I closed my eyes and breathed in. The ambient mana rolled toward me like mist over water. Thin threads at first, then thicker strands as I opened myself wider. My Core drank greedily, pulling in every drop, dissolving it into raw power that settled behind my ribs. But tonight the hunger felt different, sharper, tangled with something new.
Not just the need to devour monsters. I stayed like that for a long time, letting the mana pool, until my thoughts grew heavy. The ache of the day eased, replaced by the low burn of anticipation. Eventually, I let the flow taper off. My eyes opened to the dim tent, coals glowing faintly.
I stood, stretched, and glanced toward the cot. Sleep would come. Eventually. Not while the Bleakmarch waited. Not while tomorrow night in Tidewater waited. I smiled into the dark, small and sharp. Tomorrow we'll march. Tomorrow I'd feed. And I'd see just how far that promise could go.
Not long after that, I stripped out of my clothes only to notice that I was muscular all over and looked strong. I was impressed, but I yawned, climbing into bed and getting comfortable. My eyes slowly shut as I felt the mana rushing through my body while I mused about the kiss I shared with Sahara before falling asleep. She's different compared to Anna. I still need to be careful.
***
(King Ragnar Verona)
The quill scratched across parchment long after the candles had burned low, shadows crawling over the desk like weary sentries. I was buried in reports, border skirmishes, grain yields, and the endless hunger of the treasury when the door flew open. Mother never knocked when the news was grave.
Vivianna strode in, the torchlight catching the silver in steel in her eyes. ''My son,'' she said without preamble, ''Arthur is not the boy you sent away.''
I set the quill down slowly, already tasting irritation. ''He is exactly the boy we sent away. Lazy, insolent, allergic to responsibility.''
''No,'' her voice cut like a headsman's blade. ''I saw him myself. Delivered your summons as you requested. He refused it.''
My fingers tightened on the edge of the desk until the wood groaned. ''He dares.''
''He is marching into the Bleakmarch at the head of the Ninth Legion,'' she continued, relentless. ''To reclaim it in his own name. By the old law you wrote with your grandfather's hand, Ragnar, if someone retakes lost Veronian lands unaided, it becomes his forever.''
For a heartbeat, the study was silent except for the spit of the candles. Then I surged to my feet, chair crashing backwards. ''He was ordered to return to the capital at once! The Bleakmarch is a graveyard, one hundred thousand men couldn't hold it last time!''
Vivianna's lips curved, almost amused. ''Ordinary men, perhaps. Calm yourself, my son. I looked into his eyes. Whatever slumbering thing was in your boy has woken. And it is ravenous.''
''I've heard the rumours,'' I said, setting my quill aside. ''They say he's become some kind of monster now, a human monster, according to one of the dukes.''
My mother let out a soft, delighted laugh. ''Oh, I think you'll like him. He's nothing like Rodric or Draven. He is walking death, especially once he grows stronger.''
''Have you actually seen this new power of his?''
Vivianna's eyes sparkled as she raised her right hand. Mana shimmered around her fingers, and in an instant, a wicked, black claw extended from her fingers, perfectly formed, unmistakably my sons. I felt the air leave my lungs. ''A Slayer?'' My voice cracked. ''He's not a mage hunter… is he?''
Her smile widened, sharp and proud. ''That he is, my son.''
She let the claw vanish as smoothly as it had appeared. ''Not a drop of magic in him, not like his siblings. But it hardly matters. He compensates with raw, superhuman strength and speed that borders on the obscene.''
I swallowed hard, the weight of her words settling like cold iron in my chest. I shook my head and summoned my advisor. ''Harlan!''
The walls shook thanks to the mana in my voice, allowing anyone to hear across the palace. My mother giggled in amusement as she sat down to get comfortable. A few seconds later, an older man rushed into the room, kneeling in front of the desk. ''Yes, your highness.''
Harlan looked at my mother and nodded with a friendly smile. ''Queen Mother.''
''What are the rumours about my errant son?'' I interrupted.
The older man rose slowly, his brow creased with worry. ''They're calling him the Devourer Prince now, the one destined to lift Verona to new heights. The common folk are captivated by his transformation. And the fact that he's marching straight into Bleakmarch with only four thousand to claim it as his own… It's madness, yet they cheer for it.''
Harlan turned to me, voice low. ''May I speak freely, Your Highness?''
I nodded. ''Always. Speak plainly.''
''He's a fool,'' Harlan said bluntly, ''but the third prince is no longer the boy we knew. He's harder now, more determined, more direct. Word is he tore through the assassins sent against him, used those new powers of his, then… consumed their hearts like some feral beast.''
His gaze hardened. ''We should have the Ashcroft girl end him quietly. We can't risk it; if he becomes a problem we can't contain.''
The words hung in the air when the temperature in the chamber plummeted. I felt the cold before I saw it, frost spidering across the stone floor. Vivianna stood, blue eyes blazing with unnatural light. In the space of a heartbeat, she vanished from her chair and reappeared directly in front of Harlan.
The punch came faster than I thought. A wet crack echoed as her fist drove into his stomach. Harlan's body folded like wet parchment; the force hurled him backwards. He crashed through the oak-panelled wall in an explosion of splinters and dust, skidding across the floor of the adjoining corridor, lying still.
''How dare you!'' Vivianna snarled, voice trembling with fury so pure it seemed to shake the air itself. "He is my grandson. You will not speak of killing him. If that thought ever crosses your lips again, I will erase you and every last branch of your bloodline from the face of Lumira!''
I started to rise, mouth opening to intervene, but she whirled on me with terrifying speed. ''And you,'' her gaze pinned me where I stood. ''If I even suspect you're considering it, I won't hesitate. Do you remember what happened to your uncle, boy?''
It wasn't a question. It was a reminder. The memory of that night, of the screams that had gone on for hours before silence finally fell, rose unbidden. I swallowed and sat back down. The room stayed deathly quiet, save for the faint groan of settling rubble and Harlan's ragged breathing from the other side of the shattered wall.
Vivianna turned slowly back to Harlan, who was still sprawled amid the broken plaster and splintered wood. Her voice dropped to something low and lethal, each word carved from ice.
''I am the Witch of Verona,'' she declared. ''And you know I can make good on every promise I've ever made. Keep my grandson's name off your tongue when it comes to death, or you will lose everything, despite being a friend to me and my beloved.''
A heartbeat later, she was gone, swallowed in a sudden burst of mana that scorched the air and left the faint scent of ozone behind. The silence that followed felt heavier than the shattered wall. I rose, crossed the room, and extended a hand to Harlan. He took it with a grimace, letting me haul him to his feet.
Dust drifted from his torn shirt as he steadied himself against the edge of the table. Then, to my surprise, he let out a dry, wheezing chuckle. ''Well,'' he rasped, pressing a hand to his bruised stomach, ''I see she's already claimed him. I thought Rodric held that honour forever. Clearly, I misjudged how deep the blood runs.''
I met his eyes. ''No killing the third prince,'' I said, the words deliberate, final. ''Not now. Not ever. Make that clear to everyone who matters.''
Harlan nodded once, still catching his breath. ''Send word to Theo Ashwood,'' I continued. ''He is to reject any request for reinforcements. My son is to stand or fall on his own. Supplies, however…''
I paused, letting the implication settle. ''Those may pass through. Food, medicine, grain, and arrows. Let the prince take what he needs to survive, just nothing that might let him win too easily.''
Harlan straightened, the old advisor's sharpness returning despite the pain. ''A careful line to walk, Your Highness. Too much rope, and he'll hang us with it.''
''Then we make sure the rope stays short,'' I replied. ''And we watch.''
''Send word to the Count, tell him to send everything the Ninth needs for an extended campaign.''
***
What is this old man up to? I thought, watching wagons pulling up to the eastern entrance to the camp.
''My prince,'' Selene's voice echoed from behind me. ''There's a woman here to see you.''
''A woman?'' I asked, confused, as no one else is due to come.
''Yes, Evangeline Ashwood,'' the brunette revealed. ''She was guarding the supplies Count Theo sent us, and she's a powerful Third Circle Mage, but only uses two spells, if you can believe that.''
''Interesting, lock down the entrance,'' I ordered. ''Make sure no one slips through while I meet our guest.''
Seconds later, I sprang from the wall without caring for how high it was, which was over ten feet tall, Selene right on my heels, our movements perfectly in sync as we touched down in front of the caravan. The guards froze in shock, their composure shattered, just as reinforcements spilt from the gate.
Then I saw her, the head of the group stepped forward, drawing back her hood to reveal a striking woman with lavender hair, pale blue eyes, and subtly pointed ears, longer than human, but shorter than the elves I've seen on the road. A Half-Elf, I thought. I know there are loads in Verona thanks to being a mixed kingdom.
I noticed she stood as tall as Selene, Sahara, and me, an unusual height for a noblewoman. Graceful yet commanding, she wore a blue battledress that hugged her curvy figure, and her long legs drew my attention before I could stop myself. She seemed to be in her late thirties or early forties, but it was hard to tell with Half-Elves, which sparked something deep inside me.
Why don't I find the women my age attractive? I thought, glancing at the females who were younger and looking at me as if I were prey to be devoured, but their attention was nothing to me.
A discreet nudge from the brunette snapped me back to the moment. I stepped forward and inclined my head. ''Welcome to the Ninth Legion's Strategic Base. I'm Arthur Verona, Third Prince. It's a pleasure to meet you.''
The woman had just opened her mouth to speak when a scream tore through the air from the rear of the caravan. ''Monsters! Protect Prince Arthur and Lady Ashwood!''
I shot Selene an amused look, then Sahara. ''Guard them. I'll handle our intruders.''
Following that, I surged forward and launched myself into the air, clearing the carriages in a single jump. Beyond the Ravencourt guards' shield wall, a dozen Wild Orcs burst from the nearby woods, snarling as they charged. I landed in their path. With a single thought, my claws manifested.
I carved into the first orc, shredding it before it could even react, and body parts fell to the ground. The others faltered when they saw my claws and the writhing biomass crawling up my arms. I didn't give them time to recover and pounced on the nearest, ripping it apart, then lunged for another, biting down hard as I tore its throat free with a savage roar.
Blood sprayed across the dirt as the corpse hit the ground. The remaining Wild Orcs hesitated, just for a heartbeat too long. I became a blur thanks to my super speed. Claws tore through flesh and bone alike as I surged into their ranks; each of my strikes was precise. One lost its head even as it was raising its axe.
Another was split from collar to hip in a single arc. I ducked beneath a crude club, drove forward, and gutted its owner, ripping free in a shower of gore. They tried to surround me. A mistake. I seized one orc by the throat and hurled it into another with enough force to crush both.
I lunged again, piercing a chest clean through, then wrenched the heart free, tearing muscle and sinew apart. Roars turned to screams. Screams turned to silence. Only five remained, backpedalling now, fear finally overtaking their bloodlust. I closed the distance, and thunder rolled across the field.
Not from the sky, but the Legionnaire Cavalry slamming into the fleeing orcs like a living battering ram. Lances skewered two on impact. A third vanished beneath trampling warhorses. Blades flashed when riders swept past, cutting down the last pair in a blur of steel and skill.
When it was over, nothing remained standing but allies, fallen enemies, and me, dripping red. I straightened, claws slowly receding, and turned back toward the caravan. I exhaled once, slow and steady, then stepped among the corpses. Legionnaires reined in around me, forming a loose ring.
Ignoring their stares, I crouched beside the nearest carcass and drove my claws into its chest, tearing the still-warm heart, crimson slicking my fingers. Murmurs rippled through the riders. Before any of them could speak, I brought it to my mouth and bit down.