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As the fourth-born brother, thus fourth in line for the throne, the fates weren’t kind to Frederick, blessing him with average magic. But it seems, as he went on with his life, the fates changed their minds and gave him a chance at the crown. Two of his older brothers died at a young age, one of them from a riding accident and the other from suffocation, which may have not been an accident. The deaths left only the late king and little Frederick, the youngest of the bunch.
He was said to be his mother’s least favorite, no doubt due to the weakness of his magic. Multipliers aren’t as impressive when there are many of them or when they’re not trained in combat. Frederick grew up in the court, where his mouth had to be stronger than his sword arm.
Which is why he will recognize an opportunity when I present him with one. He should also recognize defeat, for I intend to make him give up the crown.
I put on a fresh uniform and arrive at the palace wing reserved for the family. He hasn’t moved into the king’s chambers yet. Just as well, because it will save me having to move him out.
The guards at the door exchange looks, clearly reluctant to ask me to surrender my weapons. Not that it does anyone any good since I can use just about any object to eliminate threats. Regardless, these are palace guards, and they’re going through a lot with the coup and now my arrival.
I hand over all my weapons at the same time that Frederick opens the doors.
“There you are. I’ve been expecting you,” he says.
“You have?”
“Most certainly. Predicting people’s moves is one of my great passions.”
“Somewhat of a seer, are you?”
“I’d like to think so, yes.”
I don’t reply. Clearly, he’s never spent time around an actual seer. I have, and she taught me that I can’t predict shit.
“Come in, come in, D’Artaron.” The long, wide sleeves of his deep green robes fold gracefully over his arm as he waves me inside and limps away. The healer on staff already worked on his thigh. He takes a seat at a table and props up his leg, then picks up his cigar, takes a puff, and blows out a stream of smoke. “Guards, return his weapons. You should know better. D’Artaron can use anything as a weapon anyway. We’d have to kill him to disarm him.” He pauses, and I lift an eyebrow.
“But we wouldn’t want to have to resort to that now, would we, D’Artaron?”
He’s threatening me. My heart dances happily at the prospect of a conflict. “I don’t know which we you’re referring to, but from where I stand, I most certainly would appreciate the excuse to end you.”
He snorts. “I wasn’t really asking you anything.”
And there you have it. He’s putting me in my place. He’s the king (whether I think he is or not) and I’m a military commander demoted to the position of the queen’s blade, which some males look down upon, feeling as if I’m nothing more than a bodyguard.
This conversation will be as pleasant as a lycan bite, and yet, I must attempt a conversation at the very least.
“To what do we owe the pleasure of your presence?” Frederick asks as he flicks his fingers. Females rise from the nests they’ve made in various parts of the dimly lit space and walk toward a wine barrel. They’re nude, voluptuous, with beautiful, long, red-brown hair touching the tops of their full bottoms.
Lilac-colored wings indicating they’re at the height of their heat rise from their backs.
I sit across from their king.
One of them approaches and hands me a glass of wine, her large breasts on display for me. She lingers, clearly expecting to sit on my lap.
“Thank you.” I accept the wine, taking care not to touch her, not even with my gloves.
Bold and unable to help herself in heat, she purrs and leans in to sniff. Her eyelids droop, and she reaches for me as if to touch my cheek.
I tsk.
She makes a pouty face and tries again.
This time, I growl, a clear sign of aggression. I’m not here for pleasure. “Read the signs I’m giving you,” I bark, and she retreats.
Usually, I’m kinder to females, and when I let them down, I do so gently, but these females are likely hired help and will back off only if I’m firm. I glare at the male. “Get rid of them.”
“Pardon?”
“You heard me.”
