THE BASTARD PRINCE

For seventy-three years, the kingdom of Avarren had been at war with the fae.

Seventy-three years of villages burned to their foundations, treaties broken before the ink had dried, and generations of children raised to fear creatures they had never encountered. Human mothers warned their children about beautiful monsters who lured travelers into the woods.

Fae elders spoke of human kings who carved roads through sacred forests and buried their dead beneath stolen soil.

The humans called the fae monsters.

The fae called humans thieves.

Between their territories stood the Thornwall, an immense living barrier of black thorns stretching from the western sea cliffs to the northern mountains. Its oldest roots reached deep into the bedrock, and its branches grew so densely that sunlight seldom penetrated them.

The wall had existed long before either kingdom began keeping records, and the few soldiers foolish enough to attempt cutting through it had rarely returned.

For generations, it had kept the two peoples apart.

Then the rebellion discovered passages through its roots.

Hidden crossings. Forgotten tunnels.

Places where the ancient magic had weakened enough for someone sufficiently determined to slip between the thorns.

For the first time in decades, fae operatives began moving through Avarren’s cities, gathering intelligence, intercepting royal correspondence, and establishing connections with humans whose loyalty to the Crown had begun to fracture.

You were one of them.

Fae by blood and magic, you had been entrusted with work that required considerably more discretion than carrying a weapon into battle.

The rebellion needed information from inside the royal court, where military campaigns were discussed over expensive wine and the destruction of entire settlements could be authorized with a signature.

Tonight, that work had brought you to Caerwyn Palace.

The royal residence stood above Avarren’s capital on a broad foundation of pale limestone, its magnificent towers rising from the remains of an older military fortress.

From the city below, Caerwyn appeared almost impossibly elegant, with its gilded balconies, enormous windows, and gardens enclosed by high stone walls.

Its beauty concealed a considerably less welcoming interior: guarded passageways, restricted archives, and underground chambers where prisoners suspected of possessing fae magic were kept behind cold-iron doors.

The ballroom occupied the palace’s western wing, its vaulted ceiling decorated with painted scenes of Avarren’s greatest military victories. Hundreds of candles burned beneath crystal chandeliers, their reflections trembling across polished marble and the gold embroidery of ceremonial uniforms.

White roses filled enormous porcelain vases along the walls, their delicate fragrance competing with perfume, beeswax, and the warm sweetness of spiced wine.

The entire court had gathered to celebrate Crown Prince Caedren Arvane’s return from the northern border.

From the shadowed upper gallery, the royal family remained visible beneath the chandeliers.

King Edric occupied a gilded chair upon the raised dais, his broad shoulders held rigid beneath a dark formal coat. Gray had begun claiming the hair at his temples, although age had done little to soften his expression. He was a calculating monarch who considered military strength the foundation of royal authority, and the war beyond the Thornwall had consumed most of his reign.

Queen Maelis sat beside him, composed beneath a delicate arrangement of pearls and dark silk. Her pale gray eyes moved occasionally across the gathering, observing the conversations that her husband appeared content to ignore.

Their daughter, Princess Elira, stood among a cluster of younger aristocrats, her auburn hair arranged in an elegant twist. She smiled pleasantly at something a visiting lord said, although the subtle amusement in her green eyes suggested she had understood considerably more than he intended.

Near the staircase stood Caedren.

The legitimate heir wore a black military coat with restrained gold embroidery, his blond hair slightly disordered after the long journey south. A sword remained at his hip despite the celebration. He listened to Lord Garrick Voss with the guarded attention of a commander receiving a report rather than a prince enjoying his own welcome.

And several paces away, leaning against a marble column with a glass of wine in one hand, stood his younger half-brother.

Darian Arvane.

The king’s bastard son had inherited the Arvane family’s sharp features, though his dark hair and faintly crooked smile distinguished him from the fair-haired heir. His formal coat was black, tailored close across his shoulders, with silver fastenings at the cuffs and an open collar that would undoubtedly earn a disapproving remark from his mother if she had possessed the standing to attend.

He looked entirely comfortable among the nobility.

That was the first deception.

Darian had spent twenty-four years learning how to occupy a place that belonged to him by blood but could be taken away at anyone’s convenience.

He had been educated alongside Caedren, trained beneath the same swordmasters, and taught enough diplomacy and military history to serve the Crown with distinction.

Yet every lesson had reinforced the same distinction.

Caedren would inherit the kingdom.

Darian would inherit whatever his father decided to give him.

The rivalry between the brothers had begun with wooden practice swords and tutors’ examinations.

By adulthood, it had become something considerably more complicated.

There were wounds between them that neither man cared to discuss, resentments too old to untangle, and an understanding that their father had spent years encouraging competition between his sons.

Four years earlier, Darian had begun passing information to the fae rebellion.

Initially, the arrangement had been entirely selfish.

A shipment schedule here. The location of an undermanned garrison there. Small pieces of intelligence exchanged for favors, connections, and influence beyond his father’s reach.

He had wanted leverage against the Crown.

More specifically, against the brother who would one day wear it.

Then the intelligence began revealing things he had been raised to overlook.

Entire settlements erased from military maps.

Orders authorizing the destruction of villages supposedly abandoned years earlier.

Casualty figures deliberately reduced before reaching the royal council.

Reports of fae children being transported through border checkpoints in chains.

At first, he had assumed some particularly ambitious commander was concealing atrocities from the throne.

Then he discovered his father’s signature.

That had complicated matters.

Darian still wanted power.

He had never been particularly ashamed of admitting it, at least to himself.

But the possibility of inheriting a kingdom built upon atrocities was becoming considerably less appealing than it had once seemed.

And unlike his legitimate brother, he had already chosen to act against it.

Tonight, however, he played his customary role.

He laughed at a visiting duke’s tedious joke, accepted congratulations for a victory in which he had played no part, and raised his wineglass when King Edric offered a toast to Avarren’s continued strength.

His smile was practiced.

His attention was elsewhere.

He had received a message that afternoon, delivered through the servants’ entrance and concealed inside the stitching of a riding glove.

A rebel operative would be inside Caerwyn during the celebration.

Someone he knew considerably better than the court could ever be allowed to discover.

You.

The arrangement between you had begun as most of his dealings with the rebellion did: cautiously, with information exchanged in places where neither party could afford to be discovered.

Darian had been accustomed to frightened messengers and operatives who treated every conversation with a human prince as an opportunity to threaten him.

You had proven rather more difficult to categorize.

Over time, your meetings had become something he anticipated for reasons that had little to do with intelligence.

He had learned to recognize the peculiar absence that followed your departures, and he disliked how readily he rearranged his schedule when another meeting became possible.

He had kept those observations to himself.

There were enough dangerous things happening inside Caerwyn already.

A faint movement near the western side of the ballroom caught his attention.

His brother had abandoned a conversation with Garrick and was approaching an unfamiliar courtier beside the musicians’ gallery.

Darian recognized the clothing first. The carefully chosen insignia of a minor western household, the restrained jewelry, the fashionable cut of the formal attire.

Then he noticed the charm.

A small enchanted ornament partially concealed beneath the courtier’s collar.

His fingers stopped moving against the stem of his glass.

Fae.

And judging by the way Caedren had angled his body to prevent the stranger from slipping into the crowd, his brother had already noticed something unusual.

That was unfortunate.

Caedren possessed the irritating habit of investigating anything that interested him, and once he began asking questions, he was exceedingly difficult to distract.

Darian watched his brother speak to the stranger.

A moment later, Caedren offered his hand.

The orchestra began a waltz.

Darian’s expression remained unchanged as the prince guided the unfamiliar courtier into the dance, gradually moving toward the western passage.

Well.

That was going to become a problem.

He took a measured sip of wine, then lifted his gaze toward the shadowed gallery above the ballroom.

Toward you.

His eyes settled on the darkness beyond the candlelight.

For a brief moment, the easy amusement disappeared from his face.

He glanced toward the western doors, then back to the gallery. A small movement of his chin indicated the passage leading toward the private residential wing.

A signal.

The same one he had used during earlier meetings when conversation became unsafe.

He finished his wine, placed the empty glass upon a passing servant’s tray, and excused himself from the noblewoman who had been attempting to secure his attention for the better part of ten minutes.

“Forgive me,” Darian said, offering her a smile polished by years of practice. “I’ve just remembered an obligation.”

The woman looked faintly disappointed. “At this hour, my prince?”

“Terrible timing, isn’t it?” he replied, his smile widening a fraction. “One of my more consistent talents.”

He left before she could ask another question.

Beyond the ballroom, the palace corridors grew quieter. The distant orchestra softened behind closed doors, replaced by the faint hiss of wall sconces and the measured footsteps of guards making their rounds. Moonlight lay in pale rectangles across the stone floor, illuminating tapestries depicting battles fought long before either prince had been born.

He passed through a narrow servants’ staircase, exchanging a brief nod with a guard who had known him since childhood.

His private apartments occupied a smaller section of the western residential wing, removed from the grand chambers reserved for the legitimate royal family. They were comfortable, even luxurious by ordinary standards, but their placement had always been intentional.

Close enough to remind him he belonged.

Far enough to remind him where.

Inside, a low fire burned in the hearth, throwing amber light across dark walnut furniture and a collection of books scattered over the writing desk. A half-finished game of chess occupied a small table beside the windows. His military coat lay across the back of an armchair, where he had abandoned it before being forced into formal attire that afternoon.

He approached the door and turned the key, leaving the lock disengaged.

Then he crossed to the drinks cabinet.

There were two glasses on the lower shelf.

He took them both.

The first received a modest measure of amber liquor. The second he left empty, placing it beside the decanter on the table nearest the hearth.

A small, familiar courtesy.

He had learned to offer a choice.

Somewhere beyond the apartments, a door closed and footsteps passed along the corridor.

He waited until the sound faded before reaching up to loosen the stiff collar of his formal coat.

He hated these celebrations.

Not the wine, admittedly. Nor the entertainment that occasionally accompanied them.

But the endless ceremony of standing beside a family that treated him as both an embarrassment and a useful ornament that had lost its novelty years ago.

His brother would inherit a throne.

His sister would eventually marry someone politically advantageous.

And he would continue attending celebrations in honor of achievements for which he would receive precisely as much recognition as his father considered appropriate.

A familiar arrangement.

He was considering whether to remove his coat entirely when the faint sound of movement reached him from the corridor.

His attention shifted toward the door.

He set down his glass.

The handle moved.

You appeared in the doorway.

For the first time that evening, his expression changed into something entirely genuine.

It was brief, almost imperceptible, but the tension around his mouth eased as his eyes moved over you, taking in the borrowed court attire, the unfamiliar details of the disguise, and the charm concealing your magic.

His gaze flicked past your shoulder, checking the corridor.

Empty.

Good.

He caught the edge of the door and pushed it shut, the latch settling into place with a quiet click.

Then his attention returned to you.

“Do you have any idea,” he murmured, taking a step closer, “how irritating it is to spend an entire evening pretending I haven’t been waiting for you?”

The familiar crooked smile appeared, but it barely lasted.

He closed the remaining distance, one hand settling firmly at your waist as he guided you back against the oak door. His other palm came to rest beside your head, braced against the wood.

The warmth of the hearth reached the narrow space between you, carrying the faint scent of burning cedar and the expensive wine still lingering on his breath.

For once, the king’s bastard seemed to have forgotten whatever clever remark he had intended to make.

His eyes dropped to your mouth.

“Three weeks,” he said quietly. “Not a letter. Not a message. Three bloody weeks.”

His thumb moved once against the fabric at your waist.

“And then you appear in my father’s ballroom, dressed like you belong there, while my idiot brother decides to take an interest in you.”

A breath of laughter escaped him, more exasperated than amused.

“You’re going to be the death of me.”

He tilted his head, closing the distance until his nose nearly brushed yours. His hand loosened at your waist, leaving room to turn away, but his gaze remained fixed on your lips.

“Tell me to stop.”

The words came softly, with none of his usual teasing.

He paused there, close enough for his next breath to touch your cheek, his fingers curling against the oak beside your head.

Then his mouth curved into the faintest, most infuriating smile.

“Or kiss me before I remember I’m supposed to be angry with you.”