Shadow Dancer

by Macie Cage

  There were requirements in place for the royalty, of course. Tactical ability, control over emotion, combat ability, wisdom, and the ability to always put the kingdom first. Some were replaceable in favor of having a King who was easily manipulated. Caiden was none of the above and he was too stubborn to blindly follow orders.

  It didn’t bother Evander. He had a hatred for the Prince that was hard to explain in its intensity. However, the same idiot was quite literally the only reason he was alive. Yes, he had been the best of the best, but his ability had been late to bloom. When he’d been assigned to the position, no one had known what he would become. Yet when his ability finally manifested, he suddenly dropped to the very bottom.

  Shadow Dancer, they called him. He could move from one shadow to the next as though he’d stepped through a doorway. It came with too many limitations. The shadow had to be big enough to fit through, he had to have direct line of sight to his exit point, there had to be shadows, and it made him violently ill when he used it. It became useless. The only upside was that it was easy to hide.

  Well, that’s how it started at least. They deemed him worthless, they stopped testing him. He was left to his own devices as far as his ability was concerned and while it may have been called a useless failure of a talent, he found it to his liking. By the time the ability had grown and his control of it had strengthened, it had already become obvious that he was hated. It became his own little secret, a way to escape if he ever needed it.

  “Dear Gods! What in the world happened to you?”

  He blinked at the cook as he stepped out of the dry cellar where an entrance to the Inner Castle was secreted away.

  “Eh,” he replied slowly, turning his head so she could see the wound on his cheek and held up his hand.

  The woman was one of them, the only healing ability in the Clan. Karen tisked and shoved him none too gently back into the pantry, her ability activating as she grabbed his chin, then his hand, running her fingers over his leg before abruptly turning away again.

  From the Brink was the ability to heal the wounds she touched. However, they had to be severe for it to work. A fractured bone would have to be broken before she could fix it, and open bloody wounds seemed to be the only surface wounds affected. Considering that anything less was easily recovered from, it was a fairly useful ability.

  She marched over to the sinks and threw a damp towel at him, watching him wipe the blood and dirt away from his skin.

  “I can’t fix bruises,” she huffed at him as she violently kneaded her dough.

  “I know. Thanks for the help.” He gave the woman a genuine smile. For as gruff as she was, she was one of the few that didn’t want him dead, so he supposed that was enough reason for him to like her. “Do you have any idea what’s going on?” he asked, leaning against her counter.

  “No clue. Now get out before they think I like you.” She gave him a pointed look and a small playful grin as she shooed him away.

  He grinned, taking his leave to go and find where that damn Prince had gone.

  Two

  Month of the Griffin 10, 421 HE

  “Get up, Evander.”

  Evander struggled to his knees, his head still spinning as he shoved himself back to his feet. He swayed, and the room seemed to tilt before he managed to regain his balance.

  Kaitlyn grinned at him from across the sparring ring, bloodlust clear on her face. Ansom stood to the side along with the rest of the Clan’s members, save for those who had other duties.

  “Again. This time, try to give her at least a small challenge,” Ansom sighed.

  Evander grit his teeth, taking a deep breath to try and right himself.

  Kaitlyn bounced on the balls of her feet, continuously moving. Her ability was annoying to fight. Catlike Reflexes. She had the uncanny ability to dodge, but it also made her faster, more flexible than most humans. It made her near impossible to hit and made all of her blows hurt like hell.

  His limbs were trembling with fatigue, and he didn’t want to use his ability. He was stuck facing her as he was. She darted forward, and he lost sight of her for a second as she closed the distance. He used to be the best. He still was as far as training. He steeled his spine and let loose his temper.

  He could feel her presence to his right. She preferred quick jabs to vulnerable places, so she would be in close quarters. She had to stay still for a least a few seconds to deliver the blow. Her aim would most likely be for his kidney if she was coming at him from the side. Evander took a quick step towards her, reaching out and absorbing the blow. It made him want to puke but he grinned as his hand caught her neck.

  Instead of throwing her away from him, he pulled her in, hooking his heel around her ankles and pulling her feet out from under her as he slammed her into the floor. She was a small thing; he found he could easily lift her like she was nothing.

  She gasped and thrashed, clawing at his arm and face, trying to get her legs up high enough to kick him or at least find purchase to throw him off.

  He wouldn’t allow it. He picked her up and slammed her down again, watching with savage glee as her head hit the floor. She faltered for a moment, frothing at the mouth in her struggle to breathe. She finally switched her aim, her fist connecting with his leg, just an inch from his groin. He tightened his grip as she struggled.

  To her credit, she never stopped trying to get out of his hold.

  Finally, he gave in to the urge he’d had since that afternoon and punched her in the face. She stopped struggling, slapping his thigh in a sign of yielding. He let her go, watching her cough and curl in on herself.

  Coming down from the bloodlust, he felt bad. He was twice her age after all, larger in both height and weight. He got to his feet and offered a hand to her. His reward was a kick to the groin. He reflexively hunched over, her heel meeting his temple in a blinding flash of pain.

  He tumbled to the ground, dimly aware that he was twitching, breathless as she repeatedly kicked at him. He curled protectively in on himself, letting the blows land as he regained his breath and tried to shove the pain and dizziness away. He was about to retaliate when her kicks finally stopped.

  He glanced up at Ansom as the man stood over him, Kaitlyn being dragged away by two of the others.

  “You disgust me, Evander. Never show compassion. To anyone. They will kill us without a second thought. You should do the same. You have failed. Again.”

  Evander dropped his gaze to the man’s feet, rage rising too fast for him to mask it. His fingers curled into fists, teeth clenched. He should have been used to this. He was used to this. The constant stream of abuse, the assault, the harassment. It didn’t matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, how much he struggled, if he won or if he lost, it was always the same. That underhanded attack would have been punished if it had been used against anyone else. Against him, it was applauded.

  He waited until Ansom turned away from him before pushing himself into a sitting position. The aches and pains of his body were making themselves violently known now that he wasn’t fighting.

  A rough hand grabbed his arm and forced him to his feet. “Look at me, Evander.” Evander blinked at Karen as the woman forced him into a position of her liking, her fingers tracing over his temple and the worst of his injuries. “Hmm. More bruises. Careful that Prince of yours doesn’t question you about it.”

  It was as close as she could get to worrying about him and while he appreciated it, it infuriated him. He pulled away from her, shaking off her hand as he limped to one of the exits. The others kept glancing at him. Most were clearly worried. The Clan was tight knit; their numbers weren't exactly large and while newcomers were always joining or children were being adopted or born, they still shared that one life-defining secret that could get them all killed one day.

  Every single one of them became a part of the Vladimir Clan because they had some form of magic. In the area, magic most commonly came in the form of abilities, an increase of strength or a very
specific talent or power. It brought everyone in the Clan closer together. Evander had grown up with them, fought with them, and was taught by them. He loved them dearly and he couldn't bring himself to blame them for their continued silence. What Ansom demanded was taken for law. If Ansom saw Evander as a worthless waste of resources then that is how he was meant to be treated.

  It was slow going, making his way through the long, winding passages until he reached the tiny offshoot that would take him to his room. He was stopped several times by others of the Clan brave enough to ask if he was alright. It was the same as every other night. He’d smile, say he was fine, and watch them leave though he knew they didn't always believe him.

  He slid the false wall closed behind him as he stepped out of the stairway and into his wardrobe. He then gingerly climbed out and let the doors click shut. He stood still for a moment, gathering his breath.

  His fist connected with the wooden doors of the wardrobe before he could resist the rage that engulfed him. Pain burst across his knuckles, helping to douse his anger before he could hit it again. He forced himself to focus on that pain, waiting until he was sure his temper was back under control. It would be difficult to explain away a broken piece of furniture. He flexed his hand, relishing in the ache that remained after the abuse.

  This had been happening for years now. As if they were trying to make him run away or just roll over and let himself be killed one day. He glared at his reddened knuckles. They were in for a rude awakening. He was good at his job. He took pride in it. And one day Ansom would have to step down and Evander would be free to do as he pleased.

  Just a few weeks more.

  Evander let his head fall against the wardrobe doors with a dull thunk before taking a deep breath and pushing himself upright.

  One of the luxuries that came with being the Guardian of the Crown Prince was a washtub in his own room. He also had a small stove to keep the room warm in the cold months. It was late; his small window showed the darkness that came in the hour before midnight.

  He winced as he forced himself to move to the door, giving a nod to the guards that stood by the Prince’s room. Both returned the gesture and he could feel them watching him as he made his way to the servant’s quarters to fetch water for a short bath. He could tell he wasn’t walking properly. He was still aching from Kaitlyn’s kick and his head hurt, although Karen had fixed the worst of it.

  Is her ability still growing? he mused as he lifted the two buckets and started to make his way back to his room. He’d only ever known her to heal physical wounds, though he supposed a head injury might count. He shrugged off the thought. It didn’t matter. It’s not like her ability was judged on power.

  He nodded to the guards and paused, surprised, when one walked over to open his door for him. He raised an eyebrow at the man, the expression returned by a smile.

  “Don’t think a few steps to the right will get me suspended in the wee hours,” the guard said, giving him a light-hearted wink. The soldier’s gaze swept over him, taking in the scuff marks and bruises that showed on his skin. The guards weren’t stupid. Yet, it wasn’t unusual for the Vladimir Clan to have their own training regimen, so their injuries were overlooked. All that mattered was that the members could pass the tests that the Knights set for them to prove their capability.

  Evander chuckled. “Thank you.” He slipped inside and listened to the guard’s footsteps as he returned to his post.

  Bathing was quick and efficient, scrubbing the dirt from his skin before redressing into something more comfortable to sleep in. He laid down a while after midnight, looking out the window at the faint silver light as the moon began its slow descent.

  He winced as he rolled onto his side, his body still aching.

  There will be bruises tomorrow. It would be a pain having to try and dodge Caiden’s questioning. He sighed and settled beneath the blankets to try and sleep for a few hours.

  He was nearly successful, but his dozing was startled by the slightest creak of a door opening. He didn’t move, didn’t give away that he knew someone was there, his hand sliding towards the dagger that he kept beneath the pillow.

  Quiet, hesitant footsteps slowly approached his bed and he relaxed. Not an assassin or any of the Clan coming to beat him senseless. It was only Caiden.

  Evander had noticed this habit early in his service to the Prince. The man hated sleeping alone. As a child, he would be easily scared in his large suite. It was the first fight they’d ever had, when Caiden tried to crawl into his bed and Evander had kicked the young Prince out with a finality that seemed to stick.

  The child received a dog less than a year later and the pup — and later, large hound — could usually be found curled up behind the Prince’s knees come morning. Something that Evander despised since his hatred of dogs went both ways. The creatures were sensitive to magic users and had been bred for generations to hunt them down. He couldn’t even count the number of times he’d almost been bitten. However, the dog kept the Prince company and it saved Evander from having to fight with him.

  That changed when he was eleven. The Prince had been nine at the time and had started attending larger social functions. The stable master back then had been a kind soul. He was a large, well-built man and quite possibly the nicest person Evander had ever met. He’d been the one to give Caiden a pup from his dog’s litter and had even taught both Evander and the Prince how to properly ride a horse, since Caiden didn’t like the riding instructor.

  He was found guilty of having magic. Something simple, an affinity for animals. He could understand their thoughts and feelings. He had been sentenced to death and Caiden had been made to attend the execution. Evander had watched the boy beg and cry, pleading with his father to try and stop it. No one had listened. The child could only stand and watch. Finally, Caiden ran, and Evander was excused to go after him. He was thankful they didn’t have to watch the end.

  That day, Caiden wouldn’t let anyone in to see him. He wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t speak, and even Evander couldn’t get him to unbar his door. Finally, they decided to leave him be. That night, when his door swung open and Evander had looked up to see Caiden hesitating in his doorway, he’d moved over and didn’t say a word when the child curled up beside him.

  Since then, Caiden only occasionally wormed his way into Evander’s bed and Evander never commented. Truthfully, it had become a relief. The night of the execution he’d been unable to sleep, sick with the knowledge that it could have been him. Could have been any of the Clan. He still had nightmares about it. Later, he was thankful simply because he knew the Clan couldn’t do anything to him with the Prince present.

  Evander dragged himself away from those thoughts as Caiden quietly slid into bed beside him, his back resting against his own. Not a word was spoken but Evander slept soundly, knowing he was relatively safe for the night.

  -†- Griffin 11 -†-

  When Evander woke up at dawn, the servant was alone in his bed as per usual. He stretched, wincing at the ache in his muscles. He knew he hadn’t imagined Caiden’s presence. He also knew that after being snapped at, the Prince made sure to go back to his own room before Evander woke.

  He dressed himself quickly, strapping on several daggers beneath his clothing. He caught a servant girl as he exited his room, directing her to drain his bath and thanking her before making his way to the kitchens. The nobility had yet to rise, but the hallways were bustling with servants as they cleaned and stocked while the guards changed shifts.

  The kitchen was fully functioning. Several of the assistants engaged in preparing various ingredients for use throughout the day. Servants were lining up with bowls to receive their breakfast of porridge and Karen herself was arranging the Royal breakfasts, with eggs and sausages sizzling in her pan.

  Evander took a tray and gathered the Prince’s breakfast. Eggs, sausage, a small bowl of berries alongside a sliced apple, and after a second thought, he grabbed a sweet bun to add to it. Karen eyed the meal,
rearranging a few things before setting a small pot of tea down for him to take. She also handed him a bowl of the servant’s porridge, as close as she could get to telling him to eat.

  He gave her a grin and took it with him, heading out of the kitchen just as Ansom was walking in. He kept his head down and skirted around him, fully aware that the man was watching him like a hawk. He could hear him snapping an order at Karen who, bless the woman’s soul, refused to take orders in her own kitchen and could be heard telling him so.

  Evander did fear for her with Ansom in his current mood, but the woman was the only healing ability that they had. Ansom wouldn’t kill her just for doing her job. Hopefully.

  He gave a brisk knock before entering the room, letting his eyes adjust to the dim lighting. He set the breakfast tray down on the small table and busied himself tidying up the room before filling the bathtub. Thankfully, the bath in the Prince’s room had a water pump which spared him the trouble of fetching water.

  He lit the small stove that sat in the corner of the bathroom, stirring up the coals before setting a kettle to heat and gathering the hotter coals to place under the metal basin to start warming the tub. Once that was done, he went back to the bedroom and pulled back the curtains.

  “Your Highness, it’s time to wake.”

  A muffled grumble came from the lump on the bed that was Caiden.

  Evander unceremoniously pulled the blankets off of him. The Prince opened a singular eye and glared. Evander ignored him, gathering the clothes and blankets that needed to be sent to wash and laying out an appropriate outfit for the Prince to wear.