Chapter 1
“Why?” That was all he could muster from his sore throat. The question rang in his head, over and over again.
Why. Why. Why! Why me? Why! WHY.
It played like a broken record, and if he had any strength left, he was sure the word would be screamed aloud. He couldn’t understand. He wouldn’t. He refused to let himself process what he’d just been through.
The shock of the event left his eyes wide, his face pale. A tear slipped down his cheek, even when he willed it not to. He was sweaty, hurt, and afraid. And the only thing he could ask himself was Why.
He internally screamed it. Again, and again. A sound came from in front of him.
Siv lifted his head, his hair flowing over his blue eyes from having it down against his knees. A woman slowly walked through his door. He couldn't see her face, but he knew who she was. He cried, scrambling to his feet, trying to run away, but he couldn’t move. She slithered towards him, grabbed his wrists, and pushed him against the wall. “No! No, please! Not again. Please,” he begged. He cried. He yelled.
She whispered snake-like in his ear. Before he could process what she said, he opened his eyes.
He was balled up in the corner of his room, alone, dark. It had been weeks, and yet he could tell no one. He was tortured, scared, that's what his parents believed.
He’d never tell anyone what happened. It'd make him an embarrassment. If he were to be king, he could not be a failure. Could not be weak. He needed to be strong, like his father.
I am Siv Hansen. Heir to the Brynholt Castle. I am not weak. I am no coward.
He stood, dusting the dirt from his pants, and walked to the doors of his bedroom. The intricately built castle was hundreds of years old, built before the wars between the North and South continents. Beautiful. Captivating. Mesmerizing. So many things, so many ways to describe it.
It was his home since birth, and he couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. He admired his home as he walked through the large corridor, guards nodding at him as he took the path to his brother's room. Lukus had always been there for him; he would console him.
He stepped quietly through every archway in the hall, running his hand along the peaks and valleys of the wainscoting on the walls. He stopped rarely to look out the clear, floor-to-ceiling windows at the night sky, the stars and moon the only thing lighting the paths and gardens and corridors.
When he got to Luke's room, he lightly knocked on the door, and it opened immediately. Sometimes Siv forgot his brother was a warrior, constantly prepared to protect. Or fight.
The harsh look on his brother's face melted away as soon as he beheld Siv in front of him. Luke was a lot taller and more built than Siv, causing the brothers to constantly be compared. Well, it causes Siv to constantly be compared to his brother. Gain some weight. Eat more. Workout with the guards. Plenty of unsolicited advice towards Siv, so much so that he learned to block it out.
“Siv, are you okej?” Luke’s features began to express worry, which was rare for the soldiers of Brynholt, who were trained to never show an emotion other than pride. He grabbed Siv’s arm, pulling him into his room. Siv took notice of the girl in his brother's bed, likely a courtesan pulled from the street.
Luke had likely heard him from down the hall, thinking him an intruder. That's why he opened the door so quickly. “I am fine, brother. Although I’d like to stay here tonight. My room is making me ill.”
“Hej, oro ger små saker en stor skugga, brother,” Luke replied to Siv in their native language, surprising him. He bet that the girl in his bed did not speak the native language, too poor. Likely barely knew the common language. Many courtiers were too full of debt to pay for school, growing up without families to teach them the native language.
“Yes, yes, Luke ‘Worry often gives a small thing a big shadow’ I know the saying bror, you mustn’t repeat it.” Siv had heard his brother say this a million times, to himself, to his friends, his guards, everyone he knew. It was Luke's pride and joy to know the famous line.
“Come, come, Siv, you can stay tonight. Although I am leaving for the lake tomorrow morning, I will likely be gone when you wake.” Luke had been home for weeks, ever since what happened, and he likely had those weeks' worth of work to catch up on at the station site. Still, Siv didn’t expect his brother to leave so soon.
He watched as Lukus whispered something into the ear of the girl on his bed. She quickly sat up and glanced around the dark room, covering her bareness with the sheet. Siv didn’t understand how his brother could enjoy such things. Women were never on Siv’s mind. Well, not before what happened. Yet now, they were only on his mind in his nightmares and fears.
The girl stood, grabbing a pile of clothes from the floor and sauntered tiredly into the large washroom connected to Luke’s bed chamber. She meandered back into the room and left out the door, a pout on her lips. Luke popped his head out, likely telling a guard to escort her home, before coming to sit with Siv on the couch in the corner.
“Are you having nightmares again, Siv? About when you were taken.”
“They never stopped, brother, I just learned to forget them when I awoke. But tonight was…” He grimaced as he said it, “different.”
Luke knew not to push, to wait until his bror was ready to tell him what happened, but he couldn’t help but wish he’d just say it. He wanted to know what was done to his brother. Who tortured him to such an extent?
He still remembered when they found him, walking back towards the castle on an empty road. Clothes torn and dirty, redness around his wrists, on his face. Like he was hit, shackled. A prince, tortured. It was a treason. And yet they hadn’t found a perpetrator. Siv refused to tell them what he remembered. And Luke knew his brother was lying when he said he remembered nothing, especially because of the nightmares.
“Lay down, Siv. Sleep. You need your rest.” Siv was only 15, and Luke felt like he had failed his brother. He was supposed to be his protector. Siv was to be the next king, and he was to protect his little brother. Why did he fail every task he was given? The question rang in Lukus’s head as he lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He heard Siv’s breathing fall
into a rhythm. Knew he was asleep. And knew he should be too.
Luke hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep until he woke up. It was early morning; he decided to base off the barely perceptible light outside and the songbirds near his window. He slowly sat up, rubbing his golden eyes, the anger from last night simmering back into his body. Standing, quietly so he didn’t wake his sleeping bror, he padded to the washroom. He closed the creaking door, trying to make as little noise as possible, for he knew Siv was a light sleeper.
Walking over to the sink and mirror, he stood, staring at himself. With his arms braced against the edge of the beautiful white porcelain, his midnight hair cast over his aureate eyes; he could see only his body shaking in the mirror. A tear fell. Just one, that was all he allowed. A singular tear, for the hundreds his brother had shed.
He turned and saw the sun in the high window above the bath, realizing just how long he’d sat staring in the mirror. What felt like seconds had likely been a dozen minutes by now. He quickly rinsed his face with the cool water and went back into his bedroom.
After changing and leaving Siv with a quick goodbye (he’d accidently awoken the sleeping brother when he walked back into his room; Stupid bathroom door; and Siv stayed up just long enough to bid Luke farewell) he left his room and entered the long corridor of the castle. He marked which guards were stationed (the ones he told to be there at dawn) and gave a nod to the captain who was patrolling the hallways as he did every morning.
He strayed to the right of his room, walking towards the large glass double doors that led to the gardens of the castle. The heat from the summer sun put sweat down his back before he even walked outside. A guard opened the beautiful doors, letting the duke into the outdoors. The smell of flowers violently hit his nose.
He lifted his head, the smiles of many beautiful women walking the gardens reaching is vision. The girl from his bed the previous night was not among them. Plenty of courtiers stayed in the castle, and plenty more visited daily, looking for someone with nobility to marry. (Or doing the dirty work of the royals). Running his hand along flowers as he went, he stayed steadily on the path to the stables, where his things were waiting for him, readied by servants hours ago.
He plucked a pink rose that snagged his attention, standing out against the white ones nearby. His mother's favorite. He handed it to a beautiful servant named Ebba. He knew the girl well and trusted her most with the task of giving it to his mor. Luke was young when Ebba started serving the king, as her mother had, and he’d grown along with her. She washed his clothes, cleaned his room, and brought tonics for the girls he’d snuck in late at night. Always keeping his boyish secrets. He’d trust her with almost anything. (He hated to admit but he’d even crushed on her for some of his teenage years; As illegal as it was to get with of someone of such dishonor).
He trekked to the stables, guards and servants already there with riding gear and packs of supplies. It was a 2-day horse ride to the lake, and it was the fastest way to travel. As well as Luke refused to be seen in a carriage (To hell with the commoners thinking him too stuck up to ride like his warriors!) no matter how much his mother fussed. With a sword strapped at his belt, and the supply bags strapped to his beautiful stallion, Luke mounted Kash, and took a deep breath, and a last look at his home, before stalking off into the city.
