When I woke up this morning, I didn't think I'd end the day bleeding out in the middle of the freezing ocean.
Honestly, I thought the worst thing I'd deal with was paperwork, or maybe Bjorn's face. But no. Surprise! Stabbed in the chest by one of my own soldiers and tossed into the sea like a broken sword.
I'd give the betrayal a solid 8 out of 10 — good form, nice speech, but a little predictable. And the dagger didn't even hit the heart properly. Lazy work, really.
Now here I am, floating somewhere off the northern coast, blood mixing with seawater, freezing to death. It's like a royal vacation, but with hypothermia.
So, yeah… If anyone's taking notes, this is the part of the story where the bastard prince dies. Or should have, anyway.
But fate? Fate's got a weird sense of humor.
Oh—right. I forgot to introduce myself.
Name's Drakensvard D. Sigurd. Second prince of Valtoria. General of the royal army. Certified bastard. Not just in attitude — actual bastard.
I know what you're thinking. Something like: "Dude, why are you dying?" Or maybe: "Is Bjorn really that ugly?" And the answer is yes. Yes, he is.
But if you want to understand how I ended up floating in the sea with a dagger wound and a broken heart (literally and emotionally), we have to go back. Like, way back.
Back to a time when my dear old dad, King Drakensvard D. Edward, met a woman named Helen Rowe and did what horny royals do best — create problems.
And that problem… was me.
Thing is, this didn't go down like some fairytale where the noble king falls for the kind-hearted commoner and they live happily ever after in a golden palace with sparkly kids and unicorns.
Nope. This is Valtoria. And the king — my dear old dad, Edward Drakensvard — was already married when he met my mother, Helen Rowe. Spoiler alert: the queen wasn't thrilled.
My mother died giving birth to me. Or at least, that's what King Edward says. Honestly, it feels a little too convenient. "Oh no, the commoner woman's dead? Tragic. Moving on." Talk about a classic royal cliché.
But unlike my bratty, younger, and unfortunately still-alive half-brother Bjorn — who grew up in the castle, stuffing his face with gold-plated grapes — I was shipped off to an orphanage the moment I could cry.
Guess Queen Geneva didn't want a permanent reminder of her husband's little 'oopsie' with a woman who didn't wear a crown. That bitter snake — cough — I mean, that noble and wise queen clearly had no room for bastards in her perfect royal life.
So yeah. While Bjorn got silk bedsheets and crown lessons, I got cracked floorboards and military drills.
And if you think that's unfair — welcome to Valtoria.
And if you think things got better from there — buddy, bless your optimism.
When I was eight — yep, eight — I got handpicked to join the army.
Why, you ask? Because our beloved Queen Geneva apparently thought child soldiers were a fantastic idea. Seriously, what kind of resentment-fueled psycho looks at a bastard kid and thinks, "You know what would be great? Toss him into a war zone."
But hey, Valtoria's always been at war with our totally peaceful, absolutely-not-bloodthirsty neighbors: Siccerra.
Now, technically, Valtoria and Siccerra are two separate countries, but we share the same island — divided by a lovely mix of snowy mountains and deathly forests.
And by "share," I mean Siccerra keeps trying to blow us off the map and take everything we own.
One year, they wiped out a chunk of our standing army — surprise attacks, poison, the usual neighborly love. So what does Valtoria do? Recruit. Hard.
Drafts, prison deals, and handpicked citizens. Some were chosen for crimes like tax evasion and theft. Others? Just for being inconvenient to the crown.
Guess which category I fell into.
That's right. Thanks to Queenie the Eternal Bitch, I went from orphan to soldier before I even learned how to pronounce my last name correctly (yeah try to be called Drakensvard).
Welcome to the royal military, bastard boy. We hope you survive the winter.
After three years in the military academy — learning how to march, stab, bleed, and not die in the cold — I was finally assigned to a division.
Now, let me explain something. The Valtorian army is split into four branches:
1. The Royal Guard — the golden boys and girls with top grades, shiny armor, and the honor of babysitting the royal family.
2. The Peacekeepers — glorified patrol dogs. They maintain order and protect civilians.
3. The Navy — seafaring warriors defending our coasts from pirates, storms, and political embarrassment.
4. The Night Watch — also known as: "those poor bastards who die first."
The Night Watch guards the White Forest — that frozen hell between us and Siccerra. It's home to monsters, ambushes, and things that don't stay dead (Seriously, I think I killed the same dude three times. Either he's immortal or just annoyingly persistent.). They're also our main land assault force. Basically, they fight everything nobody else wants to touch — while slowly freezing their asses off in the snow.
Now, you'd think the best soldier in his class — yours truly — would be offered a spot in the Royal Guard, right? Prestige, palace life, warm fires, and fewer chances of dismemberment.
But nope. I got a "special recommendation." From Her Royal Highness, Queen Geneva.
Guess where she sent me?
That's right.
Night Watch.
Honestly, at this point, I'm convinced that woman wakes up in the morning, eats hatred for breakfast, bathes in spite, and plots new ways to ruin my life before brushing her hair.
So off I went — into the snow, the forest, and the jaws of death. My journey to the throne began, naturally, in the one place nobody expects a prince to survive.
Fitting, right?
Fairytales start with "Once upon a time." Mine started with frostbite and monster guts.