THE PAST
Despite his best efforts, ten-year-old Prince Odhran always seemed to come up short in his sword matches.
Regardless of his status as a bastard, it wasn’t an acceptable outcome for someone with royal blood.
No one bothered to inquire about the circumstances that led to his poor performance.
There were no factors that could lessen the impact.
No retries to be granted. In this game, there were only two possibilities: winning or losing, and the price of losing was high, affecting his meals, his freedom, and his self-worth.
They often paired him with older, more experienced boys who were ruthless in their determination to draw blood from the young bastard prince.
It was widely believed that King Darragh had a bastard child, cruelly abandoned by his own mother.
But this bastard prince belonged to their queen, fathered by an even greater king.
“Blades up!” His guardian looked at him with a straight-lipped expression.
The order resonated in his ears. Odhran’s arms buckled, struggling to support his massive sword, feeling the strain in his arms. His stomach growled with hunger and sweat beaded his brow.
There were many cruelties in Réimse an Sìoraigh, the Realm of Forever, the worst dealt by the hands who were meant to care for him.
In the courtyard, amidst training sessions, young Odhran lost track of time.
While staring at his opponent, the thirteen-year-old son of a warrior, time moved too fast and too slow all at once.
“I said blades up, boy. Are you deaf! Raise your sword!” Despite his guardian’s command, Odhran’s gaze remained locked on his opponent, studying every move.
Every movement intensified the burning sensation in his shoulders as he raised his weapon higher.
In front of him, the wooden blade danced gracelessly through the air.
“Engage!”
With a smirk plastered on his face, Odhran’s opponent confidently advanced toward him.
His relaxed posture stood in stark contrast to Odhran’s, as if he already knew how the match would unfold.
Young Odhran skilfully blocked his opponent’s strikes with each decisive move.
In the sandy courtyard, he stepped backwards with purpose, creating distance between himself and his advancing opponent.
With each movement, his arms quivered, betraying his fatigue.
His steps grew increasingly unsteady, as if his balance had abandoned him.
Like the thunderous drums of war, Odhran’s heart pounded fiercely in his chest. The match wouldn’t be over until blood was drawn.
Compared to the older boy, he felt powerless, the duel being heavily one-sided.
It never was an even match when Odhran stepped into the ring.
The impact of the strikes against his blade reverberated up his arms, causing his muscles to tense with every clash, leaving him more exhausted than the last. He took another step back, and his foot caught on something, causing him to lose his footing and fall.
He watched as the dull wooden blade swung down, aimed directly at his head.
With instinct as his only ally, the young prince dodged the attack, rolling onto his side.
Amidst the indifference of his guardian, a young boy around Odhran’s age, abandoned his own instruction in genuine concern.
He picked up his own wooden sword, ready to come to Odhran’s aid.
The auburn-haired boy took a step forward, but before he could get any closer, he was forcefully pulled backwards by the collar of his tunic.
Although unsuccessful, the gesture brought comfort to the young prince.
Before Odhran could gain his footing, a powerful kick knocked him back down. Gasping for air, sand invaded his mouth, choking him. His opponent loomed over him, planting a heavy boot firmly between his shoulders.
“Yield!” the thirteen-year-old called out. “Yield, and admit what you are. Dirt!”
Fuelled by determination, Odhran swept his opponent’s leg out from under him and brought him crashing down.
He met the ground with a grunt. The bastard prince scampered to his knees, which buckled under him as though his bones had turned to liquid.
The knowledge that he should strike filled his mind as his heart pounded heavily in his chest. Despite his desire to draw first blood, his weariness prevented him from striking with enough force.
His weak muscles hindered his abilities.
He hated the way his body betrayed him. The way his age left him defenceless. Overwhelmed by his opponent’s power, Odhran was defeated, but he swore to himself that he would become stronger, no matter what it took.
Fists rained down on his face, the sound of each punch punctuated by the furious shouts of his adversary.
The searing pain intensified, his vision filling with blinding white flashes.
With each successive strike, the white flashes transformed into a comforting darkness.
Flexing his fingers in the sand, he found the item that caused him to stumble, the edge of a wooden practice sword, split in two during the match before theirs.
In that soothing darkness, where stillness consumed and numbness reigned, Odhran made a solemn oath to eliminate his adversaries.
With the tip of the blade sharp against his thumb, he vowed to kill.
Without further thought, his hand closed around the sharp piece of wood, ramming it at the thirteen-year-old’s head with the last of his strength.
The assault of fists ceased, and the boy fell to the sandy arena beside him. Through bloodied and swollen eyes, he saw the boy, one eye open, the other pierced with Odhran’s weapon.
Teachers and healers rushed to the boy’s aid, but it was too late.
Odhran had taken his life just as he vowed he would.
The natural response would have been one of guilt and sympathy, but Odhran felt none of those.
He felt no remorse as his guardian dragged him to King Darragh’s throne room, bloodied and bruised.
He told himself that it was his life or the boy’s, only doing what he had to. To survive.
“What has he done now?” the king asked in a tone that could only be construed as bored.
“He killed the son of your general. He must be brought to justice.” Odhran’s guardian shoved him toward the king, causing him to lose his balance as he stumbled forward.
His footsteps echoed in the massive hall as voices grew quiet.
Odhran was too tired to care, too tired to listen, even when the king assured the court that justice would be dealt.
He was too tired to listen when the king ordered the room to be cleared, save for his bastard.
“You think you’re a man now? Do you?” King Darragh drummed his fingers on the armrest of his extravagant throne.
“No, Your Highness.” Odhran bowed his head as dread slowly replaced the fatigue inside of him. His stomach roiled and fingers grew as cold as ice when realisation set in. They were alone. He already knew the cruelty that tainted King Darragh’s justice.
Until the age of thirteen, when fae gained the right to assign their own secret names, they were vulnerable to the power of their seniors and could be ordered to obey without respite.
“Who do you plan on killing next? Is it me, Odhran? Your king?” King Darragh stood from his seat on his throne.
There was a long silence where Odhran didn’t say a word.
He didn’t deny his dreams of seeing his father die by his hand, slowly, savouring the sight of his torment and the sound of his desperate cries for mercy.
Odhran couldn’t deny the king’s accusation, for denying it would be a lie, and faeries cannot lie.
The words simply wouldn’t form on his tongue.
“Come, Odhran. I command you.” King Darragh’s voice was a snarl, and the taste of ash filled Odhran’s mouth.
His feet moved without his consent. Every step up the dais was torture.
He knew what would happen next wouldn’t be easy to tolerate, but there was no stopping, not when power reigned supreme in Darragh’s voice.
Not when he was too young to claim his own name.