Second Son
Ten years ago.
When the practice sword rammed against the back of Niel’s head, his first thought was that he might lose consciousness. If he did, they’d carry him to the healer’s quarter. Perhaps he’d even get the full day off to rest in front of a fire.
His second thought, as he hit the wooden floor face-first, was that he was notsupposedto want that. It was a sign of weakness.
He stayed conscious. The pain continued. So did his father’s voice, and the pad of his brother’s boots on the floorboards.
“Up,” his father barked at Niel from across the enclosed room. The Duke sat in the stands, arms crossed on the railing, his dark eyes cold as he watched his two sons. The room was empty except for the three of them.
Red blood dribbled bright on the wood slats beneath Niel. His mouth hurt. He’d cut his lip on his teeth when he slammed down on the floor. It wasn't a serious enough injury to pausetheir combat training. He wouldn't get to see the healer until his father decided they were done.
Niel was getting used to the routine. Broken every day. Reassembled by night.
The room was silent apart from his gasping breath. Pain stabbed his chest every time he breathed, courtesy of a blow his brother had landed to Niel's ribs some ten minutes past. Niel forced himself to one shaking leg, then the other. He flipped the edge of his practice sword up with his foot so that he could grab it by the wooden blade. His breath came out in trails of steam. If only he could win against his brother, just once. Instead of being the one bleeding and struggling to breathe.
“Attack again,” Duke Frederich said. He was not talking to Niel.
Niel’s brother had three years on him, but three years was all the difference. Corin was already eight inches taller, voice dropping and layers of muscle beginning to bulk while Niel stayed scrawny.
From across the arena, Corin charged. His brother’s dark eyes focused grimly on his target. Hisprey.
Niel’s heart rammed in his chest, muscles going tight. He gasped and stumbled back, feet shuffling over the wood flooring as he swung his sword up in front of him. His ankle twinged.
Don’t panic don’t panic don’t—
He threw his sword up over his shoulder, angled into the stance they calledox, as Corin’s blade smashed down. The blow reverberated through Niel’s arms. There was no moment of triumph in the block. Corin’s wooden practice sword kept moving. It scored through the air in a series of strikes so quick Niel’s mind couldn’t follow or name the stances he used in response. It was all he could do to move the sword and move his feet. Wood clacked against wood. Corin drove him back across the arena, each strike harder than the one before.
“Don’t be so fucking predictable,” the Duke shouted to his heir. “The boy’s got his lower half wide open. Use your fuckingeyes, Corin.”
Wood met flesh. Niel’s right knee seared red, the pain barreling through him. Did Corin have to draw out the fight like this? Was his brother determined to make it as painful as he could before their father called an end to the day’s training?
“Better,” the Duke called. “Sloppy, but not such a fucking disgrace.”
Niel shifted to his left leg with a cry of pain, stumbling back. His knee throbbed.
“Please,” he whispered, the word barely escaping his lips.
“You’ve got him. Finish him,” the Duke called. “Why do you hesitate?”
“Don’t beg,” Corin said, his voice as low as Niel’s, his lips not moving to give them away as he raised his sword. “You know he hates it when we beg.”
The blade came down.
Foreboding
Present day.
It was quiet in the castle stable. The whole keep held its silence, waiting for something to shatter. Ayla drew an achingly cold breath and leaned against Gemshorn, the only joy her husband had yet to take away.
He was nearly too big for her to manage, a Rogess breed her father had calledleggywhen he handed the reins to her years ago. Now the dapple gray gelding stood with his head down and his lower lip drooping. She ran the soft brush over his back in slow, steady lines. Gemshorn cocked his hind hoof, resting his leg as his weight slumped.
“Must be nice to be pampered,” Ayla murmured, pressing her chilly hand against the warmth of his hide. The wool cloak over her shoulder wasn’t enough to keep the cold from her bones. “How about next time,yougroomme.”
Gemshorn cocked an ear back at her and sighed, a little more dramatically than Ayla thought was fair. She lifted the brush to set it against his withers, then froze.
There were footsteps in the aisle of the stable. But she’d learned to read them, and these were soft and quick, not a heavy stride. Her shoulders relaxed as Gemshorn curved his neck to look at her, as if demanding to know why she’d stopped.
