Chapter 23 #2
The acknowledgement of our relationship throws him off balance for just a moment—a flicker of surprise that creates the opening I need. I step inside his guard, faster than he anticipated, and drive my fist into his solar plexus with enough force to expel the air from his lungs in a violent rush.
Willam staggers back, gasping, genuine shock replacing his earlier confidence.
He wasn’t expecting that—not the speed, not the precision, and certainly not the controlled violence behind the blow.
He’s used to sparring partners who pull their punches, who respect his royal status even in combat training.
I have no such restraints.
“That was for the ambush,” I say conversationally, circling him now. “Would you like to reconsider your strategy?”
Anger flashes in his golden eyes—the same anger I’ve seen in my father’s gaze, in my own reflection. The Corellian temper, legendary for its sudden violence. Willam charges, abandoning technique for brute force, exactly as I anticipated.
I sidestep again, but this time I grab his extended arm, using his own momentum to send him crashing to the ground. The impact drives the remaining air from his lungs, leaving him momentarily stunned.
“And that,” I continue, “was for threatening my pack.”
Around us, Willam’s men shift uneasily, hands tightening on their weapons. They’re uncertain now, watching their commander outmatched in a contest he initiated. Ares and Poe remain perfectly still, trusting me to handle this but ready to move the instant the situation changes.
Willam rolls to his feet with surprising agility, spitting blood from a split lip. The sight of his own blood seems to shock him more than the pain. “You’ll pay for that,” he snarls, all pretense of aristocratic composure abandoned.
“I’m already paying,” I reply, gesturing to the cut above my eye, still bleeding freely. “The question is whether you’re willing to pay the full price of this encounter.”
He charges again, but this time there’s calculation behind the anger.
He feints left, then strikes right, a combination that might have worked on a less experienced opponent.
I block the first blow, absorb the second against my forearm, and counter with a strike to his kidney that makes him gasp in genuine pain.
“You fight like a common soldier,” he spits, the words half accusation, half disbelief.
“I fight to win,” I correct him. “Something they apparently didn’t teach you in those fifteen years of training.”
The taunt lands as intended, pushing him further into anger, further from rational thought.
Willam has always been predictable that way—quick to rage, slow to recover.
It’s why Father never trusted him with any real responsibility, why he remains a footnote in the royal hierarchy despite being a legitimate son.
He attacks again, a flurry of blows that I partially block, partially absorb. One catches me in the ribs—the same ribs likely cracked in the crash—and pain flares hot and immediate. I use it, channeling the sensation into focused aggression as I counter with a strike to his throat.
Not hard enough to crush his windpipe, but enough to send him staggering back, choking and gasping. A killing blow pulled at the last moment—a reminder that I could end this any time I choose.
“Yield,” I say, giving him one final chance. “This doesn’t have to end with one of us dead.”
Willam’s response is to draw a knife from his boot—a slender blade, easily concealed, deadly in the right hands. “I think it does,” he rasps, his voice rough from the blow to his throat.
So much for honor. So much for the rules of engagement. But then, I never really expected him to fight fair. None of my brothers ever have.
“Sir,” one of his men protests again, “this isn’t—“
“Shut up,” Willam snaps, never taking his eyes off me. “He’s mine.”
I shift my stance, adapting to the new threat. A knife changes the dynamics, limits my options. I need to keep distance, avoid letting him close enough to use the blade effectively. But I also need to end this quickly, before his men decide to intervene regardless of his orders.
Willam lunges, the knife a silver blur in the afternoon light.
I pivot, letting the blade pass within inches of my abdomen, and grab his wrist with both hands.
Using his own momentum against him once more, I twist his arm behind his back, forcing him to either drop the knife or dislocate his shoulder.
He chooses a third option—driving his head back into my face with enough force to break my nose. Pain explodes across my vision, hot blood pouring down my chin, but I maintain my grip on his wrist. The knife clatters to the ground as his fingers finally release it.
I kick the blade away, sending it spinning into the underbrush, then shove Willam forward. He stumbles, off-balance, and I take the opportunity to wipe blood from my eyes. The coppery taste fills my mouth, familiar from a dozen other fights.
“Is this really how you want to die?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Here, on an abandoned road, with no one to witness your final moments? No glory, no recognition, just another royal bastard who reached beyond his grasp?”
Willam’s expression contorts with rage. “Better to die fighting than follow you. At least I’ll have tried to claim what should have been mine.”
“You think bringing me in would have ever mattered?” I laugh, the sound harsh through my broken nose.
“Leopold would pat you on the head and then forget you exist by dinner. You’ve always been disposable, Willam.
That won’t ever change, not as long as you follow the king.
But I can offer you a place on my side.”
“You’re lying,” he says, but there’s no conviction behind it. “The king values my loyalty.”
“He values nothing except power,” I correct him. “And you’ve never had enough to matter.”
I held no illusions of actually getting through to him, but I’m tired enough of spilling my brothers’ blood to offer him the chance.
Willam’s eyes dart to the knife lying in the underbrush, calculation replacing rage.
I tense, ready for his next move, but I’ve underestimated the depth of his desperation.
Instead of going for the knife, he charges me directly, tackling me around the waist with enough force to drive us both to the ground.
Pain explodes through my injured ribs as we hit the dirt, Willam’s weight driving the air from my lungs. His hands find my throat, thumbs pressing into my windpipe with surprising strength. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision as he cuts off my air.
“I’ll bring the your head,” Willam snarls, his face inches from mine. “That should be enough to earn my position as heir.”
I drive my knee up into his groin with all the strength I can muster. His grip loosens reflexively as pain overwhelms his control, and I use the moment to break his hold entirely. Rolling to the side, I gasp for air, my throat burning.
Willam recovers faster than I expected, scrambling toward the knife still lying in the underbrush.
I lunge after him, grabbing his ankle, dragging him back.
He kicks at my face, his boot connecting with my already broken nose.
Fresh pain blooms, but I maintain my grip, pulling him away from the weapon that would end this fight permanently.
We grapple in the dirt, all pretense of technique abandoned for raw, desperate violence. Willam fights with the frenzy of a man who knows this is his last chance, his final opportunity to prove himself. I fight with the cold calculation of someone who has faced death too many times to fear it.
My hand finds a rock, smooth and heavy. Without hesitation, I bring it down on Willam’s temple with enough force to stun but not kill. His struggles weaken, his eyes losing focus as consciousness begins to slip away.
“You never understood,” I say, my voice rough from his attempted strangulation. “It was never about being the king’s favorite. It was about surviving him.”
I strike again, harder this time. Willam goes limp beneath me, blood pooling beneath his head. Not enough blood for a killing blow, but enough to ensure he won’t be following us anytime soon.
I stand, swaying slightly as adrenaline begins to ebb, pain rushing in to fill the void it leaves. Around us, Willam’s men remain frozen, weapons half-raised, uncertain what to do now that their commander lies unconscious at my feet.
“Your master has lost,” I say, my voice carrying despite its roughness. “You have two choices. Leave now, pretend you never saw us, and live to see another day. Or you die.”
They exchange glances, weighing their options. Six armed men against three, odds still in their favor. But they’ve just watched their commander—a prince of the realm, trained by the royal guard—fall to a single opponent. The calculation is clear in their expressions.
“What about him?” one of them asks, gesturing to Willam’s unconscious form.
I look down at my half-brother, at the blood matting his hair, thinking how easy it would be to kill him. How that was the decision I would have made at any other point in my life before now.
“Take him with you,” I say, the decision forming even as I speak. “Tell him when he wakes that his life was mine to take, and I chose to spare it. This time.”
The implied threat is clear—there won’t be a second chance. If Willam comes after us again, he won’t walk away.
The men hesitate, looking to each other for guidance now that their chain of command has collapsed. Finally, the one who spoke nods, gesturing to two others to retrieve Willam’s unconscious form.
“Leave your weapons,” I command.”And the keys to two of those vehicles. If you can’t all fit in one, the others can make it back on foot.”
Another exchange of glances between them, another silent calculation of risk versus reward.
Then, one by one, they place their guns on the ground.
Six standard-issue royal guard sidearms, each worth a small fortune on the black market.
More importantly, each capable of killing us if they change their minds about letting us go.
I nod to Poe. He moves forward, collecting the weapons with efficient precision, checking each one before passing it to Ares.
I check the remaining weapons, pushing three to Ares. “We’ll be completely outnumbered if my father’s loyalists are anywhere nearby, but these might give us a fighting chance.”
Ares nods, tucking two into his belt and checking the third with practiced efficiency. “Better than nothing.”
The three of us move toward the downed vehicle, assessing the damage. The front axle is completely destroyed, and the fuel tank is leaking a slow but steady stream of precious fuel. We’re not driving anywhere in this wreck.
“We need to grab what we can and move,” I say, already reaching for the supply pack in the trunk. “There’ll be patrols sweeping this area once Willam reports back.”
“If he reports back,” Poe corrects, giving me a look I can’t quite decipher. “I’m surprised you didn’t kill him when you had the chance.”
I pause, the weight of the supply pack heavy in my hands. The question in his words is clear, though he hasn’t directly asked it. Why show mercy now, when I’ve never hesitated to eliminate threats before?
“If I’m going to take the throne from my father,” I say finally, “I need to be better than him. Melilla has seen enough blood spilled over petty rivalries and power struggles.”
Poe’s eyebrows lift slightly, genuine surprise flickering across his normally impassive features. “That’s... unexpectedly compassionate of you.”
“Don’t look so shocked,” I reply, shouldering the pack. “I’m not incapable of mercy.”
“Just historically disinclined toward it,” he counters, though there’s less bite in the words than I might have expected.
I consider defending myself, explaining that ruthlessness has always been necessary—to survive my father, to protect my position, to keep the pack safe.
But excuses change nothing. My hands are stained with the blood of enemies and innocents alike, and no amount of justification will wash them clean.
“Perhaps it’s time for that to change,” I say instead.
Ares approaches, carrying another pack filled with weapons and medical supplies. “Touching as this philosophical discussion is, we need to move. Now. Those guards will have relayed their position, more of them will come.”
He’s right, of course. This isn’t the time for introspection or debates about morality. We’re exposed, vulnerable, and our enemies know exactly where to find us.
Ares busies himself ripping the tracking device out of one of the vehicles, while Poe and I set the other one to autopilot itself in the opposite direction we’re going.
As we prepare to leave, Poe gives me another of those speculative looks.
“If you want to rule differently than your father,” he says quietly, “you might actually need to be different from him. Not just in your words, but in your actions.”
I think of all the ways I’ve emulated my father over the years—his ruthlessness, his calculating nature, his willingness to sacrifice others for the greater goal. I’ve told myself I was different, better somehow, but how much of that was self-deception?
“I know,” I reply simply. “I will.”
Poe holds my gaze for a moment longer, then nods. “I’m going to hold you to that.”