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They all drank.
Killian’s heart rate ratcheted, pulsing in his ears. He leaned forward and set his hand beside his prepared notes, waiting for his opportunity.
His father examined the nobles, his gaze finally drifting to Killian. Their eyes met. Killian swallowed to moisten his mouth, ready to speak.
His father scratched just below his crown and turned away. “Lord Farsha, what is your report from the west of Norwood?” The king’s gaze flicked to the elderly man at the end. Lord Farsha hesitated and cast a furrowed glance at Killian before he pushed on the table’s edge to stand on rickety legs.
Killian blinked. Perhaps … perhaps his father had forgotten? But he had promised. They had discussed it only two days ago. Killian’s thoughts raced as Lord Farsha spoke. He knew what the lord was going to say, he had asked him himself. Killian had done the research. He had the numbers stained in black on the papers before him. He had come up with a plan already. He had been prepared to present the solution.
Perhaps it was a test. A test of … patience?
Killian straightened his spine, staring at his father’s bearded face and listening distantly to the reports the nobles lay before the king. Reports that should have been Killian’s to share.
Killian shifted his papers so his plan for the crisis was on top. He was ready to contribute several solutions to the problems the kingdom of Norwood was currently facing. But his father never looked back at him. Ideas from others were thrown out, but when Killian opened his lips to share his own, his father lifted a single finger from the table and shook his head, never glancing over. The message was clear. And it was for Killian alone.
It was all he could do not to slouch under the disappointment.
“Very good.” His father stood, casting back the chair behind him a few feet. “Lord Ryker will be sent as ambassador to the Isle, while Lord Farsha will concentrate on drought improvements. Let’s get this wrapped up quickly, gentlemen. The prince’s wedding approaches, which makes this discussion almost fruitless. In two months, his marriage will save us all. But until then, the people are hungry.” He cleared his throat. “We’ll meet again in three days.”
Then the king turned to leave. Killian’s mouth dropped open to protest, but the king had already swept out the door. Ignored again. Looked over again. Everything rested on a betrothal and some old, alleged magic. But Killian had a plan. Yet the king still left before he let Killian speak, or lead … or even try.
How could Killian fix the past when the king suffocated every opportunity? Killian dragged a hand down his face before dropping his forehead to his fist. Again and again, Killian tried. And sure, he had failed before, but …
He shook his head. Perhaps that’s all he could do—he could only fail.
Killian’s hand clenched the useless parchment as he glared daggers up at the massive portrait hung in the middle of the room across from him. A childish face peered back, round eyes wide with what was certainly terror as he held a tiny pink swaddled newborn. A portrait of the then three-year-old prince’s betrothal to that very infant.
Killian was certain his place at the table was deliberately across from the portrait to press on him during meetings and beat into him the whole purpose of his existence. A marriage. His marriage.Themarriagethat would finally unite the countries and solve all the world’s problems. The moment of his cursed contract captured in oil, as solid and unbending as stone. His father’s ultimate plan for Killian’s life and their country’s future happiness.
Long live the king.
In a fury, Killian gathered his things, kicked back from the table, and stalked out of the room.
Killian roared as he slammed his sword repeatedly against his opponent’s, his mind whirling as fast as his weapon.Clash. The king.Clash. Struggling harvests.Clash. Failure.Clash. His father.Clash. Each strike was a desperate attempt to unburden himself from the many frustrations of his princely life. Thankfully, Phineas could take it. The hulking man parried every blow with a swiftness that should have been impossible for someone so massive. His size, however, certainly contributed to the vibration of Killian’s bones when Phineas struck back. Killian slipped, throwing his weight on his heels as his friend dodged around the training arena and then pressed forward.
Killian spun and tried to feint, but Phineas anticipated it and blocked before retorting with his own thrusts. Phineas hammered him backward incessantly until he knocked Killian onto his backside with a swipe of his leg. Killian was an excellent fighter, the best in the whole army—except for one. He could never beat his best friend.
Brushing aside the cold metal on his neck, Killian sat up and threw his weapon to the ground, wishing for half the bulk that Phineas carried so easily. “Overmuscled cheater.”
“Hyper-expressive loser.” Phineas winked as he sheathed the practice sword. “Don’t give hints. Stop flinching when you’re struck. It’s not a surprise. Take the hit and hit back.”
Killian glared at Phineas’s offered hand before taking it. Phineas flung him to his feet. Rubbing the back of his head, Killian stalked away from the field, bending briefly to snatch up his own sword. Thankfully, they were in a blocked-off part of the arena, so his men couldn’t watch his embarrassment.
“Just once, you could lose,” Killian muttered as they entered the field armory.
Pursing his lips, Phineas passed his sword to the weapon master’s apprentice, a boy of twelve, before taking Killian’s and handing that over too. “It would just inflate your already oversized head.” The boy’s eyes widened at Phineas’s words. Phineas blinked and corrected himself. “Uh … I mean, your royal head, Your Highness … sir.”
Killian snorted as he crossed his arms dismissively. Lord Phineas, the son of the highest-ranking noble family in Norwood and second only to Killian in the army, had been a part of Killian’s earliest memories. Beside Killian during tutoring and training, he had been a key participant in all the mischief that Killian could conjure. Killian loved him like a brother, even if his father did regularly threaten to make Phineas his heir. Phineas was the only person who treated him like a human and not a prince. Sometimes that blessing was mixed.
As they walked back to the archery field, Phineas nudged Killian with his shoulder. “You are a particularly sore loser today, my friend. What’s going on?”
“The usual.”
Phineas winced, as if weighing his next words. “You’ve been struggling more and more lately. Today seems … worse …”
“It’s just …” Killian slapped his gloves into the other palm. “I’m never going to be good enough for him. I snatched that trade deal with the fishermen a couple months ago, we squelched that rebellion along the coastline, but it’s like he’ll never let go of that failed rent issue up north or the debacle with Tallen.” Killian swallowed, shoving his thoughts in another direction from his failed negotiations with that distant nation. “I’m doing everything he wants, but he’ll never trust me again. How can I be king if he keeps me silent?” Killian huffed, his chest heaving. “He treats me like my only contribution to this kingdom is my marriage contract.”
Phineas reached for one of the bows before bending it to catch the bowstring. “I thought you said the king was going to let you lead the meeting this morning?”
