CHAPTER 1
Logan
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
I accompany my father through the cold stone corridors of the training wing, my boots clicking against the polished floor. He walks with that measured pace of his — unhurried yet impossible to match without looking like you're trying too hard. The perfect metaphor for how he rules the kingdom.
"You need to choose a personal guard, Logan." Leopold doesn't look at me as he speaks, his eyes fixed ahead. "Someone loyal only to you."
As cocky as any teenager, I’m not exactly keen to have a shadow who ultimately reports to my damn father. “I’ve managed fine without one.”
"You've been lucky." His tone carries that edge that means the discussion is over. "A prince without protection is a dead prince."
We emerge onto a viewing balcony overlooking the training yard. Below, two dozen men clash in formation drills, their armor glinting in the early morning light. The sound of metalstriking metal echoes up to us, punctuated by grunts and barked commands.
Leopold gestures at the men below. "These are the best we have. Watch them. Choose wisely."
My eyes scan the yard, noting strengths and weaknesses. Almost all Alphas. Most are built like oxen, all brute force and intimidation. Boring.
Then I spot a flash of quicksilver. This one is smaller than the rest by more than a head, moving with precision rather than power. Undersized, even for a beta. The others have noticed too. Their formations shift, isolating him. What began as training has morphed into something uglier.
Three guards corner him against the stone wall. A fourth circles behind. Not training. Hunting.
"Interesting," Leopold murmurs beside me. "Let's see how he handles this."
The small one's back is to the wall now. Four against one, with more circling like vultures. His chest rises and falls rapidly, sword up in a defensive stance.
I lean against the balcony rail, oddly invested in the outcome. "It would be a shame to watch a man die this early in the morning."
The king’s eyes cut to me, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Indeed. Though sometimes the smallest dogs have the sharpest teeth."
My attention returns to the training field. The small one doesn't move as his attackers advance. He doesn't retreat, or even so much as flinch. He just waits, sword raised, ice-blue eyes calculating.
His first attacker lunges with a predictable overhead strike. The small one sidesteps, just barely enough to avoid injury, and uses his opponent's momentum against him, adding just enough force to send the larger man stumbling into the wall face-first.The crunch of cartilage breaking echoes satisfactorily across the yard.
"Impressive," Leopold murmurs.
Learning from their mistake, the second and third attackers move in together, obviously thinking to overwhelm the smaller fighter with numbers. A rookie mistake. The small one drops to one knee, slashing at the nearest man's hamstring with his practice blade. Not enough to cut, but enough to buckle the leg. As that opponent falls, the small one rises in the same fluid motion, driving his elbow into the third attacker's throat.
Two down in seconds. The yard has gone quiet, the other training pairs now watching.
"He fights dirty," I observe, unable to keep the admiration from my voice.
"He fights to win," Leopold corrects. "There is a difference."
The fourth and last attacker circles cautiously now, having witnessed the fate of his companions. He must be smarter than the others, keeping his distance, testing with feints rather than committing.
The small one doesn't pursue. He waits, conserving energy, letting his opponent wear himself out with fancy footwork. When the attacker finally commits to a thrust, the small one parries just enough to redirect the blade past his ribs, then steps inside the man's guard.
What happens next is almost too fast to follow. A series of strikes to vulnerable points: throat, groin, the inside of the knee. The last attacker crumples, gasping in pain.
"What's his name?" I ask, unable to tear my eyes away.
Leopold consults a ledger. "Cillian. No family name listed. Orphan, recruited from the eastern provinces."
Cillian’s victory is short-lived. The first attacker has recovered and approaches from behind, blood streaming fromhis broken nose. He has abandoned his sword for a dagger pulled from his boot.
The warning leaves my lips before I can stop it. “Watch your back!”
