The Lightning Prince

Draven scraped a booted foot across the stone wall. The blood wouldn’t wipe off. 

Not that the Prince would believe anyone else could have caused the massacre in front of them. The seven guards lay slain in puddles that were now more blood than muddy water. Whether the cries from the children fleeing the orphanage were of relief or fear, he didn’t know. Lightning cracked in the distance, the only thing that could tear Draven’s attention away from the carnage. 

“You know we must leave now.” Taetra said, appearing beside him on silent foot like a ghost in the night. 

“Yes.” 

“But you will not?” 

Draven turned to her. Toward those eyes like two pools of honey. Toward that golden hair that could rival the sun. Toward those lips that promised a kiss, and with that kiss a life with her, somewhere in the mountains. Somewhere away from all of this. 

The Prince and his soldier’s footsteps grew louder as they rounded a nearby corner. 

“Let them take me. The King may use any punishment he wishes.” The sword Draven was holding landed on the cobblestone with a clang. He looked up to the clouds, to that lightning that now cracked the smooth grey of the sky. “For I will only be judged by the Gods.”

 Taetra did not sob, did not allow herself anything but a single tear that rolled down her cheek and found its way to the corner of her mouth. Draven wiped it away with his thumb. 

The soldiers finally appeared, taking in the scene before them. One of them covered his mouth, ran to the corner and vomited. The other’s rage filled eyes merely darted between the sword and Draven. He opened his mouth to claim this was his doing, and his doing alone. Taetra was simply a passerby. But she was already gone. The soldiers parted, allowing Prince Eryx to stand before him. If he was surprised, he did not show it. “The King has summoned you.” He stated simply. 

Draven only smirked as he replied, “Hello, brother.” 

#

By the time the bells in the clock tower announced midday, Draven was standing in the throne room before the King and Queen of Orela. 

“You have gone too far this time.” The King grumbled. He adjusted his heavy form on the golden throne that sat upon the dais. Draven glanced at the Queen, whose throne was little more than a dining chair in comparison. Her gaze was casted downward, as it always was. 

Draven brought his cuffed hands up to his chest. “I have upset you, my King? How displeasing.” 

“This is not a game, Draven!” The King bit back. “Seven of the Kingsguard are dead at your hand.” 

“And the Kingdom will rejoice.” Draven whispered, the words nothing but a soft breath that escaped his dried lips. Judging from the way the King’s eyes narrowed, he had heard every word. 

The Kingsguard had witnessed arrests, beatings and even torture in this very room and still, did little more than stand like pillars at their posts. But when Draven ran his gaze along the few men that littered the walls, he noticed their weight shifting; their knuckles white on the hilt of their swords. Not only for their fellow soldiers whose bodies lay dead in the mud, but the knowledge that if it was anyone but Draven spitting those poisoned words, they would be hanged in the town square. As if realising how close the King was to snapping, Prince Eryx stepped forward. “Father, allow me to escort Draven to his old room. It is clear he needs to be watched, day and night. But with proper guidance I believe-”

“And what will he learn under your tutelage, Eryx? How to gamble in the back alleys or escort whores to his bed?” The King waved a hand. “Since I cannot kill you boy, you can rot in the dungeon for the rest of your days.” 

Draven’s stare was lightning itself as he gritted his teeth. “You do not wish to even ask me why I killed those guards? Am I no longer entitled to a fair trial?” 

The King chuckled. “Fair? The Queen brought you to me when you were a babe - found wailing at the breast of your whore mother.” The King never failed to mention her profession any chance he had gotten, but especially after guzzling down a few pints of ale during formal festivities and dinners. Oh yes, the court was very familiar with ‘The tale of the King who had rescued poor, infant Draven from his dead mother’. The act of how she dragged her broken body to the palace to save her only son conveniently left out of the story. 

Rage coursed through Draven, but the King continued. “I could have killed you then, but I took you in. Raised you in the palace as my own. Gods! I named you my heir in front of the whole Kingdom. Do not speak to me of fairness.” 

Eryx clenched his fists at his side. There was such shame in being so deeply despised by his father - yet here he was - and always willing to endure more. 

Draven seethed. “One hundred and thirty five.” 

The King asked, “What?” 

“You cry to me about seven men. You threaten to punish me; Your eyes plead with me to show remorse, to show you that I can be put on a path back to who I once was. When your soldiers were the ones who caused the death of children.” There was something else other than anger that now laced his voice. Sorrow. 

“One hundred and thirty five.” He repeated. Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the room through the large arched windows.

The king looked away and cleared his throat. “I had the fighting pits closed down as soon as I learned of them.” The pits where the Lords and merchants would force orphans to fight to the death, wagering on who would be declared the winner. 

“Publically, and by royal decree. But they started again in the slums and you, dear father, turned a blind eye.” Draven hadn’t called him that in years. The word was dipped in hatred.

“Should I kiss your feet, my King? Because I was not one of those children? Should I sing songs of praise because I was blessed to be brought up in the palace?” Draven took a step forward and the guards tightened their grip on their swords. “Throw me in the dungeons. I’ll simply be trading one prison for another.” 

For a moment, Draven’s mind drifted to Taetra. To the plan of escape they had spent so many nights crafting together. She would be halfway to Briarbury Inn now, about to stop for supper. They had promised to toast their success. Maybe all this was a mistake. Maybe he should have left with her. 

The King drummed his thick fingers on the edge of the throne, but it was the Queen that spoke. Standing, in one gentle motion to address the room. 

“The punishment for the murder of children is death. Prince Draven has carried out this sentence.” The Queen put a delicate hand on the King’s shoulder, lowering her voice. “The Lightning God will not care to see Draven in a cell, my King. Do not anger him.” 

Draven flexed his fingers to summon the powers he knew were not there. He did not take after his true father - his eyes and hair the same as his mother’s. Or so the Queen said. The realm of Gods would not welcome him, bastard son of Thorvok. So here he remained, cursed to live in the human world. It was not like the common folk did not know. The King wouldn’t have taken in just any motherless child that arrived at the palace doors. But the half-breed son of a God? Draven was practically welcomed with a parade. Until he turned eighteen, and no lightning appeared at his fingertips. False royalty, falsely loved. Utterly human. 

Draven yawned. “Well, these family gatherings are always such a delightful diversion to the perils of the real world but I do believe I need to-”

The tall oak doors to the throne room creaked open. Draven’s heartbeat pounded his ears at the sight of Taetra. 

No, no, no. 

“The blacksmith's daughter?” The King said, and exchanged glances with the Queen. 

Taetra’s boots tracked dirt on the marble floor as she walked the length of the room and kneeled before the dais. 

The Queen only said, “Speak, child.” Before smoothing the front of her embellished red gown and sitting once more. Draven knew what Taetra would say before she said it, and knew he was powerless to stop it.

“My name is Taetra Smith, Majesty. I invoke the right to confess before my King and come before you, humbly, seeking truth serum.” 

The witches had long gone, escaped to the mountains. Taetra mapped out the escape plan according to their journey that had been documented and hidden amongst the many scrolls in her father’s possession. But the healers had enough knowledge of the witches’ simple magic to create a truth serum. By law, anyone could request it - As long as it was consumed in front of the King. 

Taetra took the vial from the guard and gulped down the shimmering green liquid in one sip. 

The King asked, “What must you confess?”

It only took seconds for the serum to work, Taetra’s eyes glowing the same green which let everyone know it had taken effect. 

“Prince Draven is innocent of killing the seven guards. It was I.” 

There was a collective gasp around the room. Taetra continued. “He had found me after - taken the sword from my hand. Convinced me to flee, that if he took the blame the King would show him mercy.” She bowed her head lower. “I do not ask for mercy, Majesty. I know I must pay. All I ask is that Draven be returned to you and absolved of all crimes.” 

Draven shook his head. This meant death for her. Or something worse than death, depending on the King’s mood. There was a cold silence. Even Eryx did not dare interject as his father contemplated his response. The King merely stood, the Queen and Taetra rising with him as was protocol. The King surveyed his sons, the guards in the room. 

“And how did you manage to fight seven of my guards?” 

The question was on all their minds, Draven was sure of it. But the serum never lied. Taetra was visibly small, however underneath the layers of fabric from her skirts and corset, were ridges of muscle brimming with unassumed strength. 

Taetra did not answer. She simply stepped back and drew Prince Eryx’s sword from its sheath at his side, striking fighting poses one after the other, faster than anyone could follow with their eyes. 

“My mother taught me to fight, Majesty.” She finally said, out of breath. “She served faithfully in your Kingsguard for many years before her death.” 

The King glanced at Draven, whose eyes had now welled up with tears he couldn’t stop. Whose hands were shaking so much they rattled his cuffs. There had been no fear for himself, only for her. 

There was a terrible evil that polluted his Kingdom. The one thing he promised himself as a young Prince, is that he would always be a fair and just King when the time came. How had he strayed so far away from that? 

“Taetra Smith.” The King finally said, “You have confessed your crimes to the Crown. For this… You must serve as my personal guard until seven winter solstices have passed. In that time, Prince Draven will be trained as heir. If either refuses, you will be put to death. However, when the end of your sentence is completed, you will both have your freedom. And can choose to live how you wish.” He glanced at Eryx. “Either way, I will have my heir. And Orela will have her King.”

A warm smile spread across the Queen’s face. Eryx blew out a breath of relief. 

Nothing was forgiven. But it was a small step in a better direction. Prince Eryx uncuffed the shackles from Draven’s wrists. He sighed and embraced Taetra. It wasn’t what they had planned. But it wasn’t death. 

She whispered into his ear, “There will be so much you can change as King. The time will come.” 

Draven breathed her in, her scent of jasmine and ash, like the fire from her father’s forge. 

“Yes, but what until then?”

Taetra pulled back to meet his gaze. “Until then, sweet Prince, we do what we need to.”