Chapter 1: Ten Years Old

CHAPTER 1

PHILIP

TEN YEARS OLD

Excitement floods the room, sending a sliver of anticipation running through my body. Unfortunately, as much as my body is reacting, I cannot understand what all the commotion is about. Something about a baby being brought to the castle.

If rumor is to be believed, she’s going to be my wife. But what need do I have of a baby? Everyone seems to think of this as a grand occasion, but I personally feel as if it’s pointless. Let them get all excited.

It’s just all stupid to me. I’d much rather be spending time with Master Damon Balcom, the captain of the guard, learning my sword fighting skills. Instead, I’m wrapped up in fancy clothes not fit for anything but to prance around and show myself off. Huffing under my breath, I allow the valet to continue his fussing, doing my best to hide my true emotions.

With a longing glance, I look out the window, watching as Master Balcom takes his men through their drills. Most days, today included, I despise being the crown prince. There’s no freedom. It’s a hot and stifling mantle I’m forced to wear.

I long to be free, to soar above the clouds like the birds, or even the mythical dragons of old. Closing my eyes, I breathe in the dank, stale air. Though it’s probably considered fresh to others, I can smell the age. Even one day with the windows shut, and I can smell the difference.

“Come now, Prince Philip,” the valet intones, his fingers fluttering over the front of this royal costume. “Today is a happy day. Can’t you at least try to be excited about it?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes, donning an air of respect. It’s what Master Balcom would order me to do. Out of all the people I don’t wish to disappoint, it’s him. And not just because his forms of punishment involve physical labor.

There’s something in him that frightens me, but compels me all the same. I can’t put my finger on it. It’s a certain air that even my father hasn’t been able to master. Then again, as the king, he probably doesn’t have to hone that part of his skills. It’s his crown that demands respect and not the man himself.

Shaking my head, I turn in the mirror, looking at the festoon of ripples and fabrics as they cover me from neck to ankle. All that’s missing is the golden circlet denoting my status as a prince. I practice my smile, forcing my lips to tilt in a way that feels odd and foreign. But it makes my mother happy.

The moment I smile, she stops her examinations, allowing me the freedom to be myself. All it takes is a simple show of emotions. I don’t understand, and I doubt I ever will. What does a smile have to do with who I am as a person? Isn’t it enough that I keep the more disruptive or undesirable emotions in check?

Smiling does nothing to curb the violence I feel curling through my arms and into my fingers. It takes more concentration to keep from lashing out and making my mother cry. And yet… she continues to ask me to smile.

“My Prince,” the valet continues, waxing poetic about the infant we are to meet.

I couldn’t care less about some baby. Pulling away from him as he continues to flit about, his hands smoothing out some invisible wrinkle, I push past the throng of workers and make my way to my secret room. He calls out behind me, but I don’t care to listen. I just want to be alone.

Glancing this way and that, I press my hand against a bit of stone and push hard, triggering a lever to give way so the hidden door swings inward. Once I’m inside, no one will ever know I’m here. It will be as if I disappeared into thin air.

With a smirk, I make my way over to my peepholes and watch the exasperation pour off of the man as he races to and fro. A soft chuckle rumbles up my throat, the closest thing to a laugh I can manage. He looks so ridiculous as he glances about, his hands wringing as frantic energy sizzles in the air.

I won’t be gone too long. Just enough for me to breathe in air that’s not tainted with the scent of others. Not caring at all that I’m messing up my outfit, I slump onto a makeshift bed and close my eyes.

Something is wrong. I can feel it in my bones. There’s no way of knowing or even conveying what it is. When I was younger, I tried. Even in my babblings, I did my best to convey the wrongness that is me. But no one ever understood. They were only ever frightened of me.

“I understand you loud and clear, my prince,” a phantom voice drifts into the room.

It’s not one I’ve ever heard before. At least not anyone I know of in the castle. It seems as if an intruder has found my sanctum and defiled it with their presence. But who would be so bold? From the sound, it’s a female, but what female would want to be alone with me?

Fear seizes my heart as I force myself to lie there, making my breathing shallow. In the silence, I recall Master Balcom’s instructions as they flit through my skull, almost as if he were talking to me directly. But that’s absurd. Even I know he’s not here in this room.

Still though, at his imagined whispered command, I crack an eye open, just a slit. It’s enough for me to see into the room, but small enough for my attacker to think I’m still asleep. At least, I hope that’s what I’m doing.

Nothing. A black haze fills my sanctum, rendering me unable to see anything else.

“I know you’re awake, young prince. I also know you feign repose as if to throw me off and make me vulnerable. It will never happen.”

Anger burns through me, choking out the last flitting words of Master Balcom as I stand up, ready to dispatch the person who dares to threaten me. But still, I find nothing. The only thing in this room is a soft laugh that trickles down the walls, filling my gut with dread.

“Come to the center. I shall have a look at you,” the disembodied voice rumbles into the room.

“Show yourself first,” I grind out, my fingers curling into fists. “Or are you afraid of me?”

Again, that annoying bit of laughter surrounds me, setting me on edge. “I fear nothing, young prince. Not even you.”

A metallic tang fills my mouth as rage bubbles through me like the bile rising in my throat. “You will fear me,” I seethe, looking about for a weapon I can wield.

“Come now. Is that any way to greet a guest? I must say you’re becoming far more barbaric, like a brainless warrior, and less like your father, a diplomat.”

“What use are there of pretty words when swords can settle a matter far more quickly and efficiently?” As my words fill the air, the smoke swirls around my cot.

I stand there, transfixed, as a sword appears out of thin air. Its hilt is a thing of beauty, encrusted with jewels and gems of all kinds. But that’s not what entices me. The blade is wicked sharp, glinting in the light coming from the high, slanted windows.

Unable to help myself, I grab the blade, holding it in my hand. The hilt rests in my palm perfectly, as if it were made for me and me alone. This time, the smile on my lips is genuine as I slash the blade through the air.

Wind eddies around me, rippling with each stroke. This is who I am and what I’m made for. Try as they might, but my mother and father cannot remove this from my person.

“Do you wish to pierce me, my prince? To run me through?”

I sneer at the smoke, dropping into an offensive stance. “Show yourself so that I may test your mettle.”

“That is not why I’ve come, my prince. I am here, in fact, to test yours.” The voice echoes about, and I am unable to pinpoint it.

“I refuse to be tested by someone who remains unseen. Show yourself so I may deem if you’re worthy enough to test me.”

Again, the smoke swirls, this time forming a column in front of me. Transfixed, I watch as it morphs into a shape, female by the looks of it, matching the sound of the voice I heard. Eventually, the haze gives way, showing a figure pulled straight out of my nightmares.

The sorceress who had been cast out about a year ago looms before me, her all-black attire making her one with the shadows. What is she doing here? And why did I not recognize her voice? Gripping the sword in my hand, I lunge forward, not thinking, just acting. With an uncanny accuracy, I plunge the tip into her heart.

Instead of shrieks of pain, a dark laugh bubbles up from her throat and spills over her lips. No blood drips down her pale breasts as it ought to. Instead, black sludge slithers down, as if the shadows were made tangible.

“Witch,” I cry out, pulling back.

With a bright smile, she bows before me. “That I am. Now then, stretch out your hand.”

For the first time in my remembrance, I feel fear. It wraps its icy tendrils around my heart and squeezes, forcing my breath to stutter from my lips. Try as I might to keep ahold of my anger, it slips away, leaving me a shell of a person.

“Come now,” she cajoles, holding out her hand. “I merely wish to see the type of boy you are and the man you are to become.”

“My path is my own. No one can predict it,” I spit out, gathering my bravado around me like a cloak to ward off the chill.

“That is true, young prince. But I can at least see what paths split out in front of you. Whichever you take will be your choice. Your hand. I will not ask again.”

Gritting my teeth, I stand my ground, refusing to give in. This is a test. It has to be. If I fail, then what will that mean for me? I stand firm, puffing my chest out as I’ve seen Master Balcom do.

He’s the only one I can conjure in my mind to know what true strength is. But even that feels false, hollow somehow. The woman stares at me, her eyes piercing through as if she’s seeing straight into my soul.

Can she see my inadequacy? My failings? These thoughts pound into my brain with my voice, but they do not feel like my own. There’s a darker taint to them, an oily coating that covers the inside of my skull, threatening to make me buckle. But I cannot. Despite everything, I know I cannot give in.

Her eyes narrow as fire lights the insides like twin flames. They call to me, mesmerizing me like nothing else. I’m stuck, transfixed, as she slithers her way closer. No. Not closer. She stands firm where she is, barely moving.

It’s something else. A shadow perhaps? The dark tendrils move closer, but I find I cannot fight them away. I cannot draw my gaze away from hers. Frozen, I’m helpless as the shadows wrap themselves around me, holding me firm.

As if that’s the catalyst, the fire dies from her eyes, allowing my senses to come back into my body. I thrash about, my heart pounding in my chest as fear worms its way into my heart. But I cannot move.

No matter how I twist and bend, they hold me in place, the dark threads spreading me apart and lifting me in the air. This time, the woman drifts forward, her movements soft, languid, and almost sensuous. But there is no desire in her eyes. Not like I’ve seen from the palace pleasure slaves.

This is cold calculation, pure and simple.

Holding my breath, I watch, helpless, as the shadow tendril wraps tighter around my wrist and pulls it forward. Try as I might, I am too weak to fight back. Rage floods my soul as she takes out her knife and pricks my finger, allowing a few drops of blood to well to the surface.

She lowers her head and takes the finger into her mouth, wiping the blood away with her tongue before pulling back. As if possessed, her body goes ramrod as her head tips up toward the ceiling. Before her gaze disappears from view, I watch, horrified, as her eyes roll back into her skull.

The knife clatters to the floor, the sound thunderous to my ears in the otherwise silent room. The shadows coil tighter around me, pulling and tugging, threatening to divide my body down the middle. My joints cry out, and though I long to scream right alongside them, I find I cannot.

My voice stays in my throat, never escaping. All I can do is rant and rail in my mind.

Impotence.

It’s a word I’ve heard used regarding my father, but until today, I’ve never truly understood its meaning. A vow churns in my guts as I watch the woman writhing in front of me, her body jerking about in wild abandon.

Maybe not today, but she will die at my hands for making me feel so small, weak, and insignificant. A loud roar swirls in my head, an anger I do not understand. It also doesn’t come from me, but somehow, it feels familiar.

The rage washes over me, soothing me in a way I’ve not felt since I was a small child. It comforts me and shores me up. Let this woman do her worst. I will survive, even if it’s only to make her pay for her sins against me this day.

“Abomination,” she finally cries out, coming back to her senses. “You cannot have her. You shall not have her. The daughter of the king will never be your bride!”

As if her words hold the key to the spell binding me in place, I collapse onto the floor, no longer being held aloft by the shadows. Once more, I am alone, as if she was never here. The sword, too, is gone, disappeared into the ether with its creator. Looking down at my finger, I note the prick. It’s the only proof this ever happened.

Shaken, I make my way out of the room, my body trembling with each step I take. Around me, everyone bustles about, their minds only on the celebration to occur. A baby. A princess. The one who is meant for me.

She’s the one everybody has been trying to get me excited about. But now, after the witch’s proclamation, do I even dare? Rage floods my veins at the thought of giving in to her evil machinations. I will not be ordered about by some malcontent such as she.

Vibrations pour through my body as my heart pounds in my chest. The witch thinks to keep me from what’s mine? Before now, I cared nothing about this new child or the alliance our marriage would bring. After hearing the witch’s shrieked commands, I cannot allow my future bride to slip through my grasp.

If anything, I have to keep her safe. It’s imperative, an unspoken command that threads its way through my body until it fills my mind. There is nothing else. Only my infant bride.

Glancing up, I note a figure darting in and out of the people, making their way to my side. Master Balcom. His hand grasps the hilt of his sword as he hunches down, making his eyes level with mine.

“You are well, my prince?”

Could he know? Could he possibly be the only other person to understand what happened here today? I open my mouth to ask him, but something in his eyes tells me to stay quiet.

“I am well.”

With a familial grasp on my shoulder, he nods before standing. “Today is a good day for the House of Godwin. A covenant between us and the House of Kendrick is a thing to celebrate. Is it not?”

The words I long to say lie scattered on my tongue like thick ash. I don’t want this. I don’t want any of this. It’s my pride and anger propelling me forward, and nothing more. All thoughts of keeping the baby safe flee from my mind as my wits return.

If I were being honest with myself, I would not want to marry a stranger just to align our house with that of another. It should be a union of my choosing and not out of desperation. My father shouldn’t be making alliances with others. He should be a show of strength on his own.

If only Master Balcom was king… But then, it’s not as if my father would make a good captain of the guard. He’s useless. Good for nothing. The only thing he ever did right was marry my mother. It’s for her I go through this charade.

Perhaps she thinks the same thing. I’ve seen the glances she directs his way, especially when she thinks no one else is looking. But I see her. I see the longing there. Even if it’s just for a brief moment in time.

But such wishes do not come true. Just because I want a man like Master Balcom to be my father, such things don’t happen. Shrugging off his hand, I pull away, needing to rid myself of the witch before I stand before the assembly to marry an infant I never wanted. All for the name of safety and peace.

“Many will certainly celebrate today,” I finally manage to croak out as I turn and go back to my room.

The servants will no doubt be in a tizzy over my late arrival, but I cannot find it within me to care. All I can think about is the witch and her words. Abomination. How dare she speak so boldly in front of me?

A shiver wracks down my spine as I stand there, allowing the others to attend to me. I almost do feel them fixing my clothes. I’m far too consumed with my thoughts. There was something in her eyes, something which spoke of coming retribution. But who would dare touch a crown prince?