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 aman 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.
