My heart might be divided, but my path was clear. Forward. Always forward. No matter how many men tried to claim me along the way.
forty-seven
Alain
Movement caught my eye. A flash of brown and the flick of a horse’s tail disappearing around the edge of my tent. I set down the blade I’d been inspecting and stepped to the entrance, squinting against the late afternoon sun. A servant woman rode past, her hood raised despite the warmth, head bowed low as if avoiding notice.
Something about the set of her shoulders, the way she gripped the reins with white-knuckled determination, sent a jolt ofrecognition through my gut. My stomach swirled in anxiety like I needed to give chase to her.
It couldn’t be. She was supposed to be locked in her tower room, guarded by men who answered only to me. Yet as the hooded figure disappeared into the crowd on the road, the hollow feeling in my chest told me what my mind refused to accept.
Isabeau.
“Your Highness?” My squire’s voice pulled me back to reality. “They’re calling for you. The mounted knife throw begins in moments.”
I lingered at the entrance, straining to catch another glimpse of the rider, but she had vanished among the tournament-goers like morning mist under harsh sun. My fingers clenched around the tent flap, fabric bunching under my grip.
“Your Highness?” the boy repeated, anxiety creeping into his voice. “The king is waiting.”
Of course he was. Father was always waiting for me to disappoint him, to fail as the second son where Theron merely had to exist to earn his approval as the first. I turned back to my squire, forcing my features to compose themselves into the mask of royal confidence my position demanded.
“Hand me the blades,” I said, voice clipped as I fought to focus on the competition rather than the sickening certainty growing in my chest. “And ready my horse.”
My mount, a spirited black stallion bred for speed and obedience, stood waiting outside. As I swung into the saddle, my gaze swept the crowd once more, searching for that distinctive brown cloak, but there was no sign of her. Had I imagined it? Projected my fears onto some random servant going about her duties?
No. I knew it was her. Just as I knew when she was in pain during her fever, or when she needed water before sheasked. Some connection had formed between us that defied explanation, a tether that pulled taut when she moved too far from me. And right now, that tether was stretching, threatening to snap.
“Prince Alain!” The announcer’s voice boomed across the field. “Champion of the archery contest! Does the second son of Durand seek to claim another victory today?”
The crowd roared its approval, their enthusiasm amplified by the free-flowing ale and wine that always accompanied tournament days. I raised a hand in acknowledgment, the gesture automatic while my mind raced elsewhere.
How had she escaped? The guards I’d posted were my most loyal men, incorruptible and vigilant. And the window, I’d personally ensured it couldn’t be used again after finding her makeshift rope.
Yet she was gone. Riding away from me even as I prepared to demonstrate martial skills that suddenly seemed meaningless.
My first competitor finished his run, striking two of the five targets to moderate applause. The course was simple in concept but demanding in execution. Ride at full gallop past a series of targets, striking each with a throwing knife. Points awarded for accuracy and form. I’d won this event three tournaments in a row, my precision with blades second only to my archery.
Today, I couldn’t have cared less even though it would help me beat Coventry.
“Ready, Your Highness?” the starter asked as I approached the line.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. The blade felt wrong in my hand, its balance suddenly unfamiliar after years of practice. I adjusted my grip, forcing myself to focus. Father was watching. Theron was watching. Gaspard was watching. That last thought sent fresh anger surging through my veins. Gaspard Coventry,the man who had broken Isabeau before I ever found her, sat in the royal box beside my father like an honored guest.
The flag dropped. My heels dug into my stallion’s flanks, and we exploded forward.
Wind rushed past my ears, the thud of hoofbeats matching the frantic rhythm of my heart. The first target appeared, and I threw without conscious thought, muscle memory taking over where concentration failed me. The blade struck center mass. The crowd cheered, but their voices seemed to come from very far away.
Where was she going? Back to the forest that had nearly claimed her life? Back to the beasts that had left those marks on her shoulder? Or somewhere else, somewhere new where neither Gaspard nor I could find her?
The second target. Another throw, another perfect strike.
What would Father do when he discovered her missing? What would Gaspard do? The thought of that man anywhere near Isabeau made my blood run cold. I’d seen the fear in her eyes when his name was mentioned, watched the color drain from her face, fucking watched her attempt suicide to escape his coming. Whatever he’d done to her went beyond ordinary cruelty.
Third target. Fourth. Fifth. Each blade finding its mark with deadly precision despite my fractured attention. The crowd’s roar washed over me as I completed the course, pulling my stallion up at the finish line.
Perfect score. Better than perfect. I’d struck the kill zone on each target, a feat rarely achieved even by seasoned competitors. Ironic that I performed my best when I cared the least. My year to beat the best was faltering from the woman he hurt.
“Remarkable performance, Prince Alain!” The announcer’s voice boomed across the field. “A new tournament record!”