Page 4 of Impaled by His Omega Prince (Reluctant Fae Princes #2)

Askara

Several days before, Askara had stood at his window, bathing in the glow of his Mother Moon when the flashpine forest’s matron tree finally blew. The flaming seeds he’d come to expect from a matron were sparse, and it crumbled. Corrupted thalms, death magic, with its signature smell, rose and curled with the smoke, drifting on the breeze as a few of his patron’s sell-swords leaped onto horseback and rode toward the explosion. If fire were to spread, it could hurt business or draw unwanted attention.

Askara could have sent warning or called out, alerting the men that the tree had been lit by death, meaning a Croatenian mage was afoot, but that wasn’t in Askara’s list of expectations. It was not what he was ordered to do by the patrons who held his sigil, the key to his enchantments that kept him locked away.

Since he was a little boy, he’d resided in the castle, reminded daily of his title, the bastard prince of Liaberos, the queen slayer. But he was no bastard. He was no queen slayer. The consort of the king of Liaberos, queen by name, needed only have a sip of vitalis to have survived Askara’s birth. Whoever denied her that taste was the queen slayer.

Despite his foul origins and the burden he represented, he’d been treated quite kindly, all things considered. Seeing as he couldn’t be killed, he could have been kept far less nicely.

He was given good clothes and three meals a day. He had been given an education and training in the sword, lessons in reading and diction. He was not an unlearned noble, merely a bastard by label, one that the goddesses couldn’t convince the king of Liaberos to drop. Despite this, his beta patrons had been kind, a mixed couple, sun and moon fae who presented him to the outside world as their son. Still, he knew the truth. Every sunrise and sunset he could, he lifted his head in prayer to his true mothers—the moon who had blessed his birth and the sun who had given Askara to the moon.

All had been well until a distant relative came for an extended visit. And in just a matter of weeks, his adopted parents had given control of him to Cilan, a dusk alpha and his spouse, an omega, also dusk, who presented herself as female by choice. In any circumstance, the fairest gender was not immune to the corruption of greed. Arlyth wasn’t, at least.

By the runes on his chest, Askara was bound to the castle, and any step outside of its bounds came only with who held his token and King Alluin’s permission. He couldn’t even access his own thalms to use without their permission, and was woefully uneducated in his own magic, despite his score being admirable. Thirty, he recalled.

All the magic in the world did nothing as the guards rode out and gleefully returned shortly after bearing a well-dressed male in a state of dishevelment, hauled on a canvas sheet. Askara could feel the vitalis they used on him and knew what fate would befall their new prize. After all, any fae fool enough to set foot on the queen slayer’s estate would remain until their life or value was forfeit. Usually life.

Usually at Askara’s blade.

He’d heard the male fighting before as he sulked around corridors with an ear held to the wind. Something about him interested Askara. And it wasn’t until their fight that he realized why—omega.

More than an omega, really. The male he’d come to know as Prince Lumic had thalmic magic that oozed from his pores and a scent so much finer than any omega. And in his prayers to the goddesses, the moon told Askara to save him, which was odd, because the moon could be selfish.

But Lumic didn’t need saving. He wielded a sword against Askara with fine grace and strength. If Askara didn’t have the upper hand in the disgraceful scrapping they made him perform, he was certain Lumic would have won. As stood, Cilan had wanted Lumic to win.

Askara wanted Lumic to live, and so did the goddesses, it seemed.

“Mother Goddess, moon above,” Askara said that night, kneeling before his chamber window, staring at the skies above. The moon showed her face in the gentle way she did before the witching hour, when the fights began.

My son. What is it you ask me for this night?

“I ask nothing from my mother, only company. Do I burden you with my missives?” Askara stared boldly upon the moon, breath shuddering in his chest.

You are sweet, my child. You do not burden me. I merely have many cogs that turn in the machine that is Liaberos and worry of the fate of my sister’s vitalis. When to turn your cog is the question. Will you turn for me?

“Always, Mother.” Askara closed his eyes to bathe in the glow as it penetrated his lids, relishing the way her presence made his skin tingle, like the soft touch of the mother that had given her life for him, a mother he’d never have. Part of him wondered if his blood mother lay in the eternal beyond with the moon or sun, or if she had returned to this world to be born again.

Then continue to survive. Thrive for me and do what you must for the prince.

“He must be very special to you.” A smile tugged at the corners of Askara’s mouth.

Silence stretched, the pause drawing on, making Askara wonder if she’d turned her attention from him.

No. He’s no more special to me than any other. He is not a follower. He’s your key to escape. He’s your key to revenge upon your father.

That had Askara’s attention. In the brief fight he’d had with the omega, the snarky conversation and how bravely he’d held up to capture, much unlike any noble Askara had seen, he’d become infatuated. The omega could be the new holder of his sigil! Joy blossomed in Askara’s belly.

“Thank you, Mother!”

Do what Lumic asks of you. He understands far more than you.

“I do not understand what you ask of me, but I blindly follow, Mother. I will protect the omega and do my best to obey.” Askara could not contain his joy, and the soft rush of the wind and cool caress of the moonlight told him the goddess laughed. She did so often, calling him an innocent child, a silly boy and even more so, her favorite child for the night.

Askara was no child, but he did lack experience, had little encounters with others, especially not of those of the opposite sex. Lumic, an omega, tickled his senses and made parts of him wake that he’d be ashamed to admit.

Goodnight, my son. Remember my words and fight bravely. Protect and be protected.

Askara stood abruptly and turned. The goddess ending her talks with him often meant—

His bedroom door swung open, the wood slamming against the wall, frame rattling. “Why aren’t you in the dungeons?” Cilan stood there, staring Askara down with a furrowed brow. An enchanted amulet around his neck swung just outside of his stained linen shirt, the tarnish on it something that Mother Miree would never have allowed. Father Ruvaen never even wore the thing; kept it tucked away some place secret.

“Apologies, Cilan. I was not ordered to be down this night.”

“Who were you talking to?” He glanced around; dark circles under his eyes and bloodshot sclera told him that something had rankled the alpha.

“Mother Goddess.” Askara could not lie and was compelled to answer who held his sigil.

Cilan spat on the floor and grumbled. “Pray all you like. Won’t get you out of this place.”

“It wasn’t my intention to leave.” That was the truth. He hadn’t sought to, but the moon had said it would be so.

“That fucking bull of an omega just lost us eight dharni! I need something to come out and break us even.”

“Yes, sir.” Askara bowed his head and stood tall. If his patrons had lost that much gold on Lumic, he dreaded what would become of him. “Perhaps the crowd will be more frivolous with their gold, thinking they may win more?”

“I don’t pay you to think, bastard.” Cilan spit on the floor once more and stormed off, the green ooze of his saliva reeking of sunderleaf and ground sorvin scales—a powerful anesthetic if used correctly. An addictive vice, if not.

“I’m not paid at all.” Askara shuffled toward the door, stretching out as he did so. Cilan had not given him permission to dress, so he went out, wearing naught but his leather breeches. Ordinarily he’d at least wear something to protect his neck and arms a bit, but unless Cilan specified, Askara did not do.

Cilan hesitated, halting in his step as he left the hall, shoulders pinching as if he wanted to say something, to wheel around and make Askara regret, but as if he thought better, he continued his march down to the dining hall turned impromptu dueling arena.

“Just get a sword and tear someone up. We have a debtor that wants to settle his score.” He waved at him as he dipped into what was left of the unfortunate armory before the stairs to the basement. Of all the broken, dull weapons in the storage, the only one of any decent care was Askara’s sword.

He twisted his wrist, took a deep breath, and stepped into the hall to the jeers and cheers of a few dozen drunken gamblers.

Askara strode out onto the floor, his feet crunching over well-worn straw that lay scattered piecemeal over the floor. They’d brought it in to absorb some of the mud and piss that tracked in from their audiences. As it broke down, it mashed between the cobbles into dirt so thick in places that he was thankful for the arena floor, where he could be certain most of the grime was blood. Mostly.

He flexed his wrist as he strolled, rolling the sword to play with its weight, the heft comfortable. Far more comfortable than he felt when a patron slung a wooden tankard filled with sour ale at him, the solid weight of it colliding with the back of his head and soaking him from bare chest to leather pants.

“Ugh! Have you no decorum?” Askara turned, dripping to face the heckler and found Arlyth, Cilan’s mate, lush and draped over the shoulder of a rather large half-orc male. Arlyth laughed heartily while the cold ale seeped into places Askara would dread smelling once the fight and sweat had mingled in his trousers.

“Go on, queen slayer, this creature cannot pay his debt!” Arlyth waved Askara off, pointing him toward a stumbling half orc who leered from a bench at the edge of the arena.

It wouldn’t be a fair fight.

There were two sides to a coin when it came to battle. Physical strength was one; skill was another. However, a third side was presence—clarity of mind. From the large, dilated pupils of the creature, half man, half orc, Askara knew he was far too gone to last.

“This isn’t a battle, it’s an execution,” Askara spoke quietly as he walked away, head bowed. He muttered under his breath, a silent prayer, apologizing for what he was to do. For whoever held his sigil had control. Disobedience would cause great pain, pain that Miree and Ruvaen had never inflicted upon him.

The half orc choked up on an ax like someone might hold a rug beater. He wouldn’t have the strength in his swing, but Askara knew the routine. The goal was not to lose or win but how long the round would last.

He glanced over his shoulder, searching the crowd for Cilan. The glance cost him as the half orc swung the ax before the signal to fight. By sheer luck, his strike went wide, sailing past Askara’s shoulder. Had he been unglamored, his horn would have taken a blow. Another good reason for alphas to hide their gifts.

Cilan was nowhere to be seen and Arlyth too focused on the other half orc.

He held his sword, dodged the swing, ducked low, and clipped the blade at the half-orc’s ankle. He went down on a knee with a snarl as dark-brown blood spilled over the dirty floor, following the stomped-in straw through what had once been grout.

The half orc swore and clawed at the ground, waving the ax haphazardly, still too inebriated to understand the extent of their damage. “When you reach the bottom of hell, tell your whore mother I think of her.”

Askara never knew his birth mother, the supposed whore queen, the one that died in birth. The insult meant little to him as he gave the bastard prince a rude gesture with his tongue. People in the crowd laughed, and Askara chanced another glance around, Cilan nowhere to be seen. Arlyth and the other half orc had disappeared as well.

Not sure of what to do, Askara made his final blow, a swift slash across the male’s throat mere seconds before Cilan’s furious swearing rang out. “Stupid fucking child!”

Askara took a deep breath, dropped his sword, and with a swift gesture pulled the leather thong that held his hair out of his eyes free. He hurriedly stuffed it between flat teeth just in time for the pain to hit.

As all the times before, Askara pushed his way through it, jaw clenched. It’d only take a few seconds as fire burned through the sigils carved into his flesh. Unconsciousness claimed him as hard as the floor did.

Another night in the cells…