The younger prince didn’t reply. Darren didn’t share in his brother’s conquests. As a prince of Jerar, he was presented with more than enough opportunity—women twice his age, girls fresh from the convent, it made no difference. All they wanted were favors, and false flattery did not impress him. Darren cared about making a name for himself as a knight, and the only girl he could even stand to be near preferred the same gender as herself.
He wasn’t upset that Eve had another she preferred to kiss. Darren had never once been compelled to try; she merely felt like an extension of himself, and one that he missed. Even if he had, Eve might have been born highborn, but her father was not, and that was another well-established rule: a prince could only enter into relationships with those of standing, old blood, and prestige… girls like Priscilla.
And while Darren might find girls like Priscilla attractive, it wasn’t enough to compel him to courtship. Well, he had kissed her once—because it was expected after months in her company, and partly because of Blayne’s endless mockery—but that had been a mistake. It had only encouraged her.
Anyone else might have compelled him to feel shame, but Darren knew the girl secretly shared his same sentiment. There was more than one occasion where he had lashed out at her endless string of compliments only to see a flash of irritation in return. She quelled it better than he ever could, but it was there. Disinterest too. Her words were rehearsed, and her gestures too overt.
Once the prince saw anger, but that was directed at the baron when he prompted her to steal Darren for another dance during the last feast. He had caught the way her eyes lingered on another young man. Priscilla resented their situation just as much as he, only she seemed determined to serve out her father’s wish, even if it went against her own.
The longer they kept company, the easier their show for court became. Priscilla had long since dismissed Eve as a threat, but any other female in close proximity, and the girl would attack. Perhaps Darren should have stopped her, but one girl was far preferable to the masses. And there was no one worth fighting for.
“Our definition,” Darren said, finally returning to his brother’s earlier comment, “of ‘miles above’ is miles apart. Eve is worth twice what Priscilla would ever be.” Eve told the truth, and she didn’t fake attraction to garner his favor.
“You are a lowborn sympathizer.” Disgust dripped from the older boy’s tone.
“Eve isn’t lowborn.” Darren’s hands fisted at his sides. “Sir Audric earned his new status when he was knighted.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Blayne snorted. “That girl is no different than the others. She’s a lowborn whelp and she’d spread her legs soon enough for a chance at a prince. They always do—”
Darren slammed his brother against the wall. The nearby courtiers scattered like ants as the crown prince hit stone with a hard thwack. Darren wasn’t as tall as his brother, but none of that mattered as his hands locked around Blayne’s throat.
“Speak ill of my friend again,” Darren snarled, “and I’ll make sure you walk around with scars.”
The crown prince just laughed, his rasp a bit strained thanks to the fingers clamped around his neck. “Perhaps,” he wheezed, “she p-prefers the company of o-other girls because you a-aren’t man enough to b-bed her y-yourself.”
Darren lost control of his fist. One moment he was in control, the next his knuckles were flying at his brother’s face. Blayne’s head snapped to the side as blood trickled down his nose, turning his pale skin to red.
The next second, Darren was staggering back. His brother had matched him fist for fist. Darren’s lip was split; he tasted copper and salt.
Darren might have been a better fighter—Blayne only practiced one hour a day in the training courts—but three years still gave Blayne an advantage in size.
The crown prince threw another punch; Darren used his forearm to block the fist and then lunged, throwing his weight into the attack.
Blayne ducked out of the way and then tackled his brother against the wall.
Darren’s face collided with stone and pain roared up inside of him, a hundred hot-tipped daggers in the back of his shoulders and head. Something seared the inside of his lungs, and then there was an airy feeling, like wings beating off against his chest.
“You’re still my little brother,” the older boy said. “It’s time you—”
Something rushed through Darren’s veins, and then there was a roar. The whole room seemed to shatter as his mind exploded in pain.
Darren heard his brother cry out, and then the pressure was gone as he stumbled blindly around.
The hallway was swathed in light. For a moment, the boy couldn’t see anything; it was too bright.
When his eyes adjusted, he found Blayne clutching a large shard of glass that was embedded in his arm. Crimson blood dripped onto the marble tile below.
Darren watched the rivulets of blood. They met with bits of glass scattered around his feet. All sorts of colors blended together, red and violet and green, even a royal blue. The stained glass window just across the hall was gone. In its space was an open view.
The afternoon sun was blinding. The rays beat down like rays of gold, hot on his skin.
For a moment, all he could hear was his pulse.
Darren wasn’t a fool. Blayne hadn’t stabbed himself. The glass window hadn’t suddenly shattered on its own.
Magic.
Like Eve, he hadn’t expected a thing. He wasn’t even sure what it meant. All he knew was the gods had given him a gift.
And he was going to use it.
The red robes came and went. The glass wasn’t embedded deep, but that didn’t wipe the glower from his brother’s face, even after he was healed.
Darren didn’t pay Blayne any heed. His focus was on his father across the table.
“Make me a mage,” he repeated. “I have magic. I can train for Combat like Eve.”
“You are meant to be the Commander of the Crown’s Army, not a black mage.”
“I could be the Black Mage. Like Marius.”
“Potential isn’t something you can control. For all we know, you are like most of the others, a bit of magic but nothing special.”
“Maybe I’m not. Maybe I’m the best.”
The king stroked his trimmed beard as he studied his youngest. Darren folded his arms, back erect.