Sara Larson - Defy

“Nolen.” Prince Damian suddenly raised his voice.

“You called, Your Highness?” Nolen appeared at the door within moments, holding a parchment in his right hand.

“I am afraid these attackers’ failed efforts won’t be the last attempt to break in to the palace. We must be more vigilant than ever. The next few weeks are crucial to the war on King Osgand’s kingdom. Apparently , there have been some recent victories I was unaware of, turning the tide of the war in our favor.” His lip curled in irritation. I wondered who had finally delivered the news to him. It hadn’t been me. “Blevonese assassins will most likely be trying harder than ever to breach the palace. If people must work double shifts, so be it. Alex, let the captain know I expect at least half of my personal guard to be alert at all times, even at night. Is that understood?”

“As you wish, Your Highness.” I bowed again.

“That is all. You may go.” He turned to the window, dismissing us both.

I stalked out of the room, seething at his insinuation that we weren’t doing enough. That he was in some sort of danger. Mad at myself for thinking that maybe there was more to him than an arrogant, spoiled prince seeking attention, digging for reactions. I hoped Rylan had our sparring equipment set to go, because I was ready to fight.

SWEAT DRIPPED BETWEEN my shoulder blades and ran beneath the binding on my chest. The air was heavy, sticky with humidity; the sun’s glare was nearly unbearable. My lungs ached, but I ignored the pain, the heat, the burn of calluses on my hands as I swung my sword to parry Rylan’s attempts to strike me. It was too easy to let myself remember that I’d been sparring with Marcel two days ago, in this same ring.

Rylan had left himself unprotected on the right side. I struck out hard and fast. My wooden blade hit him in the ribs with a dull thud, knocking him to the ground. If it had been a real sword, he would have been dead.

A light round of applause greeted my victory.

“Remind me never to spar with Alex when he’s upset,” I heard Asher say.

“No kidding. I try to avoid sparring with him when he’s happy ,” Jude commented back.

I stood over Rylan, my chest heaving, loosely holding the sword. Extending my free hand, I helped him back up. “Good fight.”

“Not from my end,” he grumbled, rubbing his chest.

Swiping at the sweat on my brow, I whirled to face the others, who stood outside the ring, watching. “Anyone else?”

Jerrod, Kai, and Antonio were on duty, guarding the prince. That left Deron, Jude, and Asher. They all shook their heads.

“You need to take a break, Alex. And we all need lunch,” Deron said.

“I’m not that hungry, but you go ahead. I’ll catch up.” I gestured for them to go.

Jude, Asher, and Rylan left, but Deron hung back.

“What is it?” I recognized the pensive look on his face.

“You know how upset we all are about losing Marcel.”

I remained silent, my jaw clenched. I didn’t want to talk about it, but he was my captain.

He shifted his weight and looked down at me. “It’s just that we have to fill his position soon. We can’t afford to be down one man.”

“You think I’m not aware of that? Can’t I have at least one day to grieve the loss of my brother before we pretend like he never existed?”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” Deron’s voice held a note of warning.

I lifted my practice sword back up and slashed it through the air. “Either stay to spar or go away.”

Deron’s dark eyes narrowed at me. “Losing your brother was a horrible blow, but that doesn’t give you an excuse to take it out on the other members of the guard. Watch your tone with me and try not to hit your sparring partners so hard.”

I clamped my teeth together, ignoring the uncomfortable squirm of guilt in my stomach.

“I will give you the day to grieve Marcel. But I must post notices that the competition to fill his position will take place tomorrow afternoon.” Deron paused, and his expression softened. “You know how sorry we all are.”

Deron turned without another word and walked away.

Even though my muscles burned with exhaustion, I forced myself to lift the sword and work through my forms one more time. Thrust, jab, parry, spin, and attack. The reason I was the best was because I was relentless with my training. That, and if Marcel was to be believed, I had been blessed with a gift. I’d always teased him, saying that was just his excuse for why I always beat him.

But the villagers had believed him. The fact that we were half Blevonese didn’t make us many friends once the war started. I’d heard whispers that we were enemy-lovers. But I didn’t love Blevon — I just loved my family. It didn’t matter to me where my parents were born. After a Blevonese sorcerer took them away from me, though, any love I had for my heritage had turned to hatred as strong as anyone else’s.

The memories flooded up as I spun through the ring, lunging, crouching, fighting a whole horde of imaginary foes and ghosts of my past. I thought of the night when I was five and overheard my parents talking about the king and his war. We lived close to the border between Antion, King Hector’s kingdom, and Blevon, King Osgand’s, and the threat of attack was always likely. Papa began teaching Marcel how to fight, and I asked if I could watch. I studied them, memorized the moves. Watching Papa spar thrilled me in a way I couldn’t understand at that age. I only knew I had to do it, too — I had to learn to move like that, to spin and twist and lunge, to make my sword become an extension of my body. Beautiful and deadly, the most intoxicating dance I’d ever seen.

When I turned six, I asked if I could join them. Mama protested, but Papa thought it was just for fun. He was amused by my interest — at first. I held back for the first few months, nervous that they would be mad if I was any good.

Now, as I continued through my practice, the ghosts of my family seemed to surround me. I imagined sparring with Papa while Mama watched us, her expression hooded. I never knew if she was proud of how good I became or ashamed.

Papa had called me his zhànshì nánwū . Though I’d begged him to tell me what it meant, he never did. It was the language of Blevon, not Antion. His parents had been from Blevon; they’d moved to Antion when there was still peace between our nations. Before Hector came with his Dansiian army and won control of Antion, making himself king. Before he tore apart the alliance that had once existed between the two nations by declaring war after the queen’s death. I didn’t dare ask anyone else what zhànshì nánwū meant. Having ties to Blevon wasn’t a good thing in Antion — especially not inside King Hector’s palace.

I licked my lips and tasted the salt of my own sweat and tears. I hoped that if anyone still watched me, the extra moisture on my face would be indistinguishable from the perspiration dripping down my neck. My muscles were on fire, my whole body cried out from the exertion, but it wasn’t enough to drive the pain from my heart.

I’d just grabbed a towel and wiped down my face when there was a shout from across the courtyard.

“Alex! Come, quick!”

I turned to see Asher running toward me. The sunlight shining on his red hair gave the illusion of his head being on fire. I picked up my real sword, shoving it into the scabbard hooked around my waist.

“What is it?”

He stopped halfway to where I stood, my hand instinctively going to the hilt of my sword again. “The guard has been summoned immediately. There’s been an attempt on the prince’s life.”