7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Brokil

"I don't need to make adjustments to this. It's good work," Solaro told him, running his fingers over the dark thread. Brokil noticed Silvyr puff up in the corner, his lips twitching with barely contained pride, though he kept quiet. Solaro didn't pay the elf any attention, finishing off his exam with another layer of the stinking salve while poking and prodding the edges of the wound.

Biting down his discomfort, Brokil withstood the rough treatment with no complaints. At least when the boy treated his injury, his hands moved quickly, and with a softness Brokil hadn't experienced before. Their healers were not gentle folks, focusing only on the job at hand. The person beneath them didn't matter so much as fixing the problem. It worked, they healed, and their people recovered. Yet Silvyr's soft, elegant hands had moved on Brokil's injury with gentle grace, as if playing an instrument rather than sewing a wound.

There wasn't even pain after the boy finished his work. Brokil was used to the throbbing ache after receiving stitches or having his wounds treated. Yet when Silvyr finished his work, the ache only returned when Brokil moved in such a way that aggravated it. Each time he so much as grimaced, he would catch the elf staring at him, his mouth open to speak before he shut it again, never saying anything even though his gaze remained steady.

"So, everything is fine?" Salthu asked, crossing her arms over her chest, a scowl etched on her face.

Solaro leaned back on his stool, turning to Salthu with a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. He never liked being questioned, but he swallowed whatever snide remark settled on the tip of his tongue.

"Yes. I'll check on it again tonight, but the stitching is good and I don't need to redo it," he told her.

Brokil pressed his fingers to the taut thread holding his flesh together. Already scabbing over, his wound was well on the way to healing completely, no doubt thanks to the ointment the prince used the night before. Ghizol's healers may not be gentle, but they knew how to make a good salve, and this one was meant specifically to promote quick healing.

"Check it again," Salthu commanded, her eyes falling on the prince for only a moment, a sneer pulling at her lips.

"That won't be necessary," Brokil cut in before Solaro could argue and start a fight that he really didn't want to deal with that morning. "It feels fine, and he'll check again when we make camp tonight."

"I don't trust it. I don't trust him," she shot back immediately.

In the corner of his eye, the elf took a single step back, but he brought no attention to it.

"I don't either. Solaro will check again tonight," he repeated himself.

Salthu didn't look pleased, but she tilted her head to acknowledge his decision. Brokil didn't blame her. She was his second command for a reason, and her distrust in Silvyr was understandable. Salthu was just as stubborn as he was, and he admired the way she advocated for his well-being.

Suspicion still clawed at him. Without a doubt the boy did something that should be corrected. A wrong stitch, or a missed spot with the ointment Brokil had expected Solaro to find something wrong, but with all the poking and prodding, he found nothing. All while the boy stood to the side, watching and listening.

There had to be an underlying reason why the boy would choose to help him. A secret he was hiding that Brokil would find out. It couldn't be out of mere kindness. No child of the Tyrant King could have kindness in their hearts, not when they were made of darkness and brimming with power. One couldn't keep an empire so large if kindness influenced them.

For as long as the Quilen family had been in power, their first-borns had always been trained in combat, committing acts of violence and cruelty before most of them reached adulthood. They were made for drawing blood and taking life. So why, for all the gods sake, did the boy act as though his nature opposed his father's?

It made Silvyr a mystery. A boy full of contradictions to what Brokil believed to be true of the Tyrant King and his heir. Silvyr was much older than most of the Quilens who had proven themselves bloodthirsty warmongers. Brokil was sure this boy had to be the same. Yet the study of medicine, or anything outside of warfare, made no sense to him. That was not for the first-born son, meant to take over the realm when his father passed. Kindness and mercy were traits that were bred out of their family line.

Or so he thought. Silvyr was proving to be a paradox.

An intriguing paradox. What other reason would there be for the noises that woke him in the night? The heavy breaths and wet squelches that weren't hidden in the silent night. Yes, indeed a paradox.

"Solaro. Are we ready to move out?" Brokil asked as he stood up from his cot, turning to fold it together for travel.

Before he knew it, Silvyr was at his side, swatting his hand away as if it were second nature. As if he had any idea what he was doing.

"Let me. You'll rip your stitches." Silvyr looked up at him with those fiery, defiant eyes, as though begging Brokil to argue with him about it.

Before Brokil could snap at him for daring to speak to him like that, Solaro responded. "They wait to take down your tent and move out on your command."

"Good. Let them know we're ready," Brokil spoke slowly, eyes still lingering on Silvyr while Solaro and Salthu left the tent. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like? I'm helping," Silvyr said, shrugging his shoulders and setting the blanket he finished folding in the trunk. "If you rip your stitches, you'll have to get it redone and that's going to make you really cranky." There was a hint of teasing in Silvyr's voice, and Brokil ground his teeth.

The boy moved around the tent like he was the one in charge. Brokil knew he couldn't let him continue that way. If he thought that stitching him up once would give him free reign to mouth off and boss him around, the prince was sorely mistaken. Silvyr wouldn't get away with the spoiled prince act while he was with Brokil.

"I'm watching you," Brokil warned, keeping his eye firmly on the boy. Whatever he was planning, Silvyr wouldn't get away with tricking Brokil.

Silvyr looked back at Brokil through a curtain of golden hair, his lips twitching.

"I know you are," he said, the whispers of enticement and teasing in his eyes.

Just like the night before, the prince was toying with him. Was he trying to get under Brokil's skin? Were the sounds the night before part of that same ploy? Why the hell did the look in Silvyr's eyes twist his stomach?

What the fuck is this?

Brokil huffed and stomped over to Silvyr, grabbing him by the arm and making the boy release a soft yelp. He ignored it. "To the horses. The men will finish here," he commanded.

Silvyr didn't complain for once and followed obediently. Thank the gods. If the boy chose to start another argument, Brokil didn't know how he would handle it. He may have throttled the boy right there.

As soon as they left the tent, his troop set to work packing it away. Everything else had been dismantled and packed in their carts with the horses saddled up for the day's travels.

"Chief," Murzush's voice called when they stepped out of the tent. Her harsh gaze settled on the elf as they moved to meet her halfway, and to the boy's credit, he didn't waver or wilt. Only broke eye contact to look at the tree line. Brokil tightened his grip to keep him from bolting.

"Murzush. Are your injuries well?" he asked, eyeing the bandages wrapped around her upper arm.

"Well and healing. Nothing more than a flesh wound," she answered. "And yours? I didn't see you with the others last night."

"I'm healing well, no need to worry about me," he told her, raising his free hand to touch his bare chest. No point in wearing a shirt when the act of putting one on so soon would irritate the stitching.

Murzush finally pulled her deadly glare away from the prince and met Brokil's eyes. "Good. I'm surprised it took them this long to attack," Murzush said and Brokil had to agree.

At his side, the elf turned back to them with renewed interest. The little prince must have assumed that his elves came for him. He wasn't so lucky. Or rather, he was. Because if the slave traders that attacked the camp the night before had been successful, he would be in their grasp once again.

"Yes, and now they know they shouldn't have bothered. I will be increasing the watches until we reach the Amesisle," Brokil told her and she nodded. "I doubt they'll attack again with so few of their own surviving, but I will not risk it."

"I stand by your decision, chief." Murzush took a step back. "We're ready to move out."

"Then we move," Brokil agreed.

Walking to his horse, Brokil took a breath knowing he couldn't lift Silvyr on the horse like he had before. Solaro would ream him for aggravating his stitches, and if they ripped, both Solaro and that annoying fuck of a prince would scold him with no reprieve.

While he considered the options, Silvyr stepped out of his grasp and up to the horse while tying up his hair with green ribbon. Brokil felt no need to stop him. Just like every morning, Silvyr ran his fingers along her coat, whispering to her in a language Brokil didn't understand—Elvish most likely. The mare whinnied with soft delight under the softer touch. Brokil didn't question him about it. It was harmless enough, and one of the few things Silvyr did that didn't make his blood boil.

"I'll get Salthu to lift you into the saddle," Brokil said, turning to find her, but paused when the boy's soft hand grabbed his arm.

"No need," Silvyr said, giving Brokil another one of his devious smiles. "Get up. I'll follow."

"Really? You barely reach her shoulders, how do you plan to get up?" he asked, moving to cross his arms only to drop them again when his stitches pulled.

"Do you want to waste time, or do you want me to show you?" Silvyr asked.

Brokil should smack his mouth for speaking to him that way. Yet, no one around them seemed to hear him, and Silvyr spoke so softly that only Brokil heard him anyways. For now, he would watch to see what the boy did. When they retired for the night, he was sure he could punish the boy if he continued this obnoxious behavior.

With a scoff, Brokil pulled himself onto the horse, his shoulder protesting even that movement. He looked down, checking his stitches before turning to the elf.

Silvyr reached up, grabbed a fistful of fabric in Brokil's trousers, and then set a foot on the top of Brokil's. Tensing, Brokil steadied himself as Silvyr used his free hand to grab the horn and lift himself up, using Brokil as his makeshift stirrup.

"See? Easy," Silvyr said, plopping into the saddle and taking care not to press his back against Brokil. He looked at him over his shoulder, a victorious grin on his lips that had Brokil rolling his eyes and containing a smile.

Admittedly, he was impressed.

"You enjoy surprising people, don't you?" Brokil asked, tilting his head to the side.

"Is it that easy to surprise you?" Silvyr asked in return, facing forward and tilting his chin up with smug satisfaction.

Apparently when it came to this prince, it very much was easy to impress him. It shouldn't be. This spoiled shit shouldn't be impressing anyone. But then again, a spoiled shit being able to do anything beyond making demands was impressive in itself. Not that Brokil would admit that to him.

He chose not to answer, instead reaching into his side pouch to pull out his rope. Even if the boy was behaving, Brokil wouldn't let him think that his guard would drop.

"Really?" the prince groaned, shoulders slumping as Brokil tied it around his waist and brows pinched together when he shot a look over his shoulder.

"What? You think you're not a flight risk anymore?" Brokil asked, tightening the knot before tying the other end around himself. Silvyr continued to glare, and Brokil jumped at the opportunity. "Perhaps you enjoy ropes for other activities?"

"Gods, you are so lewd," Silvyr huffed, unable to hide the immediate flush on his cheeks before facing the road ahead of them.

Oh, so bold coming from the elven prince that decided that touching himself in Brokil's tent was a wise decision.

Leaning forward, Brokil let himself nearly touch the elf's ear tips. "I never mentioned anything lewd, Little Flower. That was you."

Bristling in the saddle, Silvyr said nothing but Brokil could imagine the look on his face and that was enough to satisfy him. He imagined it was similar to the look the night before when he thought Brokil wouldn't notice his staring. Perhaps it was the same look on his face when his hand slipped between his legs. Now Silvyr was reminded of who exactly was in charge. Brokil wouldn't let him talk back anymore, nor act like he was one of the prince's subjects.

Grabbing the reins, Brokil kicked his horse into a steady trot and let them fall into silence.

It didn't take long for the boy to begin reaching for leaves and flowers that they passed, pulling them apart and dropping their remains on the forest floor. Brokil tried not to pay attention, but the way Silvyr moved his delicate fingers enticed him. Even more so after last night when he had watched Silvyr's expert hands assess and suture him.

It was baffling. They way he peeled apart each layer of the plant with precision and care. Even as he mutilated it, it remained uniform. Even as sap seeped over his fingers, the boy bringing it to his nose to smell it, Brokil found it easy to get lost in the simple movements of those deft fingers.

Simple, but enticing. Exquisite.

He couldn't help but imagine those fingers elsewhere the night before. Was he as focused on his own pleasure as he was on Brokil's wound? Were his brows pinched together when his body tightened and clenched, thinking he was unseen in the darkness while Brokil watched him? What sort of foolish fantasy ran through his head when he pushed his fingers inside himself?

"Brokil?" Silvyr asked suddenly, his voice smooth and sweet.

Brokil broke himself out of the trance he was in watching Silvyr's hands. "What?"

"Who attacked the camp last night?"

Brokil considered the elf for a moment, watching him continue to peel apart the membrane of the leaf in his hand. "Are you hoping it was the Tyrant King's troops?" He asked, nudging his horse to move faster.

"I would be a fool not to hope they had come for me," Silvyr replied immediately, as though he had been practicing the words in his head long before asking Brokil. "You would also be a fool to assume they wouldn't."

"Well, it wasn't them. As it turns out, when you remove a slave trader's ability to make money, they get pretty upset," Brokil said with a low chuckle. "But they were dealt with."

Slave traders were a lot of things. Vile. Reprehensible. Evil. But they weren't fighters. If he had been wearing his leathers, he never would have been injured, and the fact that they didn't lose any of their own was a better indicator of how poor the traders read their situation. Had it been another group of orcs, or the elves, or some other group of raiders, his troop may not have fared so well.

Silvyr stared at the leaf, and Brokil imagined him chewing his lip, rolling over words as he decided what to say. After a moment, his head drooped forward and he let out a long sigh. "They're meant to be illegal."

"They're more common than you think. They stay out of the Tyrant King's way, so he does little to prevent them," Brokil said, watching Silvyr's shoulders slump. "We've been dealing with them for many years. Chief Thrakil before me started the campaign against them, with no support from your father."

Dropping the leaf to the forest floor, Silvyr set his hands on the horn of the saddle. "I didn't know."

Brokil scoffed. There was no reason to believe him. The boy had to know that no matter what the laws stated, the true hammer of the empire was the Tyrant King himself, and if he hadn't done anything other than sign a silly piece of paper, then of course the activity would continue.

Why would the Tyrant King care if his subjects were in danger? All he cared about, all his family cared about, was maintaining their power. And whether they wanted to admit it or not, the presence of slave traders kept their subjects powerless under their thumbs.

"You're a fool then," Brokil said, "and I'm not surprised you wouldn't care until they personally fucked with you."

At that, Silvyr's body went taut like a bowstring and his fingers dug into the leather of the saddle horn. "That's not true."

"Is it not?" Brokil pushed. "Tell me then, princeling. What have you done to stop the trade?"

"I told you, I didn't know. I thought—" The prince took in a breath. "I thought that they weren't active. It's been illegal for years."

Of course. Locked up in his castle, there was no need for Silvyr to go out and see the plight of the people he was meant to lead one day. Why would he? The Tyrant King didn't, so neither would his little protégé.

"You thought wrong then."

"Clearly," Silvyr mumbled. He plucked some flowers off a passing tree, keeping his head down as he began picking them apart again. "Where did you send Mallory and Caden?"

Brokil blinked. "Who?"

"The woman and child," he replied, as though it should have been obvious. "You sent them off with Salthu and Murzush."

"They were sent to a neighboring village. You probably passed through it the day before we took you from your carriage," Brokil explained, leaning back in the saddle to avoid a rather low hanging branch. "They would have been handed off to someone who could help them get settled."

"Will they be okay?"

"Yes. That's not the first time we've freed people from cages," Brokil told him. "Salthu would have provided them with enough coin to get on their feet and either start a life in that village, or return to wherever they came from."

Silvyr didn't respond, just continued to stare ahead, and Brokil couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking. He shouldn't care. The thoughts of a spoiled brat shouldn't matter to him, and nothing the boy thought would change the facts. But the way he spoke, the way his voice quaked, suggested the boy truly was caught unaware by the existence of those slavers. Or maybe it was that he only cared now because he had been caught himself. If Silvyr had never interacted with them, Brokil doubted the boy would give a single shit about something that didn't affect him.

As they continued, Silvyr reached out, plucking another low hanging flower from one of the trees they passed by, setting it in his lap. Petal by petal, he pulled each piece, returning to his examinations, though his movements had slowed and he seemed much less enthusiastic.

It shouldn't matter. Brokil didn't care about the feelings of a spoiled princeling.

"What brought you to study medicine?" Brokil asked against his better judgment, wanting only to keep himself entertained, as Silvyr pinched off the tip of the flower bud, staring intently at the seeds within.

"I excelled, so I kept my focus there," Silvyr said, his voice stiff. Though the more he spoke, the more the tension eased, as if he were coming up for air. "The more I learned, the more I enjoyed it. Just knowing I can take seeds, or leaves, or sap, and create something that can heal, or something that can hurt, is what I imagine a smithy feels when they create a new weapon out of metal and wood." The boy upturned the bud, pouring the seeds into his palm before dropping the empty bud to the ground.

"You learned for fun then?" Brokil barely believed it, but how else could he explain how the boy seemed entertained by pressing his fingertip on the seeds and rolling them around his palm?

Silvyr tossed away the rest of his flower, focusing on breaking the seeds open beneath his nail. "You could call it fun. I never did well in the physical arts, but with medicine I could still be useful."

Impossible. The boy had to be lying to him. No son of the Tyrant King would be able to avoid taking up the sword. Sure, Silvyr had his ass kicked by those traders, but he was outnumbered and weaponless. Brokil was confident that if he did have a weapon in hand, he would have been successful in defending himself. He was trying to get Brokil to relax, lower his guard, so that, like a snake, he could strike. He wouldn't give the prince the satisfaction of tricking him.

But then the elf continued.

"Father never liked it. He felt the study of medicine was beneath us, and assigned me an instructor in the art of war. She helped, but she could see that it was not meant for me," Silvyr said. "To her credit, she taught me how to use a blade, and I am decent with a bow, but nowhere near where Father wished I would be. I'm sure you know this, but that's not enough for Father."

Failure. Perhaps there was some truth in the elf's words. There was no love in Silvyr's eyes when he spoke of his father. The boy did not admire him the way Brokil would have expected. Feared him, yes, nearly everyone feared the Tyrant King and his ruling. Certainly, there was irritation, and sometimes Brokil caught the look of shame in the boy's eyes. But the admiration that Brokil held for his own father was nowhere to be seen in Silvyr.

A pity to be sure, and yet, Brokil couldn't help but prod. "What would he say if he knew his heir had a fondness for watching men undress?"

If Silvyr snapped his head back any faster, it might have flown off his shoulders. Rosy cheeks betrayed him and Brokil knew immediately that he struck a chord of truth.

"What are you talking about?" the prince asked indignantly.

"I think you know. You're not exactly subtle when you watch me undress every night." Brokil leered at him, letting his grin spread wide. He leaned in, letting his lips brush along the length of his ear. "Or when you think I'm sleeping."

"I do not!" Silvyr sputtered, spinning back around to face ahead of them.

It was almost too easy. The boy wore every emotion like a badge, and Brokil rarely doubted what he saw. If it was an act, it was a damn good one. But the way the boy flushed and fought to push out his words, he knew it wasn't fake.

Leaning in, Brokil teased his breath over Silvyr's elongated ear. "Do you like what you see, boy?" he whispered, savoring the soft gasp that escaped the prince. "I think you do."

"N—no! I mean, you're—You just—Stop it!" He stumbled over every word, pushing forward and away from Brokil as he crossed his arms over his chest.

Letting himself pull back, Brokil chuckled low in his throat. He had found the right button to push, and he wasn't going to stop now.