Chapter One- A Noble Knight
“Harrow! Back off! We’re not going for blood today!” The High-Sword of the Knights, Reese, screams at me as I release my hold on Elmerov Blaine’s throat. A small line of blood drips from tender flesh, just beneath my knuckles.
Elm swallows hard, his throat jumping like a rabbit caught in a snare. His nose is already broken, a parting gift from the hilt of my sword after I relieved him of his helmet.
I like this moment.The second they realize how exposed they are.
For a breath, I am their god.
“Come on, Elm’s fine.” I clap Elm on the back. “Right?”
He hesitantly eyes me for a moment, panting to catch his breath. Finally he nods and shoves me away playfully. He spins his sword as he retrieves it from the ground and I watch him head back towards the training tower.
“That’s enough for today,” Reese urges me. He scrubs a hand over his shaved head.
It’s only been two hours. He knows I run much longer training drills than that. Even if the others have settled for such minimal training per day. Unless I’ve been called away, I’m here training, exercising, refining my craft.
“You can very well be done if you’d like.” I push my sweaty black hair from my eyes and take on a fighting stance against a wooden beam.
“Fine,” Reese rolls his brown eyes and exits the arena.
His audacity has me clenching my jaw.
I have more kills than the other knights in this order have prayers.
The sword they summon when wards shatter? That’s me.
The shield between this kingdom and ruin? Also me.
I am the one who stands as the others fall. The name Harrow Darkbloom is whispered amongst our foes before their ranks scatter. Only the foolish dare to face me. Those men are my favorite. They scream the loudest as life drains from them, when they realize that their ego cost them everything.
When swords fail, I’ve slain Marrow Drakes with my hands.
I’ve disemboweled Blessed Wyverns from Celestia— the Kingdom of Light— with whispered spells that most wouldn’t dare to utter.
My hands alone have stained Stygian waters with the blood of River Dragons.
Reese’s exasperation only shows his deep misunderstanding of what it takes to be a warrior of my caliber. That is his weakness; it is not mine.
I’ve heard some call my ability a gift, a curse, a skill. I’ve even heard that the Titan Xeusis himself must have risen from the grave to spawn me.
The truth is, I simply understand that hesitation is the death of success. So I don’t hesitate. Granting mercy will not dig my grave the way it has so many others. The way it will dig Reese’s. The way it could even dig Elm’s.
The only reason Reese Vexmoor is the High-Sword is because I don’t want it.
There’s nothing he can teach me and we both know it.
Besides, I have bigger things to worry about.
Like how King Dreven Shadowfall thinks of me as his leashed weapon because I have played the role for two years now.
But there is something festering in this Kingdom, a dark secret that squirms in my subconscious.
I sigh and stretch out my neck, rubbing my jaw and turning my head from side to side.
I adjust my grip on my sword and rail into the beam, carving harsh divots into the splintering wood.
I feel my muscles tearing and reforming under the pressure of each impact. It’s blissful and brutal.
I swing again and my blade bites deeper than intended, splintering the beam. My carefully restrained magic flares too hot along the edge. Crowley, my familiar, shifts somewhere above me, uneasy.
I don’t turn.
Silver catches in my peripheral vision. Eastern archway.
Of course.
Prince Thorne Shadowfall never arrives while the others remain. He waits for absence. For quiet. For me.
It’s a habit of his. I can see his silver hair, a bright stain on the dark crown of Netherhelm.
Still, I feel his eyes crawling over my skin.
I swallow and let out a savage groan as I take down the beam with a final swing of my sword, propelled by magic that I’ve spent my life perfecting.
Reese will be pissed. But I don’t mind chopping down a tree to replace it.
I can’t help but notice how Thorne doesn’t startle or withdraw at my display of power the way others do.
I can feel his gaze—precise, deliberate—tracing the sweat down my spine, the tension in my shoulders. I swallow again before I can stop myself.
I still don’t look at him.
That would be giving something away.
Then again, I’m far too aware of his body.
Completely on accident, might I add. My intention when I first arrived in this sprawling palace two years ago was not to sleep with Thorne Shadowfall.
In fact, it could not be further from the reason I came here.
Still, things… happened. And I can’t exactly undo them, nor can I remove the cursed vision of him beneath me.
I spin and begin an assault on another wooden beam.
I can’t unlearn his horrific secret, and I can’t bring myself to heal the scars of the claw marks he dug into my back.
On a shaking scream, I extend my magic and incinerate the damned wooden beam.
It falls to ash and burning cinder before the wind starts to carry it away.
My familiar swoops down, aware of the expended magic. The large raven perches on my heaving shoulders as I catch my breath.
“There, there, Crowley,” I calm him and pat his head. He lets out a small croak in acceptance.
Thorne Shadowfall is everything I loathe, everything the Serpent of Netherhelm vowed to destroy.
What happened between us only happened once and I hate him for it.
I try to hate him for it. Really though, I hate the way he has infested my mind since that night, leaving me plagued with need that never seems to fade.
He watches me with guarded curiosity as he picks at his nails.
I know if I dared a closer look, I would see silver cuffs on his ears, elegant dark-fitted clothes, porcelain skin, and the ever-present dark chain-link collar around his throat.
That chain is a constant reminder of what he is.
Just like how his hands remain in leather gloves at all times.
Except for when we… I shake my head to clear the train of thought as phantom scratches tingle on my back.
I still don’t look at him, he’s free to exist in the periphery of my vision.
We have had a silent agreement since that night to stay out of each other’s way.
Thorne still thinks I haven’t noticed him lingering in the arched doorway. It’s better that way. Better for him to think he’s watching me. When the truth is just the opposite.
I’ve been watching him and when the moment’s right, I’ll kill him.