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He was supposed to be happy with that…

He wasn’t.

His fingers traced over the crown, over the symbol. His tired eyes inspected and analyzed each and every single detail. It was immaculate, as if it was only worn on special occasions…

Well, Arwin needed to fix that.

Raising his gaze to the mirror, he held the crown with both hands, lifting it over his shoulders, over his head. He closed his eyes and ever so slowly, he placed the crown on his silver head. When he adjusted it enough to know it wouldn’t fall to the dirty ground, he opened his eyes.

There he was.

King Arwin of the Sky Kingdom…

Arwin hated that Brontes was so calm, so collected. It was as if the asshole took duels everyday. Damn it! He was fighting him! His brother! His own fucking blood. How could he be so calm!?

Arwin gritted his teeth, his nose flaring as the king stepped close enough to grab Rionach and pull her away from him. Brontes unsheathed his sword and pointed it at Arwin before barking orders at the soldiers—Captains and Lieutenants of the royal army looked on, in disbelief. They probably couldn’t imagine that anyone would even dare point their blade at the King.

“General Arwin has challenged me to a duel.”

They gasped and he smirked, his chin high. They probably didn’t believe that he would have the audacity to do so. Well, he did, and he was going to win.

“As it is stated in Skylian law, anyone can challenge the king to a duel. If I win, we will continue with our lives as if nothing happened.” Brontes’s eyes burned through Arwin. The king was unyielding, whereas Arwin shifted his weight. He was nervous. There was no doubt about that, yet Arwin didn’t want anyone to notice.

“If General Arwin wins, he will become the next king.”

“What!?”

“Sir! Reconsider!”

Brontes silenced his soldiers with a wave of his hand. “It is the law.”

Angry gazes settled on Arwin. Yet, his eyes did not falter. He looked upon the king with a dour stare, taking one step forward.

“No one will step in to help. No one will fight this. We will duel with our swords.” Brontes dipped his chin and repeated himself. “With our swords.”

Arwin understood right away and nodded in agreement. No gift would be used, only their sword and strength.

Brontes shifted closer and touched his sword to Arwin’s. “I forgive you. Whatever happens”

Arwin’s upper lip twitched. Forgive him? For what? For defending his honor? For punishing him for touching what was his?

“Fuck you!” And with an angry snarl, Arwin charged.

But Brontes was stronger and quicker.

Of course, he was. He had the best trainers, the best food, the best beds. The much-needed rest of a man that was to become king. His mother probably worried that he ate enough, that he rested. His father encouraged him to keep going when he was about to give up.

What did he have?

His mother died when he was young. She always saw him as a burden, an unavoidable problem she would carry until he was old enough. Luckily, she had died before his coming of age, she didn’t have to see how miserable his life had been—how hard it was to obtain something, anything. If Brontes had to work for his strength, for his skills, Arwin had to work twice as hard. He still couldn’t believe he had made it to General. He couldn’t believe he was still even alive.

The air exploded out of his lungs as his back hit the sandy ground when Brontes had kicked the back of his knees. He opened his eyes and rolled away just as Brontes’s sword thrusted into the spot he had been seconds ago.

Arwin scurried away from him, his chest burning with unreleased anger and as he looked up, the king fixed his shirt as if this was merely training, a sparring session. Fear dawned on Arwin. Brontes was going to win. He was going to thrust his sword into his stomach, he was going to decapitate him—the death of a traitor. His body would probably be tossed away to the blood-stained sands of Umbriel, vulture food.

As Arwin’s gaze fell on Rionach, he saw that same fear in her tear-clouded eyes. She was crying, covering her mouth, trying not to say a word. Was she not trying to take sides? Did she feel something for him? Probably. She had to. There was no way in Tartarus that what they had was nothing.

She had seen him with an adoring gaze, she had screamed his name—his name time and time again. It was him who she held onto when she succumbed to pleasure. It was him she smiled at when she woke up, the first one she kissed. His skin was the first thing she touched when she needed to feel alive. It was him! Not Brontes! He was there first!