(Scene 1)

With the stroke of a paintbrush, she appeared as clearly as he remembered her. Each dash of colour brought her back to him, her golden hair rippling down one shoulder like honey. Perfectly smooth skin glowed softly with radiance as ocean-blue eyes sparkled with laughter, captivating him all over again. After fifteen years, Aubery was still the most beautiful person Jacques Rue had ever seen.

The cool, empty breeze of midday floated across his bedroom, stinging Jacques’ thin arms. He shivered slightly, drawing his black robe tighter around himself, wishing it could shield him from more than just the cold. The breeze would soon travel towards the bottom of the tower and beyond, where the rest of society would be—where his twin brother Rick would bring glory to House Rue and live the life Jacques could never bring himself to embrace. Up here in Jacques’ bedroom, high above the bustling world, there was nothing to disturb him; only the odd caw of a raven flying by his window.

Jacques blinked as the faint rustling of someone climbing his tower in heavy armour disturbed him. The door opened, and the air fled towards the windows, making the curtains billow out like ghostly hands. A shadow cast over Jacques’ painting, and for a brief moment, he felt a pang of anger over the interruption.

Jacques sighed. He already knew who it was. He turned to see his brother Rick standing before him wearing black armour with a cloak draping over his back, coloured white on the inside and black on the outside—the colours of the sheepdog of House Rue. Shiny blonde hair rippled down to his shoulders, his sharp cheekbones poking through glossy skin that made him look quite dashing today, as he did every day. But Rick wasn’t looking at Jacques. His eyes were fixed on Aubery, eyes full of guilt and dread.

He hasn’t forgotten her, Jacques thought, and neither will I.

'Need I remind you of the meaning of a closed door, brother?' Jacques asked, trying to break the silence.

Rick didn’t say anything for a while, and hardly blinked. He was speechless, the sight of Aubery completely disarming him.

An imposing shadow appeared behind Rick’s back, wearing the black armour and crimson cloak of the royal guard. Sir Owen Flagg, The Northern Knight, stood a good head above any other knight, with shoulder-length auburn hair, fiery maple-coloured eyes, and ugly scars stretching across a rugged face. Jacques almost envied the simplicity of the life of a knight like Sir Owen Flagg—fighting battles, protecting his king. How easy it must have been to have such a clear purpose, to be free from the torment of unresolved emotions.

Sir Owen gave Aubery’s painting a concerned look before turning to Rick. 'Your Grace,' he whispered.

Rick blinked, and his eyes floated about the room as if he’d completely forgotten why he was there. Swallowing hard, Rick looked Jacques in the eye, clawing back his soldier-like composure.

'Our peace tournament for the Palomas is about to start,' he said, 'and Father expects both of us to be there. Your absence has already been noted.'

Jacques nonchalantly shrugged his shoulders, his attention shifting towards the captivating colours of his canvas. He didn’t want to go, didn’t want to stand amidst his father’s oppressive shadow in front of all those people, pretending everything was fine. 'I’m perfectly content staying here on my own and painting, thank you.'

Rick latched onto his shoulders and spun him back around, the sudden movement causing Jacques to stagger and nearly drop his brush. 'Do not spend today locked up in here like some sort of damsel in distress. I know you and Father have had your differences-'

'You can say that again,' Jacques muttered, rubbing his shoulder where Rick’s grip had tightened, a dull ache spreading beneath his fingers.

'I’m asking you as your brother,' Rick said, his eyes wide and pleading, 'Please, swallow your pride and come to the tournament.'

Jacques’ gaze drifted to Aubery. He would always cherish her laugh, her smile, the books she liked to read, but he hadn’t come into this world with her like Rick had. They’d shared tears over their mother, endured their father, and picked each other up when no one else would. They’d fought, like families tend to do, but they were brothers first. And they always would be.

Even as Jacques considered it, a bitter voice inside him whispered the truth he’d tried to ignore for years. He’s always been better than you, and he’s ashamed of it. He couldn’t say no, not really. Not without betraying the bond that had kept he and his brother together all these years. 'Very well, I’ll attend,' he said, 'But don’t expect me to be happy about it.'

Rick’s face lit up with a smile. 'Thank you. I’ll be getting ready by the time you get there, so I’ll see you once my first fight is done.'

Rick’s armour clinked and clattered as he turned towards the door, creating a metallic symphony that echoed long after Rick disappeared from sight. The sound gnawed at Jacques, a reminder of the path Rick had chosen—one of glory and honour.

Sir Owen remained standing by the door, his posture as rigid as an ice statue.

'Will you be requiring an escort to the tournament, Your Grace?' Sir Owen asked dutifully.

Jacques shook his head. 'I wish to feel the sun on my face, Sir Owen. You, sir, will block it out. Good luck in the tournament.'

The tall knight gulped and opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say something. Maybe he wanted to tell Jacques to cut his brother some slack, or maybe it would be another lecture from yet another person about duty. All the same, Sir Owen kept whatever he wanted to say to himself, bowed courteously, and left the room without a fuss.

Jacques quickly tidied himself up before getting dressed. If Rick wanted him to attend this mummer’s farce, he would not do so looking like the scruff everyone thought he was, his father chief among them.

He slipped on a pair of brown leather boots, a pair of trousers, brown shirt, wrapping a blue neckerchief around his neck, before reaching for a long leather coat, with golden vine patterns lining the collar, joining at the back where the initials R.R. lay for everyone to see.

After he was dressed, Jacques then looked for the sword his father had given him for public affairs such as this one, but he couldn’t find it. He sighed. Perhaps it was being sharpened. Either way, he would have to make up some elaborate excuse for His Majesty. There was more chance of the world ending than Father failing to notice that he didn’t have it.

He was about to leave his room, to meet his oh-so-loving king, when something caught the corner of his eye. A locked chest concealed in the shadows sat near his window. It was meant to be for heavy armour, but as Jacques took the key and unlocked the chest, the only thing sitting inside of it was a single sheet of parchment, never meant for anyone’s eyes but Jacques’. His fingers trembled as he reached for it.

When he brought the drawing to the light, his dream came back to him, as clear as anything. It wasn’t of Mother, or Aubery, or anyone he’d ever met. This woman had long dark hair and olive skin, possibly from the sunnier kingdom of Eastamere. She was standing on a beach, wearing her white silk dress with a pink ribbon tied around her waist. Although she wasn’t smiling, there was a warm kindness to her that couldn’t be explained, more than anything he’d ever experienced. Jacques only wished he’d known her name, but he suspected she didn’t exist, that she was a product of his imagination, much like Aubery was now.

His head hurting, Jacques dropped the drawing into the chest. He shut the lid, so the woman’s face was out of his sight and out of his thoughts.

He let out a heavy sigh before finally making his way towards the door. As he pushed it open and started down the spiral stone staircase, he couldn’t help but steal a final glance back at Aubery, taking comfort in her familiar gaze.

Jacques ambled down each step, the midday sun poking at him through every passing window. The weather was being kind today, probably to accommodate their foreign guests. It was always said where an Eastamerean went; the weather followed them. Jacques wondered whether it was the same for a Galian.

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he opened the door to a corridor leading to the throne room. The flickering torchlight illuminated the mint-green walls—walls that strangely felt foreign to him despite the years he’d spent within them. His father had chosen green to cover the blue that had once dominated the palace walls, a symbol of their house’s victory over the Ayasem dynasty. But to Jacques, the green felt like a betrayal, a stark reminder of how his father had erased the past, leaving nothing but cold ambition in its place.

The throne sat alone under a huge glass dome where the sun’s rays shone down upon it, its solid golden structure shimmering as Jacques passed it by. It was a throne that had witnessed a millennium of power. House Ayasem had been closer to gods than men, their bloodline said to hold the power to summon streams of blue lightning from their fingers. But that era had ended shortly before Jacques was born, snuffed out in the blaze of his father’s rebellion when their magic drove the last king, King Jacob, to madness. Jacques’ grandfather had been the final victim of that madness, reduced to a pile of ash by a power that no longer existed.

His father’s greatest pride was that he had defeated the last wonder of the ancient world, that magic was no more. But as Jacques walked through the hall, he couldn’t help but wonder if something else had died with it—something that couldn’t be replaced by gold or power. His father’s victory had come at a cost, one that Jacques felt in every cold glance and harsh word his father had given him.

As he trudged through the sludgy mud of the city streets, people glanced at Jacques, either with suspicion or fear, as if he were a ghost haunting the streets of the capital. He couldn’t blame them. In many ways, he felt like a ghost—caught between the past and the present, never fully belonging to either.

The streets buzzed with people excited for the tournament. One merchant was shouting about his fresh fish, one crazed preacher shouted about orcs coming down from the frozen north to end the world, and an innkeeper was now roaring at one drunken golden-haired boy to get out of his pub. Jacques took a deep breath of the shit city air. This was his home, such as it was. He’d known little else.

All Jacques had to do was follow the crowds, and they were never too hard to find. Flocks of people gathered around the tournament theatre, the structure towering above Jacques’ head.

Guards stood by the door, checking every single person for potential weapons. Their black armour provided a pleasant contrast to the capital’s predominantly brown colour scheme.

Jacques breezed past the queue to approach the guard standing by the door.

'Good sir!' he called out as the guard patted down a spectator, the words slipping out with more bravado than he felt.

'Yeah?' the guard mumbled, not even taking the time to meet Jacques’ gaze. The casual indifference stung him more than Jacques cared to admit. It was a small slight, but a familiar one.

'My father is expecting me,' he said, injecting steel into his voice, trying to channel the authority that always seemed to come so naturally to his father. 'Be a good lad and take me to him.'

It was only then the guard finally looked at him. His jaw fell open. Scrambling to attention, his body stood stiff as a branch on the world’s toughest tree. 'My apologies, Your Grace. Please, come through.'

Jacques allowed himself a smug smile as the guard opened the door. The sight of a bustling crowd greeted him as he stepped inside, and his throat tightened. So many people, Jacques thought grimly, his smugness quickly evaporating. The press of bodies, the storm of voices, the sheer energy of the place—it was overwhelming, a sensory assault that made him want to turn and flee back to the solitude of his tower.

He filtered through the crowd, feeling the atmosphere grow stronger, stealing the air from his grasp. The roar of the crowd was deafening, and Jacques could barely hear himself think.

Solitude never made him feel like this, the cool embrace of concentration. Instead, he was here, amongst everyone.

Damn my father, Jacques thought bitterly.

Amidst the heavy crowd, he transported himself back to his paintings. He imagined vast landscapes, endless horizons, and he imagined Aubery’s laughter ringing through the air. His body deflated as he exhaled, and his vision returned to him.

A staircase lay in a dark corner, with two members of the royal guard, Sir Bryce Howard, and Sir Finn Alisser, standing at the foot of it. Jacques squinted to make out Sir Finn’s face beneath the helmet, but the formidable triple-edged trident he carried left no doubt. The dream came back to him, and the woman on the beach. Now, he saw Sir Finn standing with her, kissing her on the lips. His head started hurting again.

'Ah, my favourite drinking companion!' Jacques said, trying to ignore his hyperactive brain.

Sir Finn responded with a striking smile and a laugh. 'How are you, Your Grace?'

'Dragged to a tournament where sweaty men bash each other’s skulls in? I’d say I’m in relatively high spirits.'

The daylight made the staircase’s summit seem like some great beyond.

'Is my father up there?' Jacques asked, trying not to sound too apprehensive.

Sir Finn was about to answer before Sir Bryce’s droning voice overshadowed him.

'See for yourself, Your Grace,' he groaned.

As Sir Bryce spoke, a wave of his peach-scented odour hit Jacques like a punch to the face. He always swanned around wearing those ridiculous perfumes.

Sir Finn returned the glare to his brother-in-arms. 'Excuse me, Peach Knight!' he said in the blunt accent of a northerner, 'Remember, this is the Prince of Galia you’re speaking to! You will show him respect!'

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

At least someone is willing to fight for me, Jacques thought, taking a positive where he could find it, as the noise of the fighting arena bashed against his ears.

'Gonna make me, Fish Knight?' Sir Bryce turned towards Sir Finn, pumping his chest out.

Jacques huffed as the two knights stared each other down. He had not the time nor the patience for petty arguments. He’d save that for his father.

'Well, it was lovely to speak to you chaps, but His Majesty is waiting.'

Jacques brushed past the two knights without another word from either of them. He scaled the staircase, each step clapping against the wooden floor.

When he reached the top, eight chairs stood on a wooden platform overlooking the fighting pit. Sir Orchis Vortigon, The Hawk Knight, stood positioned at the far right of the platform, his sharp eyes glazing over the crowd.

But it was the chair in the middle that drew Jacques’ attention, the one with a particularly high back. His father sat in it, surveying the arena with the same icy indifference he’d shown Jacques all his life. At fifty-seven years of age, his face was as dull as a raincloud, a look that could make the most joyous occasion seem blue and empty. A sword hung at his waist, the sword he’d used to kill King Jacob Ayasem, on the day he’d won the throne for House Rue.

(Scene 2)

'You’re late,' the king said, his voice cutting through the noise of the rapidly filling arena. He didn’t even look at Jacques, his eyes fixed on the bustling crowd below, but the disappointment was clear, laced into every word like a dagger.

Jacques rolled his eyes. 'Fashionably late, I would call it, Father,' he replied, forcing a spring into his step as he strolled toward a chair to the king’s left.

'No doubt you wouldn’t have come at all if it wasn’t for your brother.'

It has taken you mere moments to compare me to Rick, Jacques thought, his blood simmering with a mix of anger and resignation. But it warms my heart to know that we agree on something. His father’s ability to diminish him, to reduce him to nothing more than a shadow of his brother, was as reliable as the setting sun.

The king finally turned his head toward Jacques, his scrutinising gaze pinning him in place. 'Where’s that sword I had made for you?'

Jacques froze by his seat, his heart skipping a beat. It would appear the world will not end today, he thought. 'I’m afraid I lost it,' he admitted, the words tasting like ash on his tongue.

The king’s thunderous glare was enough to obliterate any contemptuous thoughts swirling in Jacques’ mind. His eyes bore into him, demanding submission, extinguishing whatever small flickers of rebellion Jacques might have harboured.

'You lost it?' Father growled.

'Yes…' Jacques muttered as he crawled into his seat, feeling smaller with every passing second. 'Sorry.'

Thankfully, the king shifted his attention, casting a glance at their exotic guests as if he’d only just remembered they were there. 'Jacques, this is Geraldo Paloma, King of Eastamere, his daughter, Princess Sofia, and finally, Lord Serben Diae.'

Jacques leaned forward in his seat. King Geraldo, despite being closer to Jacques’ age than his father’s, still bore the faint marks of a life lived hard—the stretch marks on his otherwise smooth skin, the weary set of his shoulders. The Devil’s Cobra, they called him, and Jacques could see why. Geraldo lounged in his chair with a casual confidence, his right foot resting on his left knee, radiating a kind of power Jacques could never hope to emulate.

Lord Serben was another matter entirely, a man who seemed to bathe permanently in shadow, his presence dark and foreboding. A man after my own heart, Jacques mused, feeling a strange kinship with the mysterious lord. But whatever connection he felt was abruptly severed when his eyes landed on the king’s daughter, Princess Sofia.

Jacques blinked three, four, five times, his breath catching in his throat. But no matter how many times he tried to clear his vision, she remained—sitting there, impossibly real. Her glistening dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, her sun-kissed skin glowing in the daylight. She wore a dress as white as snow, with a pink ribbon tied around her waist.

What the fuck? Jacques thought, his mind reeling. The dream of the young woman on the beach, the one who had haunted his dreams, flashed before him. The same dress, the same ribbon, the same face. It was her. But how can it be? The question rattled through his mind, threatening to unravel whatever was left of his composure. His heart pounded in his chest, a mix of fear and inexplicable recognition tightening around him like a vise.

Is this some kind of cruel trick? He wondered. The possibilities swirled in his mind, each one more unsettling than the last.

But the more he looked at her, the less he could convince himself that it was all in his head. There she was, as real as the chair beneath him. As her chestnut brown eyes met his, Jacques had absolutely no doubt what she was thinking.

She’s heard the tales about me, he thought, and she probably expected to see some sort of monster. Now I’ve disappointed her.

The realisation gnawed at him, sharper than he would have liked to admit. He had disappointed many people in his life, but this—this strangely stung more than the rest. There was something in the way Sofia looked at him, something that reminded him of Aubery.

No, he thought fiercely, I won’t let this happen. He would bury this feeling deep within himself, lock it away where it could never touch him again.

Jacques blinked, suddenly aware that everyone was staring at him. His father’s scowl was like a knife’s edge, cutting through his momentary lapse.

'Jacques,' the king growled, his tone brimming with irritation, 'King Geraldo just addressed you.'

Jacques blinked again, struggling to recall what King Geraldo had said, but his thoughts were tangled, ensnared by Princess Sofia’s eerie presence.

'I said it’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Your Grace,' Geraldo said patiently as a wave of cheer came from the expecting crowd, 'I’ve heard plenty about you.'

All bad, I expect, Jacques thought, feeling a bitter twist in his gut. Just like your daughter. His throat ached for a drink, something strong enough to dull the edges of his spiralling thoughts. But he forced himself to respond with something other than the truth. 'I’ve heard plenty about you too, Your Majesty. It’s an honour to meet a warrior as renowned as The Devil’s Cobra.'

King Geraldo cast an uncomfortable glance at Jacques’ father before schooling his features into a charming smile. 'I hope to leave that title behind me, Your Grace.'

Jacques couldn’t stop the grin. He had heard the tales of The Devil’s Cobra as well as anyone, and he doubted the King of Eastamere had truly left that part of himself behind. In truth, Jacques wished he could see that legendary skill on display today—almost as much as he wished he’d never seen Sofia’s face.

You could talk to her, a voice in his mind whispered, a voice that sounded unsettlingly like Aubery’s. You saw her in your dreams; that must mean something.

Jacques clenched his jaw, forcing Aubery’s voice into the same dark corner where he’d locked away the rest of his unwanted emotions. Dreams are just dreams, he told himself. Aubery had known that, and she would have understood why he chose not to dwell on them. He was here to support Rick, to show his face at this farce of a tournament. That was all. He didn’t need another entanglement, another woman who would inevitably find him lacking.

But even as he tried to convince himself, Jacques couldn’t help the fleeting thought that there was no harm in having a bit of fun while he was here. His gaze drifted to the seats next to the king, still empty, awaiting Rick and his oh-so-lovely lady wife, Princess Mirielle. A distraction, perhaps.

'Where is the queen of beauty herself at this time of day?' he asked.

His father sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in a gesture that Jacques knew all too well.

'The Princess Mirielle is amongst the city, Your Grace,' Sir Orchis Vortigon replied, his voice slithering out like a serpent, every syllable oozing with practised deference. 'She’s donating money to charity.'

Jacques couldn’t resist a smile. 'How generous of her. Did she spray the peasants with fragrances from the far south while she was at it?'

The king let out a deep groan. 'Jacques, if you cannot be civil with the princess, then I suggest you stay silent, understand?'

For a brief moment, Jacques allowed himself to feel the thrill of his father’s discomfort. Watching King Rickard of House Rue—vanquisher of the most powerful man Galia had ever seen—trying to be courteous was like watching a bull trying to walk on thin ice. It was almost too much to bear; Jacques had to stifle a laugh. But then his father’s hand touched his arm, and all amusement fled as their eyes locked, the icy blue of his father’s gaze freezing Jacques to his seat.

'I am warning you,' his father said quietly, his voice cold enough to chill Jacques to the bone. 'You think I want you here?'

Jacques met his father’s stare, but where he had once found strength in his defiance, now there was only a hollow echo. His father’s disdain was nothing new; he had dealt with it for over thirty years. But as he delved deep into the blizzard that was King Rickard’s burning glare, Jacques found himself unable to move, unable to breathe.

'I never wanted you,' Father said, 'Remember that before you open your mouth.'

The words struck Jacques harder than they should have, as if they had pierced through the armour of indifference he had spent so many years crafting. Trumpets blared, their powerful sound echoing through the fighting pit, but Jacques barely heard them over the roaring in his ears. He felt a tightness in his chest, a familiar constriction threatening to crush him from the inside out. Guards marched towards each other in the arena, brandishing their long brass instruments, but their movements were a blur to him. His eyes flickered over to the king’s steward, Dennis, who entered the pit to a resounding cheer from the crowd. The sight of Dennis’ youthful face, so full of excitement and energy, was almost painful. He gripped a scroll in his right hand, nodding his head towards every inch of the arena, before finally bowing when he faced the royal box.

Jacques swallowed the sadness that had crept up on him so suddenly, trying to force it down, to bury it like he always did. But it clung to him, heavy and unyielding. He leaned forward in his chair, his movements stiff, and turned his head towards Sir Orchis Vortigon. 'Not fighting, Sir Orchis?' he asked, barely masking his pain.

The Hawk Knight stood proudly in his black armour, his crimson cloak of the Galian royal guard draping over his back. His black hair, trimmed and sharp, matched the stubble on his face. His light brown eyes held an intense gaze, reminiscent of a hawk fixated on its prey. 'I prefer to watch from a distance, Your Grace,' he said, his tone calm and measured.

Jacques frowned, the knight’s answer only deepening the disquiet in his mind. He’s supposed to be a knight, isn’t he? But as he stared at Sir Orchis, Jacques couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps the knight had the right idea. Watching from a distance—remaining detached, untouched by the chaos around him—seemed like a luxury Jacques could do well with right now.

'Princess Mirielle, Your Majesty!'

Sir Bryce Howard bowed and vanished down the stairs, leaving all eyes on the platform to shift toward a single dazzling figure. Princess Mirielle Jubilee was only twenty-four years old but she’d already become one of the most beautiful women in the kingdom. She bathed in the midday sun, her green silk dress shimmering, complementing her flowing brown hair. A golden necklace in the shape of a buzzard lay on her chest, the emblem of House Jubilee. She would never be as beautiful as Aubery was, but she was close—painfully close.

For a fleeting moment, Jacques considered making a joke about how the Eastamereans made Mirielle look ugly, something biting and clever that would amuse him at the very least. His father’s words echoed in his mind, freezing the remark before it could leave his lips.

I never wanted you.

'You’re just in time, Mirielle,' the king said as he hoisted himself from his chair and showed the princess to her seat. 'You had a productive day, I trust.'

Princess Mirielle’s lips curved into a captivating smile, revealing a row of gleaming white teeth that were more like a predator’s fangs.

'Very productive, Your Majesty,' she replied, her voice carrying the harsh, nasal tones of a Coastman’s accent, which grated against Jacques’ ears like slate. He clenched his jaw, wondering how anyone could find that voice charming. Yet, here she was, the darling of the court.

Of course, she’s from Coast, Jacques thought bitterly. The city of Coast, Galia’s primary port, was a place of the upmost strategic importance, its royal fleet the kingdom’s first line of defence against naval attacks. His father had been meticulous in securing House Jubilee’s allegiance, and Mirielle was the crown jewel in that alliance.

'After I finished organising the feast for tonight,' Mirielle continued, her voice thick with pride, 'I travelled to every orphanage I could find and donated some of my money to all of them. In this time of peace, I think all should reap the rewards.'

Jacques rolled his eyes, a familiar wave of irritation rising in his chest. How is no one else seeing through this?

But even as he silently seethed, a part of him envied her. She had the power to be seen, to be adored, to win people over with a pretty smile and a few coins. Jacques, on the other hand, felt like a shadow in comparison, forever lurking on the fringes of his father’s court, seen only as a disappointment or a burden. No one expects anything from me, he thought. Not even a cruel joke.

'Welcome all to our peace tournament, a ceremony celebrating peace at last!' Dennis shouted.

The crowd erupted into applause as the king mustered a wave, his expression one of weary obligation. He leaned over toward Mirielle, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. 'I do wish they’d cut the formalities.'

'I agree,' Jacques chimed in, hoping for once to align with his father’s sentiments. Perhaps if he agreed on something so trivial, Father wouldn’t find a reason to be displeased. 'We can skip to the dinner and the wine that way.'

His attempt to join in was met with silence. No one acknowledged his remark, except for his father, who fixed him with another cold stare, making him feel like a fool for even speaking.

'Please allow me to welcome our first fighter to the pit! He is only twenty-three years old but one of the greatest swordsmen in the land, please give a warm welcome to Prince Luis Paloma!'

The crowd offered Prince Luis a modest round of applause as he stepped into the fighting arena. His father, King Geraldo, acknowledged him with a nod, his face lighting up with the kind of pride Jacques knew he would never see in his own father’s eyes.

'And his opponent, the reigning champion of His Majesty, King Rickard’s, nameday tournament, undefeated in two consecutive years, please welcome His Grace, Prince Rickard of House Rue!'

The arena erupted with noise as Rick entered the fighting pit, his sword raised high above his head. Jacques watched as the pride oozed from the eyes of the men in the crowd, their roars of approval filling the air. But it was the gazes from the women that truly stung—gazes filled with lust and longing, their screams growing even louder when Rick’s line of sight just happened to fall on them.

Sometimes Jacques wondered if his brother actually enjoyed all of this—the adulation, the constant praise, the expectation that he would always excel. Did Rick ever feel suffocated by the weight of it all? Or had he simply become numb to it, the way Jacques had become numb to his own failures?

At least when I stumble, Jacques thought, it’s only my own reputation that suffers. But Rick… he carries the weight of House Rue on his shoulders. If he ever faltered, even for a moment, Father’s wrath would be something only the Gods could temper.

'But before our fighters clash swords, His Majesty, King Rickard, would like to say a few words!' the steward announced.

Father rose from his seat, his gaze fixed on King Geraldo. The crowd hushed, every eye locked onto their king, as if the mere sound of his voice was sacred. King Rickard prowled towards the edge of the platform, his presence commanding the arena’s attention.

'For thirty-five years, I have held this crown,' Father began, his voice echoing with the authority of a man who had shaped the very world his people lived in. 'And I’ve seen this kingdom grow and strengthen. In that time, I’ve produced an heir I can be proud of.' He gestured towards Rick, the pride in his golden son unmistakable. 'Which is why I know my legacy will live on, the reason my house will keep this throne for generations after my death, all because of what I’ve done over the last thirty-five years. But this tournament is not only for me. It is for all those who fought alongside me when I took this throne. When you hear the ring of swords, I want the sound to take you back to the days of my coronation, the moment you knew you fell on the right side of history.'

The crowd erupted into applause, their cheers a chorus of adoration for the man who had led them to victory. Jacques frowned. This was supposed to be a peace tournament, a celebration of unity, yet Father’s words seemed to glorify the bloodshed that had brought him to power. Jacques’ father was many things, but forgetful was not one of them. He had a long memory, one that clung to past glories and the enemies he had crushed to secure them.

The two fighters stepped a few paces away from each other and bent their knees slightly, preparing to fight.

'Jacques…' His father’s voice cut through the noise when he’d sat back down, drawing Jacques’ attention. 'I will see you at the feast tonight.'

Jacques suppressed a sigh. He enjoyed food, but the prospect of sitting through another meal with his father, enduring the constant scrutiny and criticism, drained any appetite he might have had.

I never wanted you.

A surge of anger stiffened Jacques’ upper lip, frustration boiling just beneath the surface. 'I thought you wouldn’t want me there,' he said, trying to keep his voice steady, though it quivered with the effort.

Father’s gaze shifted to Rick, who stood poised and confident in the pit. 'You see your brother? He is doing his duty and showing that we are ready for the next step in our history.'

'On my mark…' Dennis said, the crowd falling silent as they waited with bated breath for the signal.

Jacques felt a knot of anxiety tighten in his chest. He had to ask, even if it meant hearing another rejection. 'And what about me?' The question hung in the air, heavy with a desperation he couldn’t quite hide.

As Jacques watched his father’s face, he saw something that made his heart skip a beat. His father was smiling.

'I have different plans for you,' Father said, his smile sending a chill down Jacques’ spine.

Before Jacques could process the words, Dennis lowered his arm and shouted, 'Fight!'