Chapter Text
For as long as Varian can remember, the shadows didn’t disappear in the morning.
This, of course, isn’t to say that they lived in a world of darkness. The sun still rose and set, casting warmth on their fields and skin. But not every bit of inky black got chased away by the rays of morning.
Varian is determined to get to the bottom of it one day. And today is that day.
He leaves his house before the sun rises. He’ll have to be up doing chores soon anyway. Might as well get an early start. He tiptoes past his father’s door in their farmhouse, mindful to avoid the floorboards that creak and moan. He briefly considers taking a knife from the kitchen but decides against it. The tiny vials of chemicals in his pack are enough protection.
Besides, there aren’t many foes to face in their edge of the kingdom.
The dirt path down to the woods is one Varian knows like the back of his hand. His boots squelch in mud and morning dew. He won’t be able to wear them back in the house until he cleans them. His footsteps seem loud and abrasive compared to the soft coos of the forest waking up.
It isn’t long before he reaches the edge of the forest. Before him is a large canopy of black, living breathing shadow that moves and sways with the wind, stretching all the way up to the sky. It’s darker than anything Varian’s ever seen—darker than midnight on a cloudless night, darker than death’s cloak. It’s a little scary to look at, but what’s scientific discovery without a little trepidation?
He quickly pulls out his map and studies it. No changes in the border today. That’s good. Sometimes it creeps forward, closer to their village. It’s never more than a few inches, but the idea of the dark mass moving is terrifying. Once, Varian saw it move back, leaving behind a few feet of charred, gray earth and the stench of decay.
Once these shadows consume something, what they leave behind is never the same.
Varian’s heard that every border of their kingdom is like this, kissed by the deadly darkness. Some say that their land is cursed. Varian doesn’t believe magic is the root cause—there’s got to be some scientific explanation for all this. Maybe once he finds it, his father will stop worrying so much.
Quirin doesn’t like to talk about it. He gets all twitchy when Varian presses for information.
But that’s fine. Adira tells him everything anyway.
Besides, Dad will see how much he can help when he uncovers the secrets of these shadows.
He rummages through his pack, fingers finding a vial of blue. He shakes it until it glows. It’s bright enough to be used as a makeshift torch. He’s tried collecting a sample of the shadows before with no luck. The only way to continue his studies is for him to actually go inside to see what it’s like on the other side.
He inches closer to the frothing mass of black. Somehow, it even smells like danger. Varian tries to shake it off with minimal success. It’s just a quick jaunt in, no more than five or so feet! He can stomach that in the name of science.
After all, who’s afraid of the dark? Not him.
He sucks in a breath, and before he can talk himself out of it, steps inside the curtain of shadow.
It’s as if he closed his eyes—but somehow, even darker. His little vial offers a marginal amount of light, just barely enough for him to see his hand in front of his face. Well, next time he’s going to come back with a whole staff of chemicals, maybe even a torch.
His breath rattles in the air as he inches forward. He’s careful not to go too far or else he won’t remember which direction he came from. These shadows consume people—once they get their talons in you, they won’t let you escape. Adira’s relayed plenty of stories of warriors vanishing within these folds. Varian doesn’t intend to be one of them.
He approaches something he thinks maybe was once a tree. Its solid form has been reduced to something gnarled and boney. He’s reaching out to take a sample of the bark when he hears it.
A snuffling, animalistic and hushed. It makes every hair on Varian’s neck stand on end.
That sounds close .
His heart rate quickens into a rabbiting beat. Adira said that men who tried to navigate the shadows were lost forever. Is that untrue? Are there actually people living in complete and total darkness?
Or is it something else entirely?
Cool fear starts to trickle down his spine. Hmm. Maybe this is a hypothesis for another day—one when he’s moments away from getting eaten alive.
He turns on his heel and sprints through the nothingness, feeling the breath of something on his heels until he bursts into the purpling light of the morning sun. His knees give out, collapsing against the nearest tree, staring at the moving blackness with bated breath. If something really is following him, is it going to burst out of the shadow any second?
He waits. Nothing comes.
But this expedition has given him something new to ponder: what manner of creature can survive in total darkness?
He races back to the house, feet pounding on the damp earth. Maybe Adira told Dad something that she didn’t repeat. Maybe there’s more to the shadows than he thought.
He races through the backdoor, feverish excitement making him fumble over the doorstep. “Dad!”
Quirin doesn’t answer. It’s past dawn now, so he’s got to be awake. He follows his routine of treating the animals to their breakfast before he makes his own. “Dad! ”
When his next call reaches no response, he listens. The faint sound of voices on the front porch filters in through the walls.
That’s odd.
They didn’t get many visitors out here in the country. Sure, his father had once been a war hero for the king, but that was before his injury. None of Quirin’s old companions visited except for Adira.
Varian frowns. He considers walking out onto the porch to stand next to his father, but cracking open a window and eavesdropping from out of sight works just as well.
He jimmies the glass open and crouches low so he won’t be seen. “...an honor.” The stranger’s voice lilts through the air.
“I wish I could say the same,” Quirin says, not unkindly. “I get the feeling you’re here for a reason.”
Varian peeks over the ledge to get a better look. The stranger on their porch is someone he doesn’t recognize—someone dressed in elegant purple and black robes, a comet broach synching their cloak.
The symbol of the king.
The man reaches into the folds of his cloak and produces a small scroll. “You knew this time would come, then?”
“I got a feeling.” Quirin takes the scroll, a heavy frown on his face. “Though I doubt I’ll be of much service to Horace in the state I’m in.” He taps his cane once on the ground for emphasis. He really only uses it when his injured joint is stiff. Which, as of late, seems to be a lot more.
But what does the prince want with his father?
The messenger responds robotically, like it’s a practice line. “One able-bodied male from every family is to report in from their region. You’re a unique circumstance thanks to your status, so Horace requested you specifically—”
Varian can’t listen to this anymore. He stands and whips open the door, “Hey! Hi there!” The messenger looks startled at his sudden appearance. Quirin just looks tired.
“ Back inside.” Varian ignores his father’s warning and slaps on his fakest smile as he slips between the stranger and his dad.
“I, ah, think there’s been a mistake here. See, my dad has already served the king once. He’s retired now. He can’t join any kind of army unit.”
The looks as though he’s eaten something sour. “Is this your…” He pauses, searching for the right word to describe Varian, and finding none. “... child , Quirin?”
“Back inside,” Quirin says again, this time grabbing Varian’s shoulder and trying to shove him through the door. Varian normally can’t do much to avoid his father’s iron grip, but today’s a damp morning. Perfect timing to use Quirin’s stiff joints against him.
He squirms out of his father’s hold. “I don’t know what the prince wants, but tell him he’s not gonna get it from my dad.”
Bright red flushes the messenger’s face. “You will watch your mouth you treasonous little—”
“You should get off our property!”
“Vio–” Quirin huffs and shakes his head, irritated. Varian seizes up, an unexpected pang of hurt pulsing through him at the sound of the syllables that almost fell from his father’s lips. “Go. Now.”
Rattled to the core, he actually obeys this time. He stumbles inside onto the couch, nausea rising in his stomach.
Dad didn’t say it. Didn’t call him that name. But he almost did, and that makes it hurt even worse.
His nerves don’t settle even after Quirin steps back inside. Dad isn’t looking at him. He’s staring down that little scroll, sealed with the symbol of the crown.
“Dad?”
Quirin pockets the scroll. Stares straight ahead, eyes a million miles away. “Chores,” he grunts. “Get them done.”
“But—”
“ Now .”
Quirin hobbles off into the kitchen, his cane thumping against the floor in a rhythmic beat. Varian watches him go, uncertainty tugging at his heart. Something isn’t right, and he’s going to get to the bottom of it.
Varian holds himself back from asking until dinner. Really a herculean feat, as his curiosity has been centered around this all day.
“Who was that guy this morning? Did you know him?”
Quirin sighs heavily. He’s probably been expecting this.
“Was he from the castle?” Varian presses on, heedless of the clear headache that’s forming between his father’s temples. “That broach he was wearing looked just like the symbol on your old armor.”
His father lets his fork drop to the table. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”
“Is that letter from the king?”
“Drop it—”
“Just tell me!” Varian nearly shouts, frustration bubbling over at his father’s strictness. This was a nasty habit of Quirin’s—always keeping secrets. “I don’t see what the big deal is!”
Quirin settles him with a stern stare. Varian meets it head-on; he’s grown immune to his father’s tactics of intimidating him by now.
“Your hair’s getting long again.” The observation punches Varian in the gut. He sinks lower in his chair, unconsciously curling into himself. Quirin’s face has softened into something gentler. Something that’s hopeful, something that makes Varian want to squirm. “You should grow it out. It looks nice.”
“I don’t like it in my eyes,” he mutters, glaring at the table. In truth, he doesn’t like it at all—doesn’t like it touching his shoulders, the back of his neck…it makes him feel wrong . If he had it his way, he’d chop all of it off, but he knows Dad will never let him hear the end of it.
He looks too much like his mother. It’s a genetic trait he’s grown to loathe.
Quirin tucks back into his meal for a moment. He successfully disarmed Varian enough to get a few bites in. What a cheap tactic. Sometimes Varian wonders if he does it on purpose.
His father knows him well enough by now that once he’s curious about something, he won’t let it go. “That was Felix. He’s Edmund’s personal messenger.”
“So he was from the king? Does he want you to rejoin the Brotherhood?”
Quirin nods slowly. “The shadows are pressing in on most of the borders. They’re cutting off trade routes and getting closer to the castle. Prince Horace is forming a militia to push them back and he wants every man he can get.”
“But…you said no, right?” Brown eyes stay suspiciously locked on his plate. Anxiety trills through his veins. “You said no. You—you can’t fight. You’re retired.”
Quirin’s face is carefully neutral. “It’s an order from my king.”
Varian’s voice raises as the fear starts to spread through his body, making him numb. “Then he should know about your leg!”
“I took an oath to obey him. It’s an honor to serve him and my kingdom.”
“You’ll die! ” The words burst out of Varian’s mouth, ringing around the kitchen like a funeral bell. “If—if you go into those shadows, you won’t come back.” His voice cracks, but he can’t let his swimming vision overtake him. He searches his father’s face for any trace of emotion but finds it frustratingly blank as stone.
Their plates rattle as Quirin slams his fist into the table. “Enough. There’s so much that you don’t understand.”
Varian slumps back in the chair, arms crossed over his chest. Even though Dad hasn’t served the Brotherhood in decades, he still loves his siblings in arms. He’s bound by duty. Honor.
It’s a bunch of bullshit.
He picks at a divot in the grainy wood. “It’s not fair for him to ask you to do that,” he grumbles.
“It’s not our place to say what’s fair. Just to obey.”
“But—but if he knew about your situation, I’m sure Horace would understand why you couldn’t join him! Why don’t you just tell him no?”
“That would be a waste of his time.”
Varian feels like pulling out his hair. “Then I’ll tell him. Let me explain everything!”
And then Quirin says something that shakes Varian’s soul. “The battlefield is no place for a woman.”
Poison spreads through Varian’s veins, hot and sticky. His stomach churns with anger and hurt, because Quirin said he understood. That it doesn’t matter how he identifies, that he would always be loved unconditionally.
But saying that, almost calling him that name , just confirms to Varian that he lied.
He wants to scream and cry and throw something all at once. Instead, he calmly stands from the table, the chair scraping slowly against the floor. His voice is quiet, controlled, “I’m not a woman.”
To his credit, Quirin seems to realize his mistake. He rubs a hand across his forehead. “That’s not—you don’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand plenty!” The kitchen around him starts to swim, but he refuses to let any of the tears blurring his vision fall. “You say you’re fine with it but you’re still treating me like—” he shakes his head. “I’m not delicate , Dad. If I wanted to go to the battlefront I could! And—and maybe,” Varian’s on a roll now, face flushed with the determination to make his father listen. “ Maybe I could help the prince more than you! Those shadows have things living in them, maybe if Horace actually knew what he was fighting, then—”
Varian suddenly goes cold, realizing a second too late what he just admitted. He slaps a hand over his mouth, but the damage is already done.
“I told you to stay away from the borders.” Quirin’s voice is low and dangerous, like the foreboding rumbling of thunder. Varian can’t do anything but grit his teeth and face the oncoming storm. “You disobeyed me?”
“Dad, I—just listen. I heard something—”
“First it was the alchemy, then your,” he gestures to Varian’s body, “preferences. Now you’re going out and touching the shadows? You’re asking for trouble, and no da— child of mine is going to get mixed up in this.”
The pair of them are locked in a steely gaze, neither one of them willing to back down. Centuries pass all within those heavy seconds. But as always, the tiny, broken part of Varian that wants his father’s approval urges him to bend to Quirin’s will.
“Shocked you even consider me your child,” Varian mutters. “Since I’m such a disappointment.”
Quirin sighs bitterly, “Varian—”
“ Oh , now you know my name?”
“I’m trying to protect you! Keep you safe!”
“Stop treating me like a girl!” Varian roars, voice straining in his throat.
Quirin rises to his feet. Fear skitters down Varian’s spine. He knows his father would never hurt him, but damn if the man isn’t larger than life when he looms like that. “We’re done talking about this.”
And then, because he always needs the last word, Quirin walks out, leaving Varian stewing and seething. His rage boils over as he takes a plate and throws it, shattering it against the wall.
The broken plate reminds him a little of himself. Once seemingly perfect, now unable to retake the shape he’s supposed to have. The shape that everyone wants from him.
His eyes sting and his throat closes as he marches to his room without cleaning up the mess.
Varian doesn’t sleep that night. He can’t.
He stares at the ceiling of his room, mind racing a mile a minute. When he’s stressed, it’s best to break down situations into equations. There’s a problem, and he has to think of a solution.
Dad + Army = Death
Dad - Army = Angry Prince
Angry Prince + Dad = Death
Dad + Varian = Dysfunctional Familial Unit
He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and groans in the quiet. This wouldn’t be an issue if Varian had just been born the way he was supposed to! Dad probably would have trained him in the ways of the Brotherhood, not hidden away all of his armor and weapons since he deemed them too dangerous .
But Quirin doesn’t trust him. He’s always viewed him as something fragile. Like a porcelain doll.
Varian’s not breakable. He doesn’t even want to be a warrior, but he bets he could be one fit for a prince if Quirin just let him try .
Not like it matters, anyway. Quirin would always view him as what he once was—calling him the wrong name, commenting on his hair and body in a way that made Varian feel not himself.
Varian knows his dad loves him. He knows it like he knows the freckles on the back of his hand. But ever since he admitted I don’t feel like me when you call me that , Quirin has tightened his grip on him like a vice. It’s overbearing. It’s unnecessary. It’s impossible to freaking breathe .
He’s disappointing Dad by being true to himself. And no matter how you sliced it, that’s the worst thing Varian can ever think of.
He rolls over onto his side, curling around one of his pillows. In Dad’s stories, Edmund’s always been strict, yet reasonable. Surely Horace would be the same. There’s no way the prince would make Quirin fight if he knew the difficult toll it would have on his well-being. He could get seriously hurt in the state he’s in. If only Horace knew—if someone could explain it to him, or take his place…
Varian stills, an idea blooming in his head.
What had that messenger said? Any able-bodied man.
He’s an able-bodied man.
He could go to the battlefront in his father’s place.
Varian + Army = Happy Prince, Safe Dad
Why didn’t he think of this before? This makes the equation work out. He’ll just lie and say that he’s been given the Brotherhood training so that Horace won’t feel cheated, and save his dad from risk of death. While facing whatever is in those shadows is admittedly a little terrifying, it’s not scarier than the thought of Dad never coming home.
And being away from home means he won’t have Quirin breathing down his neck. He can be who he wants to be with no one knowing any different. And hell, if he becomes a war hero, Quirin won’t be able to deny how much of a man he is.
This…this could work.
Varian sits up, rapidly blinking in the dark. If he’s really going to do this, he’s got to make sure he does it right. Hiding under the nose of the prince is dangerous—he can’t many any mistakes or missteps.
He gets to his feet and sneaks down the hall. He reaches the spare room on the far end of the house—there’s a hole in the wall back here where Quirin likes to hide things. Varian found it when he was seven. Pretending he doesn’t know it’s there is a lot harder than actually finding it.
His fingers find the familiar notches and he wriggles the loose stone free. Ah, there we go. He yanks the trunk out from behind the wall, dragging the thing into the open.
The trunk opens with a barely audible creak. In the moonlight, he catches his reflection in the inky black of his father’s sword and can’t help but wince. Dad was right. His hair is long. It makes a sense of wrongness churn in his stomach.
Is this the same feeling Dad got when he looked at him? Well, Varian’s going to change that. Maybe, by doing this, he’ll make something of himself. Something that’s worth his father’s praise, his pride.
“No more mistakes. No more messes.” Varian lets out a shuddering breath, lifting the sword from the chest. It’s a heavy weight in his hand. It’s something he’ll get used to. “I got this.”
Flowers grow out behind their fields at the edge of the forest, wild and untamed. He's been told that violets were his mother’s favorite flower. When he leaves one in the now empty chest, he hopes Quirin will get the message.
Varian very much does not got this.
He doesn’t know what he was thinking . In theory, the concept of joining Horace’s militia is a good one. It saves his father’s life, sure. Lets him get away from Dad for a little while, great. And reclaiming his identity in the process…
In theory, ideal. In real life? Horrifying .
He can barely lift Dad’s sword! Walking with it is so awkward. It’s clearly made for someone much taller (and stronger, considering the thing weighs half a ton). He’s never asked what kind of substance it’s even made out of. It’s clearly not metal. It’s more like stone, yet sharp as the edge of steel.
Horace’s encampment isn’t too far away from home—Varian was able to ride there on their family’s donkey through the night. Prometheus is a little grumpy that he didn’t get a full night’s rest, but Varian can’t be bothered to apologize.
He’s too nervous.
He leads Prometheus to the stables, then wanders around the crowd. There are masses of single tents already pitched in rows. Varian spots a few men loading in bales of hay and targets—must be for a makeshift archery range or obstacle course. It’s all horribly intimidating for someone whose physical prowess started and stopped at farming chores. Especially that wooden incline wall. That thing is thirty feet of terrifying.
Is he gonna have to climb that thing? There’s no way.
Maybe this had been a mistake.
He shakes himself out of it. No, you’re doing this for Dad. Don’t back out now. Everything will be fine. Just keep your cool, Varian.
Past the fire pits, the ironworkers, the ration tents—there’s a line. Most of the men who just arrived seem to be filling it, so Varian finds himself wandering over.
There’s a ruckus at the front. Varian has to peek through elbows and around shoulders to see what’s happening.
A large man with a Cheshire grin is holding aloft a thick tomb just out of reach of a blond boy. The blond is spitting and snarling, jumping for the book that’s held over his head.
He’s the most beautiful boy Varian’s ever seen.
He scales the man’s arm like a tree, finally snatching the book out of his hands. “You think being Eugene’s best friend gives you the privilege of messing up my notes? My notes , Lance?”
“Yeah,” the man called Lance taunts with a smirk. “‘Cause I know he’d do it too.”
The blond sticks out his tongue. “Begone! Back to the snack tent with you!”
He’s clearly not a royal—all the Dark Kings had deeper complexions than his platinum hair and freckled, milky skin. He’s got to be somebody, though. He’s dressed in rich emerald fabrics that only someone in the inner royal circle could afford. Maybe a noble’s son? He doesn’t look that much older than Varian himself.
The blond sits back down at the little table. Finds his open page, pushes his glasses up his nose in a move that can only be described as entitled. Green eyes glare over the golden rims at the soldier next in line. “Family name and conscription notice.”
Varian falls into the queue, wringing the messenger’s scroll in his hands ‘till it crinkles. His heart beats like a drum with every step forward. His father’s name carries weight here. Should he lie and say he’s from a different family? Or pretend he’s an orphan? No, the conscription notice has his father’s name on it. He can’t lie.
Moon above, he’s barely gotten here and he might get sent right back home.
The indecision makes him so nervous he forgets to step forward when it’s his turn. The blond shoots him a terse call of, “Next! Get up here!”
Varian stumbles up to the table, trying to ignore how his face feels hot. The boy isn’t looking at him, staring down at the pages of his book, quill poised and ready. There are little checks by every name that’s been read.
That’s when it hits him. It’s a birth registry.
“Family name and conscription notice.” It sounds robotic—he’s totally unaware of Varian’s mounting horror. His name wouldn’t be on that list because he wasn’t born with the name Varian .
He’s going to get caught.
“I—” His throat threatens to close up, panic churning in him like the tide.
“Don’t have all day, sweetheart.”
Varian’s stomach swoops for an entirely different reason. The boy finally glances up to look at him quizzically. Oh gods, he’s even prettier up close. “S-sorry—”
A slow, sly smirk spreads across the blond’s thin lips. “‘S okay, Freckles. All I need is your name.” His voice has lowered into a sweet coo.
Is—is this guy flirting with him? Varian’s been flirted with before—village boys who used to think he was a prize until he inevitably scared them off.
But no one’s ever flirted with him as a boy . What is he supposed to even do?? Probably something besides standing here and flapping his mouth like a choking fish.
Moon above, Varian, just say something .
“Varian Quirinson” slips past his tongue. Oops. Well, no use in lying now. He shoves the conscription scroll into the blond’s hands and ducks his head, tugging at the strands of his messy hair.
“Quirinson?” the blond repeats, sounding puzzled. The muddy ground is suddenly much more interesting than looking at the boy’s face. “As in Quirin, the old leader of the Brotherhood?”
Oh, great. He knows . Varian resists the urge to rock back on his heels, his heart beating a mile a minute. “Mmhm.”
“Your pops is a legend.” Apparently, he’s stopped caring about getting people through the line. He’s leaning so far forward that Varian can see down the top button of his blouse to his exposed collarbone. Moon help him. “I mean, obviously everyone knows about the Brotherhood, but to me, he always reminded me of my favorite book character. They both have mad sword skills.”
Varian perks up. “Do you mean Flynnigan Rider?”
A genuine smile spreads across the blond’s face. “Yeah! You know it? I love that series.”
“Me too!” Varian finds himself smiling back. Maybe being here won’t be that bad after all.
“Why don’t you stop by my tent later and we can talk about it more.” Something warm swells in Varian—acceptance, happiness, excitement? All of the above. Two seconds in and he’s made a friend here. He’s almost forgotten about his lie—until the blond turns back to the book.
“That’s weird.”
Varian’s smile cracks around the edges. “Hm?”
Green eyes squint at him. “I’m not seeing him having records of a second child. Only a daughter.”
That ugly word twists something in Varian’s soul. He grits his teeth. Don’t lose it, not right now . “O-oh, uhh. That’s because he doesn’t talk about me much. Pr-probably an error in paperwork.”
He doesn’t know what his next excuse will be—what lie that won’t get him arrested and thrown in some dungeon.
Luckily, it seems he doesn’t need to think of one. The sound of horns blare across the campsite, acting as the perfect distraction. The blond rolls his eyes. “Oh, here we go.”
It’s only when the carriage comes into view does Varian realize why. Made of midnight purples and inky blacks, the dark caravan with the symbol of the comet meant only one thing:
The Dark Prince.
Varian’s spine stiffens. He didn’t expect the prince to be here so soon. Honestly, he had wondered if the guy would show up at all.
Guess this answers his question.
A rhinoceros’s thundering hooves shake the ground as it approaches, being steered by a scraggly man with yellow eyes. When it pulls to a stop, he leaps to the ground nimbly like a cat. His cloak is synched together by the comet crest.
The man sneers. “How about some respect for your prince? On your knees!” The guy looks absolutely terrifying , so most men scramble to comply, Varian included.
The door to the carriage opens. “You don’t have to do that, Hector.” The guy that steps out is a lot younger than Varian expected. Handsomer, too. Gods, Varian would kill to have a goatee like that. Brown eyes quickly scan the crowd before the prince makes a tsking noise. “C’mon, everybody up! I feel so awkward when people do that. I’m just like you people, really!”
Varian can’t focus on the fact that the prince is currently speaking to all of them like they were friendly neighbors. All that’s ringing through his head is the name Hector .
Varian’s uncle.
His mind reels. He’s never actually met Hector before. His father mentioned him only in stories; apparently, he and Hector had a fight—knew about what. All he knows is it made Hector refuse to see Quirin for as long as Varian’s been alive.
He might not know Varian even exists.
Still, the sight of another Brotherhood member has him on edge. Of course Hector would be part of the prince’s personal guard. And if Hector is here—that means Adira is probably here, too.
Shit .
He takes a few steps backward, casually hiding behind a few other recruits to put a few bodies between him and the caravan. His feet itch to run, but that’ll cause a scene. He can’t afford to be spotted.
Varian’s heart pounds. Adira changes everything .
He signed in, technically. Passed over the conscription notice for legitimacy. All he needs now is to escape into a tent until night falls. Then…
Then what? Avoid Adira for the rest of the training? Moon above, he’s such an idiot . Of course she’d be here. Of course she’d be part of the prince’s security. She’ll out him in seconds. He should just go home now and avoid the embarrassment. Maybe if he runs she won’t notice—
He lets out a startled little squeak when he bumps into someone behind him, solid and tall. He jumps away, stuttering out an apology—but his foot catches on the tablecloth of the table.
Like clockwork, the whole thing comes crashing down. Papers go flying through the air like the feathers of a freshly plucked chicken. The blond boy lets out an annoyed whine, sounding above the rest of the men’s chuckles.
Varian tries to scramble to his feet before he's noticed but—too late. Everyone is staring. A hand is offered and he takes it without thinking, his face burning.
It's only after he's on his feet does he realize his mistake.
His aunt blinks at him in surprise. “Vi—”
“ Varian! ” He shouts over her, drowning out the rest of that name. He quickly disguises his cringe as a smile. “I’m Varian, heh! Yep! That’s me.”
Adira quirks a skeptical eyebrow. Horace, who has gotten closer to see the commotion, looks much more amused. “Well, nice to meet you, Varian. Please don’t mess up any more of Hugo’s notes.”
“Sorry,” Varian says again to the secretary, genuinely meaning it. He only gets a green stink-eye in return.
A flash of black blurs in front of him and materializes in the form of Hector. Within seconds, the man is in his personal space, sizing him up like a predator. “M’kay, Varian . You wanna tell me why you have a Shadow Blade?”
Varian freezes. A what? Oh, Dad’s sword . “It’s, uh. A family heirloom— hey!” Panic buzzes through his veins as the sword is swiped from his belt.
“Hector,” Adira warns.
“Give it back!” Varian makes a grab for it, but a swift boot to his sternum holds him back.
The yellow-eyed man sneers. “Why should I? Little thief . This doesn’t belong to you.”
“I didn’t steal it!” Not technically, at least. “It belongs to my father. He gave it to me to use!” He eyes Adira, hoping she’ll back him up. Varian’s a walking corpse if he loses it.
“Shadow Blades are only given to the Brotherhood,” Horace cuts in. He places one hand on Hector’s shoulder. That’s brave—Varian gets the feeling if anyone but the prince did that, they’d be missing a few fingers.
But now the prince’s attention is on him. Oh no . Those brown eyes look at him quizzically, trying to seize him up. “The only members of the Brotherhood that aren’t here are my father and Quirin.”
“And Quirin doesn’t have a son,” Hector sneers.
“How would you know? You haven’t spoken to him in twenty years,” Varian shoots back. That makes the scowl on Hector’s face deepen. Oops, maybe he touched a nerve. He quickly looks away from the man’s face. “Er—he doesn’t talk about me much.”
Hector eyes him up and down. Silently judging. “I can’t imagine why.”
Varian’s ears burn. “Can I have my sword back?”
“Bold to claim it as yours. You’ll have to earn it.”
Horace slaps Hector on the breastplate. “Ah, c’mon Hector. It’s impolite to take things that aren’t yours.”
The warrior grumbles something but tosses the sword back to Varian. He barely catches it, too startled by Horace’s casual tone. The guy’s grinning like there’s some kind of inside joke and he didn’t instantly disarm one of the most powerful warriors in the kingdom.
“Quirin’s son, huh?” Oh gods. Horace is still talking to him. People are staring now, curious to know who has contained the prince’s attention for so long. “Our dads were close, y’know. Before his big injury. I was kind of excited to meet the guy.”
Varian nearly swallows his tongue. “I’m—I’m sorry I’m not what you expected.”
But Horace waves him off. “Ah, no worries. I’ll catch up with that geezer after we beat the shadows and take our land back!” The last bit was intoned louder, a battle cry that has all the rest of the men cheering as Horace pumps his fist in the air. Varian can’t match his wild grin—he can see Adira smirking out of the corner of his eye. Smirking . She probably finds this whole scenario hilarious. Varian wants to glare at her, but he can’t blow his cover.
“Anyway, catch you around, son of Quirin.” Horace flashes him a toothy grin and a pair of finger guns. “You got big shoes to fill, kiddo. I’ll make a strong man out of you by the time we’re done.” The prince winks, and then he's gone, swallowed up by the crowd.
Varian wants to melt into the dirt. He’s not gonna survive the week.
He isn’t surprised when Adira slips into his tent after curfew.
“Well,” she starts, hands on her hips, “I suppose I should ask—”
“You don’t have to, really.” Varian doesn’t look up from where he’s trying to sharpen the Shadow Blade. It gives his restless hands something to do where there are no chemicals around.
“—what you think you’re doing?”
He answers the question with a question. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Incorrectly sharpening my brother’s sword. And, you know. Asking to get yourself killed.”
Varian looks quizically at the tools in his hands. “Dad always uses iron.”
“No, he uses meteorite.” At his curious glance, she sighs and sits cross-legged from him on the ground. While other tents were given lanterns for their occupants to use, Varian opted for his own glowing vials. This made the whole tent alight with green and blues, the murky tones casting deep shadows across Adira’s face.
“Shadow Blades aren’t from earth. They’re birthed from the Moonstone, which came from the stars. The only way to buff them is to use a piece of itself.” She reaches into a pocket of her boot and tosses him a piece of stone. Inky black and icy to the touch—just like the blade.
Oh. Well that would explain why the flint kept grinding against the edge.
Varian tries it out and it runs across the edge smoothly, a few brilliant blue sparks catching in the light. That’s so much better.
“What are you doing?”
Varian’s mouth twitches. “You already asked me that.”
“You didn’t answer me.”
Varian doesn’t look at her. He knows what she wants him to say.
Out of all the members of the Brotherhood he’s met, Adira is the calmest, most collected. It makes her that much more difficult to argue with. “You’re running from him.”
“I’m not .” His gaze snaps up to hers, a jittering building in his chest. “I’m not running away.”
“Oh? Then what?”
“I’m proving myself.” And then it all comes bursting out of him like a pot boiling over. “He doesn’t look at me and see me . He sees what he wants me to be, but that’s not who I am. If—If I can prove myself, make myself enough for him, maybe…” he trails off, eyeing his reflection in the Shadow Blade. He knows it’s him, logically, but he looks so different. He did a quick hack job to get rid of most of his hair, but even then, the person who looks back at him seems like a stranger. “Maybe he’ll finally be proud of me.”
There’s the rustle of fabric as Adira moves closer. A hand rests on his shoulder, making him look up in surprise. Adira doesn’t like to touch people—not even Dad. And yet here she is, holding him. It feels strangely intimate.
“Varian.” She says his name so softly he feels like he’s going to break. “I know my brother is hard to see eye to eye with at times. He’s a stubborn blockhead.” That gets a weak chuckle from him. “But this is dangerous . It goes against the code of our kingdom.”
Varian shoves her hand off his shoulder. “Hypocrite. Edmund lets you fight for him!”
“I’m different. I was selected and trained from a young age as part of an elite guard. You’re impersonating a trained warrior. Horace will either arrest or kill you when he finds out.”
A chill sweeps down his skin. It’s hard to imagine someone so easygoing as the prince actually killing anyone, but the king is strict with his rules. Horace is just as subjected to his father’s will as the rest of them.
What he finds most concerning, though, is that she used the word when .
Varian can barely find his voice. “You’re…you’re gonna tell him?”
Adira is quiet for a long moment. Varian feels his stomach twist tighter every second she’s silent.
Eventually, she speaks, voice low and steady. “I took an oath—”
“Adira, you can’t!”
“—that I swore to the crown—”
“Auntie, please! ”
“—and if you’re not gone by morning I’ll be forced to—”
And that same rage claws inside him, that uncontrollable force that makes him want to scream and bite and tear into everything because this isn’t fair . It isn’t fair that these decisions kept being made for him, that he’s being limited, forced into a mold that isn’t designed for him. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s on his feet, sword flying from his lap and clattering into the glowing vials.
“ NO!” His outburst manages to make her pause. He only has seconds to make his argument—he balls his hands into fists and forces his voice to remain steady. “All my life I’ve been told what I’m supposed to be. I’m done sitting in the back seat and letting people tell me who I am. If you expose me, I’ll never go home. My father doesn’t care about me. If he did—” Varian shakes his head, forcing out the words through a tight throat. “If he did, he wouldn’t be ashamed of me.”
Adira’s face pinches. “He’s not ashamed of you. He just…doesn’t know how to show his love.”
His heart aches at her words. He knows they’re probably true, but it’s still hard to believe. “Let me show him, then. Let me show the world who I am.”
He meets her stare with a confidence he doesn’t feel. It’s scarier than dealing with Hector.
“Fine,” she says, “I won’t tell him. But—” she cuts off Varian’s whoop of joy with a sharp finger pointed between his eyes. “You need to understand the severity of your decision. If this comes to light, I can’t stand between you and the crown."
He keeps his chin raised. “I can take care of myself.”
Adira gives him one final look. It seems she's more curious now than she was before. Probably making a mental bet to herself when he’s going to give up. "Start by getting a good night's sleep. You’ll need it. Eugene doesn't pull his punches."
Varian opens his mouth to ask who Eugene is, but she's already gone.