Chapter 5
The Odds in Good Favor
The palace of Vorovesti stood at the heart of Mordelic. Lord Aethan Starkling loved everything about the palace. The imposing onyx walls, veined in silver and gold, were only breached once in thousands of years, during the War of Two Crowns. Legend claimed the breath of a great dragon forged the walls. The sloping rooflines and jutting spires added an air of grace to the onyx walls.
Silverbark trees adorned the palace grounds. The trees grew only on the palace grounds, and master smiths, jewelers, and carpenters all vied for wood from the trees. Aethan coveted a rare silverbark handle sword, just like everyone else, but they were so rare he was certain he would never get one. When a cool spring breeze made the budding leaves dance, the silver veins of the young leaves caught in the light, creating a kaleidoscope of bewitching light on the path in front of his horse.
Aethan breathed deeply, reveling in the sweet yet earthy scent of the trees. No small amount of his Vorovesti pride had to do with the grandeur and awe of this place. The palace was a testament to the power, majesty, and history of Vorovesti, its beauty rivaled only by the grand noble houses that surrounded it. He would gladly pledge his life to the defense of Mordelic and this historic palace.
His horse plodded along the path leading from the guard gate to the stables, hardly needing direction any longer. Aethan had ridden this path more times than he could count. Every day for the past twelve years—since his tenth birthday—he reported to the royal Master-at-Arms for weapons training just like any other young Vorovesti lord.
A few of the ladies trained as well, but only if their parents permitted. Where a son was prized for his continuation of a family line, a daughter was prized because of the alliances she could bring to the family. A few families saw merit in their daughters learning to fight, but far more believed their daughters should be raised to keep the home running and raise strong children.
Lady Iskra Pridell was one of the latter. Aethan winced when he reached the stable by the training grounds, remembering the fight he had with Iskra as he prepared to leave this morning. What a fool he had been.
A host of young ladies had already gathered near the training ground. Aethan eyed them as he dismounted and handed over the reins. He didn’t need to see his cousin to know what had all the girls whispering and giggling and staring with those dreamy doe eyes.
Gannon, Crown Prince of Vorovesti and Aethan’s cousin, stretched his muscled limbs to prepare for the practice to come. A sheen of sweat already made Gannon’s shirt cling to his skin. Aethan shook his head as he pulled off his riding gloves and shrugged out of his fine sapphire jacket.
He strode toward his cousin.
“You look like you want to skewer something, Aethan,” Gannon remarked as he noticed his cousin’s approach.
“How far did you run today?” Aethan asked, not eager to rehash the argument with Iskra. Especially knowing how poorly he handled himself.
“Only eight kilometers.” Gannon rolled his neck. “I assume your absence for the run means you were otherwise occupied?” The smirk on Gannon’s face made Aethan’s face heat.
“I was, but I have a feeling I won’t have that problem in the future.” Aethan tossed his jacket over a bench, hoping his cousin couldn’t read his irritation too clearly.
Gannon scrunched his nose. “It couldn’t be that bad. Iskra adores you.”
Aethan snorted. He highly doubted she thought so much of him anymore. “She wanted me to withdraw my name from the Stormvalor Tournament,” he said a touch more sharply than he should have.
“Why would…?” And judging by the way Gannon’s sea-green eyes shifted, it dawned on him. “Ah. So she heard the rumors then.”
“It would seem so.” Aethan threw his gloves on the bench hard enough that the leather smacked against the stone. “The very notion is ridiculous. She should know better. And she should know me better! I’ve been waiting for the year I could enter the tournament. I won’t give that up.”
Iskra knew how important this tournament was to him. Since he was a little boy, he had trained for it, dreamed of competing, of winning.
His father’s advisors watched the competitors closely—usually because fortunes could be won betting on the right person—and this time, all signs pointed to Aethan as the victor. There were a few other potentials, but Aethan grew more confident with every passing day that he could beat them. He could win. He would win. Iskra couldn’t ask him not to. She couldn’t stand in his way, ask him to give up on a lifelong dream, and expect him not to be angry.
Iskra had insisted Aethan withdraw and wait for the next tournament. But in ten years, he would be too old to compete, and she knew it.
At first, she had made excuses. He wasn’t ready to compete—a lie if he ever heard one. She wanted to marry before he competed. That, he was sure she meant, but only because Stormvalor competitors were often sought for marriage by anyone able to make a good offer. It was a badge of honor to marry a competitor. Especially one who finished high in the tournament. It was no wonder Iskra wanted to marry him first, so no other woman could come along to steal his interest. As if any could.
The list of Iskra’s protests had seemed endless… And then the truth of her worry came to light.
“I’m competing.” Aethan produced his practice sword hard enough to make the entire rack rattle.
“And losing,” a familiar male voice called.
Aethan turned toward the sound of boots crunching gravel as his best friend, Trystain, joined the two of them, sandy hair tied back and ready to begin.
A broad grin split Trystain’s face. “My father told me about the rumor as well. Seems word is getting out that Queen Giata is looking to select a competitor for her daughter, the crown princess. And I’ve heard she’s a beauty.”
“You forget my sister so easily?” Aethan snapped, in no mood to listen to Trystain talk about another woman.
“I adore Sybil, but a future queen…” Trystain shook his head. “You know my father won’t let that chance pass. No matter what I say.”
As if sensing the tension building in Aethan, Gannon cleared his throat. “Maybe we should start training.”
“Yes, let’s.” Aethan gladly stomped toward the practice ring. The tone of his agreement had Trystain hesitating. That momentary worry on his face made it clear he knew he couldn’t beat Aethan in a fair fight.
If Trystain truly considered ditching his sister for a princess, Aethan would make him pay for it. Today would be a taste of what Aethan had in store for Trystain.
The trio fell into an easy rhythm of combat, a dance they had executed for years.
Aethan poured his frustration into each strike, not bothering to pull any of his blows to Trystain as punishment for even hinting that he might break his word to Sybil in favor of a crown. Prick.
But Trystain was not the only one worried about that crown.
When the truth came out, Aethan had grown more furious with Iskra. She didn’t worry that Aethan wasn’t ready for the tournament. She worried that he was too ready and didn’t want him to know that she wanted him to withdraw from the tournament because she thought he would turn his attention away from her in favor of a princess, a crown, an alliance through marriage between Vorovesti and Novavito.
Certainly, his own father would suggest it. His uncle, King Orrin, likely would as well. But neither of them would force him. Apply pressure, yes. Force, no. Iskra must know he loved her. He wouldn’t leave her for some mysterious foreign princess he’d only met twice in his youth, on the heels of his cousin.
This was his year. The odds were in good favor of his victory.
Aethan had said all the wrong things and none of the right ones in the argument. Instead of reassuring Iskra that he loved her, that he could never imagine being with another woman, no matter the crown on her head, he had told Iskra that he had no intention of pulling out of the contest. Not for her.
That didn’t mean Aethan didn’t love Iskra. But it didn’t mean some princess destined to become queen would sway him. He had no interest in the princess.
Which, in hindsight, is probably what he should have told her instead of calling her selfish.
Aethan Starkling thrived in combat, like a part of his soul came alive anytime he had a weapon in his hand and an opponent in front of him. He raised his shield to block one blow and deftly dipped his sword around on his other side to block an attack from behind. The attack forced him to push his body forward with the shield to avoid a follow-up strike against his spine.
Aethan’s muscles protested, exhausted from the extensive training, but they didn’t fail as he pushed hard against Trystain’s entire body. His friend stumbled back with a grunt, his footing slipping on the gravel beneath their feet. Aethan didn’t have time to see how well Trystain would recover as he heard the boots rush toward him from behind. He twisted his body as he clipped the shield to his back, then raised his practice sword as Gannon’s sword came within a breath of his practice leathers.
Trystain grumbled under his breath as he climbed to his feet again, now at Aethan’s back. A shadow of Trystain’s blade fell over the ground as Aethan pushed Gannon back to open more space to maneuver.
In a smooth, practiced motion, Aethan crouched low as he spun around, swinging one leg out against the gravel to kick dirt in the air and keep Gannon out of range. At the same moment, Aethan thrust his practice sword up into Trystain’s exposed side beneath the arm—much harder than necessary. Trystain cursed as he stumbled back, knowing he was eliminated from the match with that death blow.
Aethan didn’t have time to gloat. Gannon’s sword came down toward his neck. Aethan merely winked at Trystain before rolling over the shield on his back to avoid the death blow.
Gannon was quick on his feet, pulling his swing the moment he knew he would miss and turning with as much grace as Aethan would expect from the Crown Prince of Vorovesti.
In a heartbeat, the two were locked in a sword fight that made Aethan’s aching muscles protest every blocked blow and smooth strike. It transformed into a dance between two matched foes. Step left, twist right. Strike, block, armguard. Their practice swords sang through the air, and Aethan was well aware that they had an audience.
Not just other men training. Courtly girls whispered, giggled, and fanned themselves as they watched their Crown Prince and his cousin spar.
“You’re making me look bad,” Gannon teased, then grit his teeth as Aethan’s strike made his muscles tremble as he blocked.
“I think nothing would make you look bad in their eyes,” Aethan remarked, grinning as an idea struck him. “One girl looks ready to devour you whole. No doubt you could win her into your bed with your princely charms.”
Gannon stepped back as their feet shifted in the continued dance of swords. “Who?” He glanced toward the gathered ladies.
Aethan waited for the moment Gannon’s gaze shifted to the girls lining the courtyard. The practice sword shifted from one hand to the other, where he plunged the tip into the leathers at Gannon’s back.
Gannon grunted against the blow, then turned to Aethan, lowering his weapon. “That was low.”
Aethan chuckled as he straightened. “I know the Master-at-Arms taught you that any distraction is deadly. Maybe you should have listened a little more closely.”
Gannon threw a very unprincely vulgar gesture at Aethan with a tight laugh. Even that had some girls sighing.
The three men strolled toward a servant holding a tray of ice cold water for the prince and his companions. The eyes of all the ladies followed them.
“If your father saw that he would have a heart attack,” Aethan laughed. The exercise had done his foul mood some good. His head cleared and his anger abated. He would apologize to Iskra, crawl to her and beg forgiveness for calling her selfish… as long as she could understand he competed for himself and her and nothing more.
To his credit, Gannon had the good sense to scan the courtyard for signs of King Orrin’s presence.
Aethan waited for Gannon to take his water before accepting one for himself—as was proper. Each of the three of them grabbed a towel to mop the sweat off their faces and necks.
From the corner of his eye, Aethan caught Emperor Oxon’s ambassador lingering near a pillar, hidden beneath a palace walkway. His gaze fixed on the three of them, and something about that calculation in those black eyes gave Aethan chills. Aethan was loyal to the Divican Empire as much as the kingdom of Vorovesti, but that ambassador always gave Aethan a sense of dread. Like something lurked just around the corner.
Aethan pulled his gaze away, trying to ignore the ambassador, and he ran a hand through his pale blond hair. No one in any of the kingdoms had hair like the Starklings except Emperor Oxon, and, according to rumor, his heir Prince Valen—who both had hair as white as snow. Others had varying shades of blond, sure, but none as pale as theirs. Not his mother, Olivya—King Orrin’s younger sister. Not even his father, Lord Lux Starkling. Though his father’s hair darkened only a few shades from his children, it still held some hallmarks of the pale color. Aethan and Sybil shared their father’s sky-blue eyes and long face. Aethan had the same sharp jawline as his father, too.
A few of the ladies eyed him as he ran the cloth along his sweaty neck. If the Crown Prince wasn’t a prize for these ladies, Aethan knew he was. But these ladies also knew he gave his heart to Iskra years ago. They weren’t married yet, but that was just a matter of time.
Lord Starkling had been in negotiations with Lord Pridell for months, haggling over petty crap that kept Aethan’s engagement from being official. But it hadn’t been enough to keep Iskra from sharing his bed.
Though Aethan was fairly certain their fight this morning would fix that problem.
“I don’t think any Stormvalor competitors stand a chance against Lord Aethan Starkling,” one of the ladies crooned.
“Do you so easily ignore my skills with a sword?” Trystain asked, and the way he met her gaze hinted at something more.
Aethan’s jaw tensed slightly.
“I think you might overestimate your skills a touch, Trystain,” Gannon teased.
Trystain raised an innocent hand in defense. “I did bring the distinguished Starkling heir to his knees just last week. Have you forgotten already?”
Aethan’s lips thinned in a cross between amusement and suspicion.
But it was hard to stay mad at either of these two for long. They weren’t just his cousin and best friend. They were his brothers. The closest he could have hoped for.
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