Page 7 of Reign of Betrayal

Clever.

He hasn’t used that move before, but I knew something was coming—he always draws a sharp breath before striking.

He doesn’t get another chance. Shadows coil around him, squeezing the air from his lungs until he slumps unconscious, joining the others who have fallen to my blade, fists, or shadows for the fourth time today.

The other two guards and I choose swords instead of powers. I like the mixture of magic and weapons. It keeps me strong, cunning, and on my toes, always thinking about what to expect next. I like—no, I love—a challenge, crave it even. I have always had the capacity for violence, a voracious appetite for it.

I knock the sword out of one guard’s hand with the hilt of my sword and spin around, connecting my elbow with his face. The satisfying crunch of bone fragments fills the air as he crumples to the mat, blood streaming down his face.

It’s a beautiful sight.

He attempts to tap out, but that just won’t do. I need my royal guards strong, up until the end.

His blood gushes out all over my elbow, down his face, and on the mat. I pity the servants that have to clean up after our sparring matches. I love the sight of it, the crimson red against the dull gray of the stone floor. The metallic tang of blood and sweat fills my nose in a cleansing way. Each lung full clears away feelings and thoughts that try to plague me.

I look at the last guard as we circle each other. I decide to make it interesting and toss my sword to the side. The guard does the same. I haven’t had a good hand-to-hand combat in a while, and James, the guard opposite of me, is the best. He was my teacher—my mentor, growing up. When my father became distant and cold, James was there to train me, redirect my rage, and take me under his wing.

We go blow for blow, beating the double burning hells out of each other until we are both a bloody mess, and he taps out.

I walk over to James and outstretch my hand to help him up.

“Getting better and better, your Majesty, but if I can make a suggestion…” James says, then grabs my hand and places his foot in my gut, flinging me up and over him until I hit the stone ground behind him.

Brillant.

“Not everyone who fights you is your enemy, and not everyone who has a helpful outstretched hand is your friend.” He stands with the grace of a fighter trained for decades, while smoothing back his brown hair. “And never leave a fight until you are certain it’s over.” He bows, a huge grin plastered across his face. “Your Majesty.”

Chuckling, I get to my feet. “Noted, James.”

I grab my discarded tunic and return it to my body, then inform my men to see a healer and get cleaned up. I will see a healer soon, but I need fresh air first, so I head to the tower.

I reach the top of the tower and open the door.

Sweat kisses every inch of me. My knuckles and mouth are bloody. I am sure I have a nice purple discoloration shining on my cheek thanks to James’ skillful punch. What a perfect look for the Prince of Umbrahdor.

My muscles are now sore, but it feels refreshing. Anytime I need to let loose, release some steam, I like to spar or do some sort of training. The pain my body usually endures is welcomed with open arms.

I prefer to feel pain physically. It distracts the mind. When I spar, I shut my mind down completely and concentrate on the art of fighting. There is an elegance to the dance of it. Pain drowns out all other feelings, emotions. The good thing is I have done this for so long, I don’t even know if I am capable of having feelings.

The night sky is open and dark, blanketing everything it touches as I walk out on the battlement. I drink in the cool breeze and the twinkling stars above that burn like flickering candle flames. The moment of peace is appreciated. I notice two guards on each corner of the battlement while two other guards are at opposite ends doing rotations around the perimeter up here.

I just need a few minutes to myself, to breathe, to just be—alone.

I had to deal with my oldest sister, Vanna’s, meltdown over me threatening one of the many men she was sleeping with. He is a married piece of shit from the Drifts, a Nomatrab—no magical abilities and a true waste of space. I told him to go back to his poor wife and leave my sister alone, or I’d kill him. I would do it too. I almost wish he didn’t heed my advice just so I could gut him. He pissed himself when I pulled my shadows out—many do. I chuckle just thinking of it.

He must have taken my advice because he broke it off, and I had to deal with my sister.

My oldest sister, well stepsister, Vanna, will rule the kingdom someday. My father and stepmother surely have a few decades of ruling left in them—maybe a century—but Vanna really needs to settle down and take a husband, especially at the age of thirty-six. She keeps tarnishing her name—our kingdom’s name—by the many men she sleeps with, and not discretely. I have taken my fair share of women, but no one would ever know that.

She has never been able to control herself—her urges—always taking what she wants, when she wants them. She never could keep her hands off… well… anyone. Regardless of how wrong it is, who it is, or how much damage it causes, and gods and goddesses above, she pitches fits when she doesn’t get her way.

My father has two true heirs: me and my little sister, Lilyana, who looks identical to our late mother. Me on the other hand, I resemble my father. When he looks at me, I know he sees a mistake, a disappointment.

I’ll never understand why my father decided to make Vanna his heir. After my mother died, he changed, changing Umbrahdor with him. He was respected, loved, and even adored once. Now he is a fierce ruler who spikes fear in everyone with his tyranny and greed for conquests and conquers.

Two moons ago, we had taken over one of the cities in the kingdom of Wemdrah—Vanna’s idea. She is following nicely in my father’s footsteps, making him proud, I’m sure—something I can never do.

Infinities hold the strongest, most potent type of power. Yet, despite me being an Infinity with rare shadow magic, my father still doesn’t act proud of me—he never has, not since my mother died, not since he made Vanna his heir. He wants me to be as cruel and dark as she is. Well, now some of my cruelty is worse, yet he still looks at me with the same disappointed eyes. I may no longer be heir to the throne, but I will show him I can be the darkest prince this continent has ever seen. My very name will strike fear.

---