Page 1 of A Cursed Son

1

Love makes people stupid. And irresponsible.

Barefoot, standing on a thin ledge ten floors above the ground, I’m glad I praise intelligence above all else. But then, perhaps love is what drove me here. A different type of love, the best type of love.

Just a few more steps, and I’ll reach Tarlia’s window. At this height, the guards’ murmurs down in the outer gardens of the castle disappear, drowned by the wind’s lullaby. The trail of stars in the sky seems closer than the lanterns on the ground, whose light can’t reach me, can’t reveal me, even if someone was curious enough to gaze upward.

Sometimes, I wonder if the Elite Guard is housed in the upper levels of the castle’s highest tower to remind us of our importance or to render us insignificant, separated from the rest of the world.

Few venture out here, afraid of an impossible fall, even though the ledge is wide enough for my feet. What can I say? Fear distorts reality. Not mine. At least not concerning heights.

Quin’s question and his smile flash through my head. Are you going to Lord Stratson’s wedding? The echo of his words bounces in my head, disarranges thoughts, unveils buried wishes.

Why is it that we can’t dissolve thoughts? Can’t forget things on purpose? I’m not in love with Quin. I don’t know if I’ll ever be.

Now, love can lead to stupid decisions, but what about non-love? What about a wisp of hope that maybe this could become something… I don’t even know what. And yet that smile…

I clench my hand holding the bag with the drusils, the dessert Tarlia loves so much. Even as a little girl, her eyes would glimmer at the sight of the roasted coconut sweets. I want to bring her some of that joy tonight, perhaps remind her that I’ll always love her like a sister. It doesn’t matter if she’s been failing the tests.

Yes, I study and study, but for me, it’s different; I have to be perfect. I don’t think it’s fair to ground the royal substitutes who miss some questions on our tests, especially when it’s about a minor fae court. We don’t even have any dealings with the fae, not even with the Crystal Court, right beside us. Of course we need to learn about other kingdoms. And yet, why deprive Tarlia of this little joy? It’s not like we have a ton of it.

Quin’s smile hasn’t left my mind. He’s a member of the Elite Guard, trained to impersonate the oldest prince when needed, just like I can stand in for the princess. A little different, I guess. The male substitutes play more of a protective role, while we… Let’s just say our job is a thorny tangle. They are also older, in their early twenties, while we are all nineteen.

The thing with Quin is not his obvious good looks. He’s brown-haired and brown-eyed like the elder prince, and fit, too, but they’re all like that. What makes him different is his relaxed, disarming smile, and perhaps how often that smile is directed at me.

I shouldn’t be thinking about him.

Using one hand, I hold on to the grooves of the stone wall and inch faster, aiming to reach my friend’s room before my thoughts veer to dangerous paths.

Three more careful steps, and I’ll get to Tarlia’s window. That’s what I have to do, before that sweet smile melts my mind.

One, two, three. There.

As my fist approaches the glass for a knock, the Almighty Mother reminds me to look first.

In shock, I almost drop the bag, but I manage to catch it before it slips. I shouldn’t be looking. I should turn away.

Sayanne’s words are the ones that cross my mind now. She’s a slut. Slut. Slut. Slut. A word for women only.

Almost like a reply, I remember Tarlia in a rare moment of honesty. “You think we’ll survive this?” Her bitter laugh still echoes in my mind.

Tarlia doesn’t seem bitter now, she seems… Blissful. On all fours on her bed, it’s as if nothing matters but that moment, a pleasant abandon lulling her into satisfaction. Perhaps it’s like me, when training, when only my movements matter, and there’s nothing outside the training court.

Of course, in her case, there’s something inside her, filling her, pushing into her, and judging by her face, it’s better than all the drusils in the world.

Her face. It’s funny to see her like that, considering how much she looks like me, from her wavy burgundy hair to her upturned nose. A nose that was sculpted, like mine. Burgundy hair that’s artificially colored, like mine. Unlike me, though, she doesn’t have to fear death if her roots appear, and I’ve glimpsed some light brown a few times.

I have no idea what my true hair color is like, if it’s light lilac or dark purple, bright or muted, as it has never been given the chance to emerge. All I see is dark burgundy, like Tarlia’s hair. Our eyes are both brown, although mine are slightly smaller than hers.

I should look away, but my eyes are frozen in place, fascinated by their primal, animalistic movements. Did I look like this? I never did it in my bedroom, though. Instead, I climbed down to the outer gardens, where only hedge walls protected me. I want to bury the memory, bury the shame. Tarlia doesn’t have any shame, and it’s funny that Sayanne thinks she should have some.

Shame is dreadful.

Behind her, pumping fervently, is Fachin, one of the guards in the Elite Tower, his muscular body contrasting with Tarlia’s soft curves. It’s odd because I thought she was involved with one of the substitutes. And then, perhaps she was. Perhaps she still is, but likes some variety. These guards should be protecting us, though. Will they start thinking we’re all fair game, ready to invite them into our beds?

Great. Now I hear Sayanne’s words again. She’s sullying our names. Men talk. They’ll think we’re all sluts. A slut’s value is zero.

Not always zero, but I never told her that. I never told anyone.