The crack of wood fills the training yard, swords colliding together in a flurry of motion. Bryn grunts, twisting his sword around mine, sweat glistening on his brow.
"You're holding back," he growled and meets me in a fiery blow. One I easily deflect. "That won't fly in the next drill."
It's not that I want to hold back.
It has been a week since I killed that Ebonheart monster and nearly got executed for saving the prince's life. The news has spread like wildfire and I've had more run ins with the soldiers than I've ever had in the months I've spent here.
They want to know how the beasts fight, what they look like and most of all, they ask how I did it.
That's the problem. I don't know how. And something strange has been happening to me.
I can run for longer now without stopping for a breath. I last longer in the pit without breaking a sweat. I barely notice the time pass when I train alone and when I'm through, the punching bags are busted, the swords broken.
Yesterday, when the Quartermaster had paired me up with Leander, just to put me in my place, I had punched Leander once.
And knocked him out cold.
After which I spent the entire night staring at my tiny, calloused hands, wondering what the hell was happening to me.
Everyone has given me a wide berth, but Bryn seems not to care that they all think I'm some kind of monster.
Wiping sweat from my cheek, I circle him slowly, feet silent. "You don't think I could hurt you?"
Bryn laughs, holding up his sword with both hands. "You're the only one of us who has killed them. I'd be a fool to let my fear and pride get in the way of learning how to live. I have a mate and daughter to return home to and I'll do whatever it takes to make it back. So, teach me, Val. Teach me how to be as strong as you are."
I blink, surprised. Never in my life would I have imagined those words being spoken to me.
"Ironfang!" A shout rings out from the yard's entrance. Master Sebastian.
"Get into trouble again?" Bryn asks.
"Hell if I know," I grumble.
I jog over to the perpetually scowling man who doesn't acknowledge my short bow before leading me across to the tower. "Is there a..." My voice trails off as I note the trove of men stomping out of the tower in full gear. Armour, shields, swords, staffs, helmets. Their faces are dark and their voices carry as they hum the war song. "What's happening?"
Master Sebastian's answer is an irritated grunt. "The Demon Alpha King is on the move once more. An entire village was slaughtered in Grimrose."
I stifle a gasp. Most of our food comes from Grimrose. If the enemy takes control of that area, our food supply will be cut off and Silvermoor might find herself under a siege.
"All those men will fight him?"
I am casted a rather grim look. "What have you heard of the Dark King?"
Recounting the prince's words from training, I repeat, "Of all his people, his curse wears the strongest. They say for every one of them, there are ten of us, but multiply that by another ten, and you just might be lucky enough to bring down the King."
"Do you understand what that means?" he says, taking me up the familiar flight of stairs. The blood and bodies have been scrubbed off the stones and if I hadn't witnessed any of it myself, I wouldn't have guessed that an entire calvary was wiped out right here.
I shake my head. "I thought it merely a myth."
"Not nearly," is all the response the Quartermaster spares me before taking me up a higher level of the tower.
There are more guards up here--royal guards--around every corner, and their gazes follow our every move, hands resting on their swords like they await a threat.
We come to a stop in front of a chamber. A pair of guards man the door and the bigger of the two push it open.
The chamber beyond is warm with golden lamplight, books and scrolls scattered across a large desk, wolf pelt and weapons lining the walls beside the shelves and the air smells like herbs and...him.
My eyes are immediately drawn to the end of the room where the Prince stands, huddled over a gigantic map with figurines strategically places across territories.
His doublet is unbuttoned and his shirt hangs open, exposing tan skin lined with scars, old and new. He looks healthier than I last saw him a week ago, steadier on his feet. There is colour in his cheeks, his grey eyes brilliant, his lips lush with--
As if feeling my stare, his head turns and he catches me staring unabashedly at his face. His mouth.
I drop my head, a brilliant flush crawling up my neck. "Y-you sum-moned me?"
"Thank you, Sebastian. You may leave." His voice is deep and rich, making something in my belly twist.
Master Sebastian hesitates, beady eyes tracking the distance between the prince and I like I am some unnamed threat waiting until he turns his back to slaughter the prince.
The thought is hilarious enough to make me snort and both men turn their gazes to me immediately, one curious, the other disdainful.
The latter dips his head in a bow before heading out, leaving Prince Rafe and I alone in the cast expanse of his study.
My palms grow clammy with sweat and nerves and I bite the inside of my cheek as I fight the urge keep my chin high under the full weight of the Prince's stare.
His eyes prod me like he wishes to tear back my pale flesh and see what is underneath. And even then, he never take his eyes off my face, as though looking at the rest of my body offends him.
Unbidden, an image flashes behind my eyes. Right now, with his jaw clenched and his eyes hard, he looks nothing like the man who had kissed the jaw of his lover under the many stars of Silvermoor. He looks nothing like the man who had his entire body honed, not as a weapon, but as an instrument of pleasure.
I'm so lost in my scandalous thoughts that when he finally speaks, I nearly jump out of my skin, horrified.
"Do you know why I have called you here, soldier?"
"No, sir."
He sighs, knocking off a knight's figurine from the map. "Sebastian isn't exactly the chatty type, is he?" Muttering something that sounds like a cuss under his breath, he reaches for a scroll and extends it to me.
Confused, I take the scroll. The seal cracks beneath my thumb and the parchment flattens against my palm and my breath leaves me. "You.." I lose my voice. "You're making me a part of your elite guard?"
"Consider it gratitude," he says, reaching for a chalice and drinking from it thirstily. Wine runs down his chin and he wipes his mouth. "It is more than you deserve, but it should suffice."
My confusion and excitement plummet and die. In their place, anger and irritation spark and before I can think it through, I have tossed the scroll at his feet and bared my teeth at him. "More than I deserve? I was tortured. I almost died trying to keep you alive. You want to know the least I deserve? A bloody thanks."
A strange fire burns in my lungs as I step closer, leveling my stare with the royal jerkface. "I have no desire to be named as one of your gilded knights. As it stands, I just might kill you before the war does--merely out of spite."
The prince merely raises an eyebrow and takes a deep drink from his goblet. "Only the finest in Silvermoor bear the crest. Alphas of powerful ancient blood, Betas of unmatched discipline. The pinnacle. The untouchable. You could never ascend to such a station, even if you trained a thousand years because no matter how strong you become, an Omega can never stand equal to an Alpha or Beta. Not time, not skill, not experience can make up that difference."
Then he points at me, the sunlight catching in the grey of his eyes. "You, however..." He shakes his head. "I have no idea what the hell you are."
"Like you just pointed out, I am an Omega," I retort through gritted teeth.
"You smell like one, look like one, fight and carry yourself as one of the lowliest rank." Abandoning his goblet, he makes a beeline for me and fight the urge to back up and flee as his gaze locks on to me with cold intensity. "But I saw you move that night. In all my years, I have never seen anything like it."
A breath catches in my throat. "What are you trying to say?"
He is close enough now. I catch the scent of oils and something deliciously male. The air between us thickens, charged. "That you're either well versed in the art of deceit or you really are a bastard born son, only in the worst kind of way."
His words curl around my mind like smoke, his insinuation clear. That my father had taken one of those monsters to his bed and made me. That he had slept with one of those Ebonheart beasts and I have their cursed blood in my veins.
The Crown Prince of Silvermoor is insinuating that I am a hybrid.