Willam laughs, the sound as hollow as I remember. “Always the diplomat, aren’t you? Even now.” He gestures to our overturned vehicle. “You’re running. From Father. From your responsibilities. From the consequences of your... indiscretions.”
My jaw tightens at the reference to Maya, but I keep my expression neutral. Show nothing. Reveal nothing. The first lesson of court politics, drilled into me since before I could walk.
“And you’ve taken it upon yourself to stop me?” I ask, injecting just enough mockery into the question to sting. “I’m flattered by the attention, brother, but surely you have better things to do with your time.”
Willam’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. It never has. “On the contrary. Bringing you in will earn me considerable favor with Father. Perhaps even enough to improve my standing at court.”
Ah. There it is. The real motive, laid bare with surprising candor. Willam has always craved recognition, has always resented his position as an afterthought in the royal hierarchy. Capturing the fugitive prince—the king’s rebellious son—would indeed earn him the attention he so desperately desires.
“And my companions?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
Willam’s gaze flicks to Ares and Poe, dismissive and cold. “Traitors to the crown. Their fate has already been determined.”
Execution, then. No trial, no mercy, just a quick death on a forest road where no one will find their bodies until long after we’ve disappeared. The king’s justice, delivered through by one of his most expendable sons. The mere idea of it is insulting.
I feel rather than see Poe’s subtle shift, the nearly imperceptible tensing that signals he’s identified his first target. Ares remains outwardly calm, but I know him well enough to sense the rage building beneath his controlled exterior. Like a kettle about to boil over.
“I see.” I keep my voice conversational, buying seconds while I assess our options. “And if I surrender willingly? Come back to court, beg Father’s forgiveness, resume my duties as the dutiful second son?”
“Then perhaps I could be persuaded to show mercy to your... pets.” Willam’s smile widens, cruel and confident. “Though I can’t promise the king would be as generous.”
He’s lying, of course. If I surrender, Ares and Poe are dead before we reach the capital. And I’ll be locked away until Father decides what to do with his wayward son—likely something that involves a great deal of pain.
“A tempting offer,” I say, as if actually considering it. “But I think I’ll decline.”
Willam sighs, a theatrical display of disappointment. “I expected as much. You always were stubborn to the point of stupidity.” He gestures to his men. “Take him alive. Kill the others.”
The men raise their weapons, and time seems to slow. I have perhaps two seconds before they open fire. Two secondsto decide how we all die—or how we might, against all odds, survive.
I meet Willam’s gaze directly. “You know, Willam, there’s a much simpler way to resolve this.”
He pauses, curiosity momentarily overriding caution. “Oh?”
“You and me. Hand to hand. No weapons, no interference.” I spread my arms, showing empty hands. “If you win, I surrender and you can drag me before the king, knowing you’ve earned the right to claim the right to be heir. If I win, we walk away. All of us.”
Willam laughs, genuinely amused. “You can’t be serious.”
“Afraid?” I inject just enough challenge into the question to prick his considerable ego. “I understand. You’ve never been much of a fighter.”
The barb lands exactly as intended. Willam’s expression hardens, his amusement vanishing like morning mist. “I’ve trained with the royal guard for fifteen years.”
“You’re the last of us that the king would ever make his heir,” I counter, pressing my advantage. “This is your chance to prove you don’t deserve to be overlooked.”
I can see the calculation in his eyes, the weighing of risk against reward. On one hand, defeating me in single combat would add a layer of personal glory to his victory. On the other, he risks humiliation if he loses—and worse, the king’s displeasure at letting me escape.
But Willam has always been predictable in one crucial way: his pride invariably overrides his judgment.
“A true challenge, then,” he says, removing his jacket with deliberate care. “I’ll enjoy presenting the king with whatever pieces are left of you.”
I don’t point out the obvious. Willam has never fought for his life, has never felt the desperate clarity that comes when survival is the only goal.
The fact that I have no choice but to win is the only advantage I need.
“Sir,” one of his men protests, “the king’s orders?—“
“The king isn’t here and I don’t need six armed men to subdue one traitor” Willam snaps, handing his jacket to the nearest guard and turning back to me. “I assume you have enough honor to stand down your guard dogs.”
I shrug out of my own jacket, passing it to Ares without taking my eyes off Willam. “No interference,” I remind him. “From either side.”
