"The sorrow that I have, by right is yours. And all the pleasures you usurp are mine."
—From The Tragedy of King Richard III,
By William Shakespeare

DURAND ESTATE, MORDANIA
YEAR 1690

METAL CLANGED AGAINST metal as men sparred, blunt practice swords thudding against round shields as well as leather armour studded with steel. Alastair strode through the practice yard, burning with anger--anger that he would usually let out with some fighting of his own, but not today. Today, he was due in the court of the Mordanian queen, to serve and protect at her pleasure. The mere thought made him kick a fallen helmet across the cobblestones, not caring that it dented and that fixing it would come out of his wages. Not caring about anything, as he had for the past decade and a half, but avenging his sister. Nothing concerned him except seeing her again, facing her again, finally killing her--Jovana, the queen of his country.

Jovana, for whom his sister had died cruelly and unfairly.

Jovana, whose imminent death was all that kept him alive. Strange, for death to keep one alive. Absurd, for another's ending of life to give vitality to oneself. But Alastair's life had never been at all typical.

"I have been sent here to take you to the queen," the footman told him when Alastair stalked inside the main building of the Durand Estate. Where he had lived, once. Where he had lived and laughed and loved—where he had possessed a beating heart, one that worked. One that could feel, not merely survive. Now? Now his chest was hollow and he lived under a false name; now he doubted his father would even recognize the man he had become. "You may wish to... clean up before going to see the queen."

Perhaps for some simpering courtier, or a man hoping to elevate his position from that of a mere guard to royal adviser... a bath and change of clothes would have been advisable. The only clean part of him was his face, which was shaven. The rest... a leather jerkin was tucked into his trousers and covered his linen shirt, one of the few that he owned, and all of his garments were stained with grime due to three days' worth of travel. Those three, pointless, seething and stagnant days of travel by horseback, from Beauchamp to Hartfall, in which he had plotted all the slow, delicious, torturous ways to kill her before reason took over. Before rationality had shoved all of that vengeful hatred, his sole emotion, back into a box, then slammed the lid shut and locked it.

When Alastair made no move to do so, the servant simply said, "Her Majesty and His Grace, the Lord Regent, are waiting for you, sir."

He followed the servant up those dimly lit stairs, which were still creaky and hardly amiable to spies or thieves or anyone foolish enough to sneak around at night. Still not conducive to a little boy escaping his nurse, creeping down to the kitchens, and fetching a late night snack for himself and his sister to share. Alastair recalled that night, the last full day he had spent with his younger sister, with incredible vividness.

She had been punished at supper for a small matter and sent away to her room. He, ever the loving older brother, had slid down the banister and eavesdropped on his father's plans before being bored and going to the kitchens. With an apple, a meat pie, and a pastry wrapped in cloth, Alastair had tried to get back up the stairs unnoticed. Unfortunately, there was no way of climbing up a banister while carrying a package of food, and he had fallen. Mireille had heard him somehow, had gone down those stairs and eaten the bruised apple anyways, had carved it up with the knife that Jovana had given her—

"Sir," the footman said with no small amount of irritation. "We have arrived."

He nodded as the guards pushed the door open, and then entered. The room was just as cavernous and dark as he had remembered, requiring the braziers to be lit with roaring fires even in the midst of a heatwave. Alastair had always thought that it was his father's presence, his ice-blue eyes and cold stare, which kept the room so cold, but no—that couldn't be right. Couldn't be true.

Even as he stepped into the room, looking at the person to the right of the queen, and saw his father staring back at him. Alastair clenched, then unclenched his fists before gripping the pommel of his sword and standing, with eyes cast down on the floor, in front of the queen.

"Your Majesty." He forced the title out, bowing low to keep from meeting Lord Ilyas Durand's eye.

"I would have you meet my eye, Captain..." She crossed one leg over the other and paused, waiting for him to give her his name. He could see the bright red of her dress, all silk and satin, the shine of blood—to represent her blood magic. But all that Alastair saw was his sister's blood when it had spilled out on the snow—all he saw was her bridal gown at their betrothal ceremony, a lifetime ago.

"Captain Lambert. Carlyle Lambert, Your Majesty." He gave the false name he had been using for the past fifteen years, feeling tense in a way that he had not been since the first time he'd used it.

He waited for someone to come out, point a finger at him, to shout that he was the missing heir to Hartfall... but none of it happened. His body uncoiled slightly, though he still gripped the pommel of his sword tightly. It was not bone, as many noble Mordanians' swords were, but plain metal forged by the smiths of Mordania. In addition to warfare, the main industries in Mordania were healing, creating armour, and forging weapons to use against the Atlans.

"You may be seated, Lambert. Tell me, what is your business here?"

To his surprise and terror, it was his father that spoke; Jovana remained silent. He had gone years without thinking of her name, had only called her the queen in his head—but now seeing her with the same crown she had worn the night she had betrayed him... It brought back far too many old memories.

"I came to apply for a position in the queen's guard, Your Highness," Alastair said. Only the real queen would be addressed with Majesty; the Regent received a lesser title. Though surely Jovana—surely the queen was old enough by now, experienced enough to rule alone. He did not meet his gaze out of feigned deference; he had not respected his father while he was his son and he would not be forced to do it now.

"I see," Jovana said. All of two words; he could recall her as a child, being so much more talkative. Was it years with his father at her side that had dampened her fire, so? But no—why should he care if all that she had left was a spark? It would make her all the easier to break.

"What is your experience in the military, Captain?" His father asked him.

Alastair rattled off the years he had spent training, the years that had honed him from untamed wrath into a blade eager for revenge. All the while his body felt hypersensitive of the queen's. She was so close that he could scent the metal of her weapons, the iron of her blood that pulsed at her throat, so eager to be spilled. And yet—softness, the floral aroma that clung to her still. Sharpness and sweetness; delicate and unbreakable. A thousand contradictions that he told himself he only unravelled, as one would try to figure out their enemy.

"Very well." Jovana nodded. Another two words. Would she say nothing more?

"Do you approve, Majesty?" Finally, his father faced the queen, an informal pivot of his head—so very casual, their dynamic. So very familiar.

Yet there was steel in her green eyes when she gazed back at him, leashed and waiting to strike. She was no longer the bratty, predictable girl whom he had been chained to in marriage as a child. She had changed.

But so had he.

And as he walked out of the room in his old home, a new member of the queen's guard, he vowed that no matter how much either of them had changed—he would still come out of this battle superior.

///

HUGO LAMBERT CLAPPED him on the back as he walked out of Durand Manor, his green eyes flashing as usual with a chipper expression that Alastair could never quite mimic. "How did it go?"

Alastair shrugged wordlessly in response to his oldest friend as the icy winds made his bare fingers go numb within moments of stepping outside. He longed for his gauntlets, for his armour, for daggers at his sides and his sword slung over his back. But one could not enter the presence of the queen or any royal, whilst carrying weapons, without being executed, ever since the Atlan invasion of Mordania Castle fifteen years ago.

"You are now speaking to a member of the royal guard. Show some respect, would you?" He tried to joke.

"Why would I? We're equals," Hugo responded with a chortle, the wind ruffling his blond hair. "I was accepted as well."

He jostled Alastair with an elbow. It hurt more than it should have, making him wince, and making him wonder. With all the training that he did, he was always bruised in one place or another, but his ribs? He always protected his sides, his chest. It was odd, therefore, for him to feel pain there. 

"Congratulations," Alastair said, brushing off the pain. It was likely nothing. "I suppose we'll be sticking together, old friend."

Farther off, the men were still training in the courtyards; he could hear shouts and grunts, smell leather and sweat. Warfare was the main occupation of Mordanian men, and even then--every Mordanian boy--and girl--needed to know how to defend themselves. Once, he had heard an Atlan accuse the Mordanians of having metal where other men had bone--rocks where other men had hearts. He supposed, looking around them now, that the man had not been entirely wrong.

"Yes." Hugo's voice was distant, his eyes even further away. Alastair knew his friend had his moments where he would drift off, in a world of his own, but he had never questioned the man. They both had their own secrets, and an important aspect of their friendship was that they allowed each other to keep them.

"I wonder what's for dinner tonight?" Alastair said, in hopes of regaining Hugo's attention.

It worked, forming a smile on Hugo's face. "Haven't you heard? Everyone who was selected to join the royal guard has also been invited to sup with the Queen and the Lord Regent. We will be eating like kings tonight!"

But Alastair had already had a taste of kingship--and spat it from his mouth as easily as the Mordanian advisors had, all those years ago, chopped off his sister's head.