If there was one thing Silvyr hated most in this world, it was the monotony of travel.

​

For the last week, Silvyr and his caravan had been traveling out of neighboring lands to return home. Back to Athowen. Day after dull day he sat in his carriage, watching the landscape pass him by. He didn't bring nearly enough books to keep him occupied, having finished all of them before they arrived in Xeatia in the first place. Maybe he should have listened to Ascal when she told him to purchase a few books before they left, but like a fool who believed he knew everything, he chose to ignore her sage advice.

 

After all, he was far too busy in Xeatia to warrant an outing to look for books. Father simply would not approve. Somehow, Silvyr imagined he would know that the thought even crossed his mind and he would receive a lecture of horrendous proportions when he arrived home because he dared to think. Xeatia needed to be reviewed, and Silvyr couldn't neglect that responsibility.

 

For the last few months Xeatia had been neglecting the taxes required of them. Silvyr's father, High King Keryth had become quite fed up with the Lord and Lady of Xeatia. In a final effort to quell the tension between the Kingdom and their subjects, Silvyr had volunteered to go to Xeatia and meet with the Lord and Lady, and if possible, collect the missing taxes. He dreaded facing Father empty handed. Silvyr already struggled to please Father with his high demands and even higher expectations. This trip to Xeatia needed to be perfect.

 

It wasn't.

 

Silvyr pushed back in his seat, reaching out to open the plush crimson curtains inside the carriage. They were passing through a familiar forest on a well worn path, halfway home. For a while, the passing deciduous trees entertained him, though not nearly as much as if he were allowed out of the carriage to climb them. Desperately he wanted to explore the branches and pluck the leaves off to keep for his collection of flora back at home. He could take that leaf home and look through the libraries to discover the name of the tree or if it had any uses. Simply passing by wouldn't be enough.

 

The door to the carriage opened, pulling Silvyr away from his day dreaming. Ascal lifted herself into the moving wagon, dressed in her travel leathers. She wore her chestnut hair in a tight bun, every last strand kept out of her face. Wide and apparently made of nothing but muscle, Silvyr couldn't ask for a better personal guard. She took a seat across from him and crossed her legs. Silvyr tucked himself closer to the window. The close quarters of the wagon was hardly comfortable for one person, let alone another person built like a mountain.

 

“Did you finish compiling your notes?” Ascal asked him, her face reading as all business. Ascal never let him slack off, but at least she never expected the impossible from him.

 

Silvyr exhaled and reached over to the stack of papers beside him. He had collected the tax records and business dealings of Xeatia to use in his report to Father. The trip back was meant to serve as Silvyr's preparation period for this presentation. Admittedly, he had been avoiding it. He had skimmed through the documents, but putting them together for Father was the last thing on his mind, though he knew it should be at the forefront.

 

“No,” Silvyr admitted, setting the pages in his lap. Still, he couldn't bring himself to look at them. The legal jargon, all the numbers, none of it interested him. They blended together in a haze of line strokes and nonsensical runes the longer he looked at them. Every time he tried to focus, to bring the numbers back to clarity, his mind would wander back to the treetops and the flora within.

 

The exasperated sigh from Ascal almost made him smile. “Silvyr, I don't think I have to explicitly say this, but you really need to get that done.”

 

Silvyr almost laughed. “I know that. I just—"

 

“You hate it.”

 

At least he didn't have to say it out loud. Ascal had been with him for years, she knew better than anyone that he desired a different kind of life. Maybe if he had been second born he would be able to focus on his studies without the looming responsibilities of his future kingship. He envied his brother for that. Not only was he able to do whatever he wanted, but his interests just so happened to fall in line with what Father wanted for Silvyr. While Silvyr would happily spend his days painting or reading, his brother preferred the art of combat, something Father greatly admired. And he made sure Silvyr knew it.

 

“I have this feeling that no matter how I present this, or what mood Father is in, he won't be pleased and it will be my fault,” Silvyr admitted, turning to look out the window again. The scenery didn't change, but it was far better than the papers in his lap.

 

Even Ascal was silent. She couldn't say anything that would change Silvyr's mind. Because she knew that in the end, Silvyr was right. She had been there more than once when Father insulted his intelligence or when he mocked his hobbies. When he trained to improve his combat skills, Ascal was his tutor. She knew he lacked the skill set for a soldier, and yet she still managed to make him a passable swordsman and a more than decent archer. Still, it wouldn't reach Father's expectations. Even when criticizing Silvyr, Father would praise Ascal and lament that Silvyr was too useless to use her training to its full potential.

 

Ascal lifted herself from her seat and spun around to plop most ungracefully next to Silvyr, sitting with her legs spread wide and pressing Silvyr tight against the carriage wall. “I'm helping you. Where do we start?” she asked, snatching the pile of papers from his lap.

 

“Thank you.” Silvyr wouldn't argue with her. Nothing he could say would stop her anyway. Once Ascal had her mind set on something, no one could talk her out of it. Not that Silvyr would try. At least with Ascal helping him, it would get done. Maybe he could talk her into helping him present the information so Father wouldn't be so upset with Silvyr's failure.

 

Ascal didn't say anything, but she did offer him a little smile. If only Father saw the potential in him that Ascal could. He remained silent while Ascal sorted through the documents, using the bench across from them to rearrange and organize the notes. The bumpy carriage came to a sudden stop and Silvyr nearly slipped from his seat.

 

“What are they doing out there?” Ascal grumbled, setting the remaining papers in Silvyr's lap.

 

Unable to stop himself, Silvyr peeked out of the curtain, but he was met with the green forest around them.

 

“Maybe a downed tree?” he pushed the curtain back, annoyed with the new delay in their travels. While he hated the monotony of travel, at least when they were moving, he could watch the passing greenery to keep his mind occupied.

 

“Pardon me,” Ascal said, lifting herself from her seat. “I'll be right back. I swear if it's not a downed tree, then heads will roll.” If he looked hard enough, Silvyr was sure he could see the vein throbbing in her forehead.

 

Silvyr laughed and reached out to push Ascal's shoulder. “Don't be too harsh.” Ascal chuckled low in her throat and stepped out of the carriage, closing the door behind herself. Her echoing voice screaming for an answer to the delay brought another small laugh out of Silvyr.

 

He tried to be patient, but the silence was utterly infuriating. At least the silence while they were moving wasn't so bad. Something about the bumping road and passing trees quelled the boredom, but this silence and unchanging scenery would drive Silvyr into bouts of madness if it didn't end quickly.

 

Time seemed to fall apart. How long had he been waiting? A minute? Five minutes? Ascal should be back by now with some kind of update as to what was going on. Unless she was busy reaming the entourage, which Silvyr really wouldn't put past her. She had done it before and he would be shocked if she didn't do it again.

 

Silvyr tapped his slender fingers on the stack of papers in his lap. Boredom would truly take him if Ascal didn’t return soon. The carriage door opened at long last. “What was all that about—" Silvyr froze when he looked at the door, ice spilling through his veins.

 

Ascal did not stand before him and his heart skipped as he stared at the intruder with wide eyes. A massive woman, all deep hued green flesh that rippled with muscle covered with leather and furs, hunched in the carriage doorway. Her shoulders barely passed through the frame, brushing against it. A strap ran over her chest and contained at least four daggers that Silvyr could count. A heavy leather boot slammed down on the floor of the carriage as she pulled herself in, the carriage tilting with her weight, pushing hair dark as obsidian out of her scarred face splattered with white paint in three downward streaks. 

 

Silvyr swallowed a scream.

 

Before she moved any closer, she turned her head outside the carriage. “Chief! He's here!” Her voice was low but powerful, and Silvyr involuntarily flinched.

 

“Wha—what is the meaning of this?” Silvyr demanded, trying to shove down the fear blaring in his chest, though the tremor in his voice was unmistakable. Father always warned him about orcs. It was the reason he traveled with such a large party. They were supposed to keep raiders away.

 

He was supposed to be safe.

 

The woman didn't speak to him, only sneered. The teeth that jutted up from under her lower lip appeared to poke into her upper lip, the silver cap that tipped each fang stopping them from piercing her skin. She reached out and snatched Silvyr's wrist in a vice, and despite his efforts to push away, she held fast, digging her nails into the soft flesh. With his back already to the wall, there wasn't a way to escape this. With a single hard yank that sent his shoulder screaming from the force, she pulled him out of the carriage, dropping him carelessly on the dirt, the papers scattering in all directions.

 

Silvyr skidded, his silks undeniably ruined and pushed himself onto his knees. The insult would not be forgiven. Once he informed father of this, every person involved in this would pay. If Silvyr knew Father, and he did, it would be with their lives. “How dare you?” Silvyr demanded, pushing himself up to stand.

 

Before he could, a heavy force hit his back, sending him skidding into the earth again. This time he managed to break his fall with his hands, wincing as they scraped harshly against the hard packed dirt.

 

“There's the little brat.”

 

Silvyr huffed and turned himself around to find the source of the voice, heart racing. All around him in a tight circle, orcs stood with their arms crossed and gaze firmly set upon him. All of them wore the same leathers, as if given a uniform, with their hair tied up out of their faces. They glared at Silvyr with a malice he hadn't seen before. Through the circle, his entourage were restrained by other orcs, swords and daggers held to their throats. Even Ascal, strong as she was, couldn't escape the hold of four of these people. Yet he could still see her fighting against their grip, and she was making them work to hold her.

 

Finally, Silvyr's eyes landed on the man who called him a brat. Ready to threaten him with Father's rage, the words died in his throat when he stepped through the barricade of men, standing a good head taller than even the tallest among them. Unlike the others with their long hair tied back, this man wore his cut short and combed forward in gentle waves, held in place with a braided black leather band that wrapped around his crown, golden beads woven through it. His slightly curved ears were adorned with jewelry, a golden bar that connected across the ear, several rings of gold along the cartilage, and a long strand of the same material hanging from his earlobe and stopping just where his neck met his shoulders. His beard was thick and well-groomed, coming to a gentle point at the end of his chin. Thick eyebrows framed bright amber eyes that appeared to be glowing in the sunlight, haloed by lush long lashes. His tusks, the tips capped in gold, touched the mustache that flowed and connected to his beard around his mouth.

 

He didn't wear the same leathers as the others. Over his wide shoulders he wore a single piece of crimson fabric, the collar swooping low on his chest, displaying the top of his thick chest covered in a layer of curly chest hair. The bottom hemming of the top fell just underneath his chest, the hem embroidered with a golden hexagonal pattern. On his powerful arms, more golden bands wrapped tight around the muscle, down to his fingers full of rings. His bare stomach put his firm body on full display, the trail of hair flowing down to his pteruges. Strips of leather fell from his waist down to his knees over a layer of sturdy red fabric.

 

Hanging on his waist, a leather strap held the scabbard of a longsword. The sword itself was nearly as tall as Silvyr was. On his feet, he wore leather strapped sandals that wrapped around his strong calves, stopping just under the knee.

 

On every piece of exposed skin, he flaunted the scars of a lifetime of battles, deep suede against the green hue of his skin. Despite the fear that gripped Silvyr's throat, stealing his voice, he was filled with an odd sense of exhilaration upon looking at the commanding man before him.

 

Silvyr couldn't move as the man stepped up to him, squatting down and dropping his elbows to his knees. “Look what we've got here. Silvyr Quilen, first born son of the Tyrant King Keryth Quilen. My my, you certainly are a pretty thing when making comparisons,” he said, a grin spreading across his lips, pushing his gold-capped tusks into his upper lip. Around them a cacophony of chuckles brought heat to Silvyr's cheeks and he caught himself scooting back and away from the orc.

 

“Who are you? What is the meaning of this?” Silvyr forced himself to say. He prayed his voice stopped trembling, but the dark grin on the orc's face told him it hadn't.

 

“How impolite of me.” The man stood up, towering over Silvyr, his massive frame blocking out the sun behind him. “I am Chief Brokil of the Amesisle Mountains, surely you've heard of us.”

 

Brokil eyed Silvyr the same way a ravenous dog eyed a fresh piece of meat, ready for the taking. “I have,” Silvyr admitted. Father had been particularly frustrated with the orcs in the Amesisle Mountains. They wouldn't pay their taxes or register for their permits to trade among themselves. Father had been threatening them with force for months. Silvyr swallowed hard.

 

“Good, then I don't need to waste my time explaining why we're here. We can get right down to business.” The grin never left Brokil's face. He looked positively smug with what he had done so far.

 

Silvyr huffed and pushed himself off the ground. He was a prince for the god’s sake! This time, no one kicked him back down and he stood as tall as he could, but still the top of his head would just barely reach the bottom of Brokil's chest.

 

“Then speak and let us be on our way,” Silvyr said, fingers curling into fists at his side. “If you are amiable, I need not inform my father of this outrageous behavior.” While Father may believe Silvyr was weak, he was still Father’s son, and an insult against Silvyr wouldn’t be ignored. It was the single advantage he had here.

 

Brokil only laughed at him, deep and loud.

 

Silvyr's heart sank.

 

He had hoped the promise of getting out of this with no punishment would be enough to soothe them and make them leave. Threat of Father was usually enough to quell any riot. If that wouldn't work on Brokil and his troops, Silvyr didn't know what would.

 

“Your father will be informed of this, rest assured, boy,” Brokil told him, taking a step closer. Everything in Silvyr wanted to back away, but he refused to let this man intimidate him no matter how hard his heart hammered in his chest, or how the cold sweat at his back made him shudder. “In fact, I have a message for your father that I would like delivered.”

 

Brokil turned away from Silvyr for the first time, looking over his shoulder in Ascal's direction. Dread pooled in Silvyr’s stomach and he forced himself to remain upright and proper. Forced himself to show the strength these orcs would expect.

 

The strength Father would expect.

 

“Bring the girl over here,” Brokil commanded, his voice booming and pressed against Silvyr’s ribs with unsettling heat.

 

His troops obeyed without question and Ascal stopped struggling against them as she was led closer to the troop. They pushed their way into the circle, never letting go of Ascal. Brokil stepped up to her and crossed his arms over his chest.

 

“Are you this boy's babysitter?” he asked her.

 

Sudden fire engulfed Silvyr's veins at the sheer disrespect. “My name is—"

 

“I know your name, boy,” Brokil snarled, forcing Silvyr to bite his tongue. “I was not speaking to you. If I want to hear you speak, I will request it.” He turned his attention back to Ascal, leaving Silvyr to fume in silence. “Are you his babysitter?”

 

Through clenched teeth, Ascal snarled back at him. “Have your peons release me and I'll show you exactly what I am.”

 

Another hearty laugh came from Brokil, and the orcs around him laughed as well, save for the woman who grabbed Silvyr. Though her grin felt louder than any laugh.

 

“They will. You have a very important message to bring to the King,” Brokil told her, holding a hand out to his side. Another orc moved up to him, setting a rolled-up piece of parchment in his hand. “You will be giving this to dear old King Keryth. Our demands are listed within. Should they not be met, we will kill his heir.”

 

A torrent of sleet doused the fire in Silvyr’s blood as Brokil looked at him over his shoulder, a wicked grin on his face.

 

“You will not touch him!” Ascal struggled against her restraints with new vigor, the orcs holding her jumping to reassert their grasps while veins popped from Ascal’s muscles as she tried to tear away from them.

 

“He won't be harmed so long as our demands are followed. In the meantime, he will come with us. For security, I'm sure you understand.” Brokil reached out, unphased by Ascal's thrashing, and shoved the parchment into her leathers. “Now I recommend you behave, or we'll have to show you what we're capable of and leave you to finish your journey home all on your own. It's a lonely walk, and I would hate to tarnish your voyage with bloodshed.”

 

Silvyr's entire mouth had gone dry. He had to get Ascal to calm down. He had to get these people who had been escorting him home safely. He would never forgive himself if they died here because of him.

 

“Chief Brokil,” Silvyr called, his voice louder than he expected.

Ascal stopped her struggling and they both turned to Silvyr. His stomach twisted from the weight of their attention.

 

“Threats aren't necessary. I will go with you.” Silvyr didn't feel at all confident in what he said, but it was the only way as he saw it. They were completely outnumbered, no reinforcements, and in unfamiliar territory. There was no telling how many of Brokil's troop were out in the forest. It was a fight they couldn't win.

 

When Brokil chuckled low in his throat, Silvyr titled his chin up, trying to appear as confident as he hoped he sounded.

 

“Well, isn't that a good boy,” Brokil snickered, lips curling with sickening smugness.

 

Ascal stared at him with disbelief creased in her forehead.

But she said nothing, resigned to his decision. Surely, she was smarter than Silvyr so the logistics of their position was obvious. Silvyr nodded when she locked eyes with him, trying to tell her that he would be okay. He couldn't know that, but he needed to believe it.

 

“See? I knew we could come to an understanding,” Brokil announced, stepping away from Ascal and toward Silvyr. “Salthu, the manacles.”

 

The woman that grabbed Silvyr, Salthu, stepped up and set a pair of dark iron manacles into Brokil's hands. They were tiny compared to Brokil's hands. When Brokil turned to fully face Silvyr, he found himself taking a step back.

 

“What? I said I would go with you. Are those really necessary?” Silvyr gaped at the idea of being put in shackles.

 

All of this was incredibly outrageous, but manacles? The insult couldn't be tolerated, especially when Silvyr felt he was being more than accommodating to these people who truly didn't deserve his cooperation.

 

“I suggest you let me put these on you. It will make the whole ordeal so much easier for everyone,” Brokil warned, lowering his voice. Silvyr found himself shuddering but took another step back.

 

“It's unnecessary and wildly inappropriate. I said I would willingly go with you,” Silvyr repeated himself. Perhaps wearing the chains would be easier, but he couldn't let them see him fold so easily. He was a prince, not a pushover.

 

Brokil growled, a sound so low it reverberated in Silvyr's very bones. “One more chance, boy.”

 

Brokil meant his threat, that much was clear. But Silvyr meant what he said as well. Perhaps something Father would be proud of when Ascal told him about what happened here. Silvyr would not yield to the humiliating demands.

 

Fruitless as it may be, he would try.

 

“I said no.” Silvyr narrowed his eyes at the large orc. As soon as he saw Brokil grin a wide toothy smile that pressed his gold-capped tusks up against his upper lip, he knew he made a severe mistake.

 

“Wrong answer, boy.” With his free hand, Brokil threw his hand out at Silvyr, scooping him by the back of the neck, and pulled Silvyr suddenly toward him. The strength behind the pull forced Silvyr to stumble over his own feet as Brokil moved behind him, slamming his foot into Silvyr’s ankles, sending him into the dirt once again.

 

The ground thudded around him as Brokil's knees slammed into the earth on each side of Silvyr's hips, pushing his forearm across Silvyr's back with such force that all the air flew out of his lungs and he struggled to inhale again.

 

“You absolute brute!” Silvyr spat through wheezing breaths, struggling beneath Brokil. Despite how much he tried, he couldn't get any leverage to get off the ground.

 

Brokil snatched up his arms, roughly tugging them behind Silvyr's back and Silvyr bit back a cry as his shoulder screamed at the treatment. The loud clank of metal on metal sounded with each wrist locked in the manacles. Thick fingers grabbed a fistful of Silvyr's hair, pulling his face out of the dirt.

 

“It's very cute that you think you'd be able to stop this, boy,” Brokil whispered into Silvyr's ear and against his will, goose flesh rolled over him and he was thankful for the long silks he wore that hid it. “You elves never stand a chance when it comes to brute strength.”

 

Silvyr wanted to insult him, spit words of venom at him, and make him pay for everything he had done. But he held his tongue. He didn't think he could handle another bout like that.

 

Just like Father always said, Silvyr was weak and useless.