mock surrender, swiping away the damp strands of hair clinging to his brow.
He’s covered in sweat. His years on the throne haven’t taken away his love for battle.
The Captain of the Royal Guard swears the King comes out to these training yards daily to keep his sword-fighting skills sharp.
Pointless, if you ask me, considering the fact that none of his advisors will allow him anywhere near a fight.
But when Luceron asked to talk to me this morning, I suggested we do it here so that I could assess his skills myself.
I’ve come to the conclusion that while my brother is still fairly lean and sharp-witted, his endurance is no match for mine.
Not when I’ve spent every day for decades wielding weapons and magic like this. So, I’ve been going easy on him.
Without another word, he hands his sword to a squire before reaching for a canteen of water and pushing a hand through his damp blonde hair.
“Deana said you’d react like this,” he says between gulps.
Power simmers beneath the surface of my skin, fueled by my growing rage.
We’ve been sparring for nearly an hour, trading blows with both swords and magic, but I feel like I haven’t even touched the depths of the energy inside me.
I’ve been stuck inside these castle walls for too long, and it’s left my magic feeling restless, yearning for release.
It’s been ages since I last endured the rigid structure of Bridgemond Castle, with its endless procession of lords and ladies lurking around every corner.
I’m far more accustomed to the wide-open fields of Amberhull, where I can unleash my power and shake the very mountains simply because I feel like stretching the muscle of my magic.
When I received word that Luceron was summoning me back from the battlefields, where I’ve been training younglings to control their own magic, I suspected he had something unpleasant in store. I never in my wildest imaginings would have guessed it would be for this.
“Your wife has always been perceptive,” I mutter, tossing my sword toward the young squire. He misses the hilt, and the blade clatters to the ground. My brows lift in disappointment.
“I’ll sharpen it right away!” he squeaks, scrambling to pick it up as he bolts off, clearly terrified by my scowl.
I’ve never even met the boy, and he’s fleeing from me.
“The Queen, you mean,” Luceron corrects, his tone hardening.
Pompous ass. He’s only two summers older than me, a trivial difference to the Fae. It had never seemed to matter. At least, it hadn’t until our parents died.
Then Luceron was crowned King, and everything changed.
The chasm only got wider after he married Deana and started having children. After that, I was deemed nothing more than the immoral prince who was only good for killing enemies and serving as a spare heir in case of a catastrophic emergency.
Luceron tried to maintain our relationship for a while, but eventually his advisors got in his ear, warning him of the precedent that giving me too much leniency set. They warned him what the nobles would think to see that I didn’t have to follow the same orders they did.
Now, he’s my ruler first and my brother second.
Still, there is one thing that keeps them from fully caging me.
Power.
The kind that I have and they don’t.
Neither Luceron nor his advisors can challenge me magically, and that simple fact offers me the independence I need.
All it took was a single complaint that I needed more of an outlet for my powers and the warning that without one the magic could start to get out of control. Luceron then gave me leave to establish the training camp in Amberhull and to oversee the fortress in Oxhurn.
I suppose that independence is officially being revoked now, though.
“We’ve avoided interacting with the Mortals for two hundred years, brother. Why now?”
The unspoken question lingers heavily between us: Why me?
Luceron has been working toward an alliance with the Kingdom of Velia for some time now. He’s been insistent that we explore the Mortal Kingdoms’ wastelands to see if they’re experiencing the same strange roars and rumbling that we’ve noted in the patch of dead land in our territory.
I’m not surprised he’s secured an alliance through marriage—it’s a typical political move. But why me? Why not marry off one of our sisters? Both would gladly plan an extravagant wedding just to be the center of attention, even if it meant spending seventy years married to a Mortal.
I, however, have no interest in marriage, to a Mortal or otherwise. I’m bred for battle, not for family.
Since birth, the roles Luceron and I would both have to play have been obvious. Luceron was born with sparkling green eyes and hair that lightens under the sun. He’s the one with the winning smile and charming wit. He’s as personable as any king should be.
I, however, take after our father, with dark hair and eyes. My temperament is moody at best, and my power unmatched.
He’s the brother meant to form alliances and rule a kingdom. His children are the heirs meant to follow him.
My only purpose is to defend them all.
For two hundred and fifteen years, I’ve honed my power, stamina, and control. There’s no place in my life for a delicate wife or the children such a union would inevitably bring. I have neither the need nor the desire for a sweet princess warming my bed.
“Derian.” Luceron grasps the back of my neck, pressing his brow to mine.
I stiffen under his touch. “There’s no one in all the Ever Realm I trust more than you.
This alliance grants us access to the Wastelands, but I need someone I trust to explore them.
We have to understand what’s causing these disturbances or we risk another war. ”
I exhale sharply, wanting to continue making a case against this. Arguing is pointless, though. This isn’t a request from my brother, it’s a command from my King.
“When?” I mutter, pushing away from him and snatching the canteen from his hand.
Luceron chuckles and gives my shoulder a playful shove. “Three days. You’ll leave for Velia in three days to meet the Royal Family, celebrate the engagement and alliance, and bring your bride back here.”
Three days.
I almost choke at the realization. Just three more days of freedom before everything I know changes forever.
I’m not quite sure if I should be irritated by the timeline or consider it a small mercy.
I glance at him as we leave the training yard and walk toward the stone castle Luceron calls home. It stopped feeling like that to me years ago. It certainly doesn’t feel like a place of comfort now.
“You’re not coming with me?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Deana says the babe will arrive any day now. The Queen would have my head if I missed the birth.”
“Yes, she would,” a melodic voice chimes in.
Deana leans over the terrace balcony of their chambers, her pale blonde hair cascading down her shoulders. She wears a loose gown that does little to hide the roundness of her belly. If the royal psychics are right, I’ll soon have my third nephew.
I wonder absently if one day Luceron will offer up his own son to be married off in a political bargain like he’s doing to me now.
Luceron looks up at his wife with such adoration, it’s almost impossible to believe they’ve been married nearly one hundred and fifty-eight years.
That’s what happens when you find your mate, though.
It’s a love that never fades or weakens.
Luceron knew Deana was his mate the moment he saw her.
For others, it takes longer. Sometimes years pass before the bond fully forms. Luceron was one of the lucky ones.
Mating bonds are reserved for the Fae, though. There would be no bond between my Mortal bride and I.
Not that I’m complaining on that front. I don’t need some magical compulsion to protect a female clouding my better judgement. I’ve seen what that bond does to Fae, and it certainly doesn’t make them better warriors.
“You look beautiful, my love,” he calls up to her.
Deana raises her brows, exasperation clear in her expression, though a pink blush creeps across her cheeks. “And you look filthy. Come bathe before dinner.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Luceron bows with an exaggerated flourish before turning back to me, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “This is for the good of the Fae, Derian. I hope you understand that.”
The good of the Fae.
How is aligning with the Mortals for the good of the Fae?
They hate us. Their memories are too short, too swayed by stories incorrectly told by their fathers and grandfathers. I have no interest in being the one to correct their biases.
“Just don’t expect me to be nice to her.”
Luceron rolls his eyes. “You? Nice?”
“Me? Married?” I retort with a raised brow.
He flashes a grin as he backs away, flicking a finger across his brow in mock salute. “Touché, brother.”