Here, there was nopausein Arawn. There was no fear of messing up, no crushing weight of anyone’s eyes upon him, just waiting for him to fail.
And today, when he fought?
Hewon.
Every single time.
Younglings entered the training room and circled up by the enormous window-wall, the Expanse in view for all to see. It was designed that way, for younglings to have a constant glimpse of the battlefield they would someday march into. Or, if they were good enough, to soar above.
Every youngling joined the circle with shoulders rolled back, fists clenched, confidence in their gazes...for they were good at this, too. Fighting was all any Sacred had ever known.
But when they were met with Arawn? Today, their composure dipped. Their eyes widened, their hands shook, they asked formercy...because he fought without a leash.
He fought with all the fury of a shadow wolf.
Every jab and kick and lunge was met with an opponent sent to the mat, finished.
Every youngling morphed before him, until they took on a different face...and it looked like his father’s.
His hits were stronger. His motions were swift. His breathing was far more even than it had ever been. He fought, and as he did, his mind emptied of all thoughts beyond one:
Win.
And he did.
Every time...he did.
It was halfway through the day when Arawn finally paused to take a break. He had sweat in his eyes, and he realized his arms and legs were trembling. Gods, he wasexhaustedfrom sparring,butsomething in him told him to keep going. To pick up a training sword and move to the other side of the room.
There, he could unleash all the remaining fragments ofhatredhe even dared feel for his father.
He was not supposed to feel.
He was not supposed to do anything but honor and respect and obey.
He’d just chosen his sword, just went to join the circle on the other side of the room, when laughter made him pause.
Because it wasn’tjoyfullaughter.
No, it was the kind that made Arawn’s skin crawl...born from one youngling making fun of another. He’d heard it plenty of times before. Never for him, because no one would dare place a shred of disrespect towards their Crown Prince.
But Kinlear?
Arawn sighed.
Theyalwayswhispered about Kinlear. About his mysterious illness –he was born with bad lungs, nothing to balk at,the Masters said – and about why he often limped about like something was truly wrong with him.
It was. But Arawn was forbidden to speak of it.
“He’s weak!” a boy said now, voice growing louder as Arawn approached. “Good as anomage.”
“Careful,” said a dark-haired girl. Zey, who always looked at Arawn like she wanted to devour him. “He might curse you and makeyoulimp.”
Snickering filled the circle, and Arawn pushed through it as they all fell silent.
And there he was.
Kinlear...back from another bout of illness, where they’d marked him into a days-long runic sleep.
