I am Charles Drakemore, age 10, crown prince of the Kingdom of Arcadia, and one day I will be King.

Clack! The vicious clash of wood stabs my ears.

A sharp sting shoots through my wrist as my weapon is knocked aside, followed immediately by my instructor's wooden sword slamming into my right bicep. My grip loosens as I stumble and wince, my arm tender from the dozens of strikes it has already taken. My training blade clatters against the stone ground of the castle courtyard, the sound echoing between the walls. I grit my teeth and glare at my tormentor, Sir Wyatt, wishing with every ounce of my soul to return his punishment tenfold.

I am not sure what is worse. Enduring hours day after day of this man striking me with a wooden rod, his damn calm expression like he is not even trying, or listening to him aggravatingly repeat the same critiques of my form again and again. No, what is worse on this particular day is that this senseless exercise is happening on the day of the annual Dragon God Tournament.

It's the biggest event of the year; people have been flooding into the city for days. The inns are full, nobles' estates are crammed with visiting kin, and even our castle is crowded with relatives. The capital feels ready to burst, with thousands of travelers camping in rings of tents outside the walls.

Knights and mages from across the kingdom will compete in public duels for riches and glory. Victory guarantees status and wealth, and the audience is promised an impressive and bloody spectacle. But here I am, stuck getting beaten with a stick.

It starts in less than an hour. If I could only slip away.

"Mind your balance and your structure," Sir Wyatt says calmly. Behind him, the blue and gold banners hanging from the castle ramparts ripple in a gentle breeze.

"How about I whack your sword arm a hundred times and see how balanced you are," I mutter, bending down to retrieve my weapon.

"Not taking licks is your reward for practicing the fundamentals," Wyatt says coldly.

"Fundamentals," I repeat mockingly as I massage my aching arm. "You're an adult and I'm ten. It's not a fair fight. You're just stronger than me."

"The longsword is a finesse weapon," Wyatt says, leveling his wooden sword toward me again. "Technique and precision are what spare your arm a sting in training and your life on the battlefield."

I groan and roll my eyes. "Maybe I'd learn more by watching some real combat," I mutter. Then I perk up, feigning sudden inspiration. "Hey, the tournament—"

"Not a chance," Wyatt cuts in immediately.

"Why? My father is there!" I protest.

"The King presides over the competition. He has to be there," Wyatt explains, gesturing for me to raise my sword. "And he is far more concerned with you training so that you can compete someday, rather than wasting your time watching others do it."

"You don't know anything! Why should I listen to you?" I spit, eyeing him with disdain. "You're a horrible instructor. You aren't teaching me anything!"

"You have been taught by four instructors over the last four years and still haven't mastered the basic fundamentals, my prince," Wyatt says with a raised brow and a maddeningly judgmental air. "Perhaps it is not my instruction, but your lack of willingness to learn."

"How dare you!" I snap back, heat rushing to my face, my fists balled. How dare this lowborn, worthless brute speak to me that way. How dare he think himself superior to me? "Watch your tongue, or my father will have you hung by the neck!"

Sir Wyatt lowers his sword with an exasperated sigh that only makes my blood boil further. He should be afraid. He should apologize and beg at my feet for his life, not look at me like I'm the one wasting his time.

"I served in the army with your father, son," Wyatt says calmly. And… is that pity in his eyes?

"And?"

"And your father is a powerful man, and I owe him my life many times over," Wyatt answers.

"Is this how you pay him back? Smacking around his son?" I chide.

"He's worried about you, Charles," Wyatt says kindly. "He is concerned that you aren't taking your training or your study seriously, that you spend more time avoiding your lessons than doing them. He fears that if things do not change, you will fall behind in the skills required of the crown prince."

I drop my gaze to the ground. It is no surprise to me that my father is disappointed in me, but it still stings to hear him say it. It is not fair. He was a prodigy, so how can he expect me to be like he was at my age?

"I'm a mage. Why am I even learning to swing a sword around in the first place?" I demand.

"You are not a mage yet," Wyatt corrects. "And being a mage requires far more dedication than mastering the sword."

He raises his blade and intones, "Reinforce." A wave of white light flows from his hand over the wooden blade as the spell takes effect.

"If you were truly a mage, you would know that relying on mana alone will get you killed," he says, gesturing to his enchanted sword. "A weapon allows you to conserve mana, and conserving it is important for someone with as little as you."

"Shut up!" I snap, glaring daggers at him as I raise my own sword. I will show him. I might have less mana than my father did, but Wyatt is not even a mage. He barely has any mana at all. Who is he to say I am lacking?

"What do you know about being a mage?" I yell back. "You're just a knight."

Sir Wyatt simply stares at me, unmoved. A gentle wind drifts through the courtyard, and the rustle of flowers in the garden fills the silence between us. He seems to weigh his words, his brown eyes showing concern rather than offense.

"You are right, young prince. I am just a knight," he says at last. "So tell me this. If you, as a mage, cannot even beat me, how do you plan to survive when men as powerful as your father come to challenge you for the throne?"

That is the final straw. Suddenly I no longer care about the pain in my arm. I grip my sword with both hands and pour as much mana into it as I can. So he really thinks he is better than me? I will show him. I have only struggled because I was playing his silly game. When it comes to magic, he will see I am not weak.

Wyatt's eyes shift to my weapon as it glows red-hot, stinging to look at and far brighter than his own enchantment. I smile when I see the flicker of concern in his gaze. The sword's handle vibrates and grows hot in my palms as I force more and more mana into it.

"Charles, stop…" Wyatt says. The fear in his voice only drives me on. Now I can finally pay him back for using me as his training post.

I lunge forward, swinging with everything I have. Wyatt moves before my eyes can register it.

BANG.

The moment our swords meet, a thunderous crash erupts, followed by a piercing ring that fills my skull. I blink up at a bright blue sky. After a moment, I realize I am on my back, my whole body aching as though struck everywhere at once.

I slowly sit up and look around. Several royal guards have rushed into the courtyard, searching for danger. An ashy bite hangs in the air. Splinters of wood litter the ground around me, and my sword is nowhere in sight. Wyatt stands a short distance away, frozen in the same stance he held at the moment of impact, smoke curling off his uniform.

The voices of the guards asking if we are all right return to me as the ringing in my ears fades. Wyatt looks down at me, concerned. No… scared.

I did it!

"See that?" I shout triumphantly, springing back to my feet. "My strike was way stronger. I am way stronger than you. My magic was—"

"Reckless and foolish!" Wyatt shouts back. "That was as far from strength as you could get. Look at this. It was your sword that shattered."

My what? I look at his weapon, still smoking but unmistakably in one piece. Then I glance down at my empty hands, my own weapon entirely gone, vaporized by the strike. And the realization hits me. Despite all the raw power I poured into that attack, he is the one still standing, still armed, while I am…

"You are defenseless," Wyatt roars, disappointment in his voice that reminds me of my father. "Did you truly think that pouring malformed mana into your sword and swinging it like a hammer would make you stronger? That wasn't even a real spell!"

"I… uh…"

"All you have done is manage to fail as a swordsman and a mage at the same time," Wyatt says, throwing his hands up in frustration.

A heavy pit forms in my stomach. Anger at his words. Embarrassment. And a nagging thought I refuse to accept. That he might be right. No. He is wrong. There is nothing wrong with me. What could he possibly know?

Sir Wyatt sighs and rubs his temple. Then he straightens, collecting himself. "Stay here. I will fetch you a new sword and a healing potion," he says, turning to stride toward the castle. "We clearly need far more training."

His words ring in my ears as I watch him walk away, shaking his head. A cold chill crawls up my spine as I become keenly aware of all the eyes on me. The guards. Even the elf slaves scurrying to gather the debris. All of them with their quiet, judging glances. They are looking down on me. I can feel it. I know it.

Beset by a sudden urge to flee their gaze, and realizing my instructor is out of sight, I turn on my heel and stride toward the castle gate.

"Out of my way!" I growl, shoving a startled elf aside. She is so thin she topples backward with barely a push. I do not bother looking back, hearing her yelp in pain as the wood fragments she had gathered scatter across the stones once more.

The moment I reach the gate, I break into a run, sprinting past the questioning looks of the guards posted there.

"Prince, wait!" one of them calls after me, and the other shouts for Lord Wyatt.

I run as fast as I can through the noble quarter, past stately manors with gardens in full bloom. Cutting across back roads, I take an indirect route toward the Academy. They can criticize my swordplay all they want, but one thing they cannot deny is my ability to slip away from instructors. I have gotten very good at running and escaping.

There is no chance that old man will catch me on foot, and I will be halfway to the tournament before he even saddles a horse. All I need to do is reach the Academy, where the tournament is being held. Once I disappear into the massive crowd, I will be free of lessons for the rest of the day.

I duck into the garden of a manor, slipping around the back where several articles of clothing hang drying on a line. I creep up and snatch a heavily worn red cloak. It is not my style, nor fitting for someone of my station, but I throw it over my shoulders as I dart away.

Pulling the cloak over my head, I'm hit with the sharp scent of mold. Gross. Whoever lives here must have some useless lowborn retainer who cannot even clean clothes properly with magic. I will have to endure it. What matters is that I cannot be picked out of the crowd from a distance when the guards come looking.

I continue racing down the street, watching the great spire in the distance grow closer, and the deep rumble of countless voices grow louder. The sounds of excited spectators preparing to watch the greatest entertainment my country has to offer. My heart pounds, and my earlier embarrassment and frustration melt away, replaced by the giddy thrill of seeing the best of the best compete.

By the time I reach the throng gathered at the noble-sector entrance to the Academy, I am huffing and puffing, sweating under the evening sun. Before me stands a great ornate gate flanked by larger-than-life statues of two mages. The gate and its surrounding wall are as massive as those that encircle the capital, but carved from alabaster white stone etched with dragons, mages, and scenes from history.

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As I slip into the crowd pushing toward the gate, I glance up at the face of the twelve-foot-tall mage statue and imagine myself one day being so powerful, so respected, that statues like that are made in my image.

"Charles? That you?" comes a familiar voice to my right. I turn cautiously and see my friend Nathan Ambrose, an athletic boy a bit taller and broader-shouldered than me, with short black hair and sharp black eyes.

I guess the cloak didn't help much. He spotted me immediately.

"Shhh!" I hiss, pulling the hood lower over my face as I slide closer to him. "Don't draw attention to me."

"Didn't think you were going to make it," comes the voice of Eric Fobos behind me. I turn to see the heavyset boy in blue robes threaded with gold and studded with gems. He's beaming at me, fist raised in greeting.

"I knew he'd make it," scoffs Yuri Ristrose, his slender frame stepping out from behind Nathan. He and Nathan both hold out their fists as well. I tap each of their knuckles in turn with my own, grinning ear to ear.

"You know Charles is a master at giving his retainers the slip," Yuri adds as the crowd pushes us toward the gate.

"No way I'd miss this," I say with easy confidence. I only got away by a stroke of luck, but if they want to assume brilliance, who am I to correct them?

"What's with the ash all over you?" Nathan asks, pointing at one of several singed bits of my tunic. "Did you get in a fight with a salamander or something?"

"Oh, this?" I say, hastily brushing the ash off. "One of my spells went... a little out of hand."

Nathan lets out an impressed whistle and slaps me on the back. "Damn, you're already casting spells like that?"

"Yeah, you know how hardcore the Drakemores are with training," Eric says.

"Not that he needs it, right?" Yuri interjects, nudging my side with his elbow. "Charles is a prodigy like his father for sure."

"It's that Drakemore blood," Nathan adds, clapping me on the back. "Great mages, the whole lot of them."

"So jealous," Eric says wistfully as we pass through the gateway into the massive academy campus. "Isn't your uncle Draven competing this year?"

"Quiet," I hiss, glancing around at the many knights standing sentry along the route, their eyes carefully scanning the crowd as we pass.

"No, General Draven is not competing, you idiot," Nathan whispers. "He has two Mortis Stars. There is nothing he needs to prove."

"It is my cousin Valen, Draven's son," I whisper back.

The gate opens to a spacious campus adorned with countless beautiful gardens filled with exotic flora. Vines of silver-blue petals twist around marble arches, and rows of flowering shrubs release a faint, sweet scent into the air. Statues of mages and magical beasts stand quietly along the walkways.

I look around, taking in the ancient and regal structures scattered across the grounds. Each building is shaped differently, some with sweeping curved roofs, others with tall arched windows or tiered terraces, yet all are immaculately maintained and fascinating in design. These halls house the various classrooms, laboratories, offices, and dormitories of the Academy.

The tallest of them rises high above the rest of the campus, more than twice as tall as any other building in the city. The glass sphere at the top of the great spire catches the evening sun, reflecting it like a massive lighthouse.

Ahead of us, the crowd splits into several lines leading into the arena, a gigantic oval of tiered seating that rises three stories high. Judging from the roar of voices coming from inside, the seats must be nearly full. Beyond the line of barricades and knights along our path, the fields outside the arena are full of commoners, whole families spread out on blankets or perched on makeshift seats. They watch transfixed as massive glowing projections of the dueling grounds flicker across the outside wall of the arena.

"We should cut across," I whisper, nudging Nathan in front of us.

"What? Into the commoners' section?" Nathan recoils at the idea.

"Can't exactly go join dear old Dad, can I?" I retort. "They will be looking for me in there."

"Yeah, but the smell," Fobos says, grimacing.

"There probably is not much seating left, the way this line is crawling," Yuri muses as he pulls a round silver device from his pocket. He presses the top and it pops open, revealing moving arms and numbers. "And it is about to start," he adds.

Ahead, I see the guards at the entrance begin to wave off patrons, and the crowd in front of us starts to spread out into the field to find seats. The four of us cross the barricades into a field to the right. We weave through the crowd looking for a place to settle. The people we pass wear far plainer clothes than ours but about the same amount of ash as me.

We find a bit of space that can fit us behind two men, one much older than the other with long wiry white hair. They are stretched out on a ratty old blanket, their heads propped on travelers' bags, eating chunks of what looks like plain bread.

My friends and I squeeze in shoulder to shoulder on the bit of unclaimed grass behind them just as a booming voice erupts all around us, as clear as if the speaker were standing right before us. "The Dragon God's Tournament will now commence!"

On the screen I see Lord Ambrose, Nathan's father, at a podium going through the formalities of welcoming the guests and thanking the visiting lords. Many of the council members, and my father, are seated behind the podium and they stand and wave to the crowd as they are introduced.

When it is my father's turn, his eyes scan the crowd, seem to stop, and his hand freezes mid-wave for a moment, looking in my direction before continuing on. But no, it must be my imagination. He could not have seen me. That would be impossible. But impossible or not, I pull the cloak around me a little more.

"Bringin' honor to Votheron, my arse," the older man in front of me retorts, talking over Lord Ambrose's prayer to consecrate the tournament. "Real reason they be holdin' this here tournament is ta pacify the lot o' us!"

"Come now, Langley, not this again," groans his younger companion.

"Just eat yer free bread and enjoy 'em showin' off how powerful they are," Langley retorts, gesturing toward the screen with a bit of bread. "Ferget all about them heels on yer neck."

"You saying you do not want to watch? I will take your bread if you do not want it," the other man says with a sly smile.

"Didn' say it weren't workin'," Langley mutters before taking a bite.

The old man's contemptuous tone draws my attention from the screen. He is wearing a tunic and apron absolutely covered in blotches of stains of various colors. I am, regrettably, seated very close to the old man and unable to escape the nauseating smell rolling off him.

I would like to say something, to set him in his place for his insolence and his filth, but I cannot stand to draw attention to myself right now. Instead, I look back at the massive projection, now showing the first competitors entering the arena.

"It's your... huh, it's Valen!" Eric says, catching himself and excitedly prodding me with his elbow, pointing at the screen. At the same moment, the stadium erupts into thunderous applause.

"We are watching the same thing," I grumble, my response already drowned out by the excitement of the crowd. I watch as my cousin strides into the arena, confidently waving to the stands.

Valen is the eldest son of my uncle Draven. When my father became king, he had to give up his status as head of the Drakemore family to his brother. That makes Valen, a very talented mage, the one next in line to lead the family. Competing in this tournament is his way of proving his right to lead.

"It's rigged, y'know," the old man says dismissively. "That Drakemore boy'll win, no contest."

"How is it rigged?" the younger man responds irritably. "He is fighting five on one."

"Yeh, but look close. They just be slaves in armor, not warriors," Langley says, pointing to the five beastkin entering the arena opposite Valen: a bovinekin with a massive axe, a pair of wolfkin, a lizardman with a spear, and a particularly terrified little foxkin trembling against the door that has just slammed closed behind them.

"This ain't a duel," Langley adds darkly. "It be an execution."

It is over quickly. At the toll of a bell, the bovinekin and wolfkin charge into a hail of icicle lances. The bull manages to deflect one with his axe before another blasts cleanly through his chest, cutting through his cheap armor like parchment. He takes two more steps before a third lance removes his head in a dramatic spray of crimson across the ground. The two wolfkin rush for his flanks, but both meet their end, feet slipping on frozen slick ground before they are impaled by spears of ice. The audience explodes into renewed roars of excitement, me included.

The cheers turn to a collective gasp as the lizardman plants his feet and hurls his spear while Valen's gaze is still on the flanking maneuver. He sees the threat at the last moment. It is too late to fully evade. Valen only barely avoids being struck square in the chest, twisting just enough that the spear clips his left arm.

The crowd seems to hold its breath. For a heartbeat, the arena falls into a tense silence.

Valen staggers, then lifts his injured arm with a grimace. Golden threads flare to life around his fingers and streak toward the wound, diving into the torn flesh at its edges. They pull tight in sloppy, uneven stitches, dragging the skin together until the bleeding slows.

The lizardman is already sprinting toward the foxkin girl, who is cowering near the entry gate where she dropped her sword. Valen raises his hand again, launching two more ice lances that tear across the arena.

The lizardman leaps and rolls, dodging the first, then twisting aside so the second shatters harmlessly behind him. He dives for the foxkin's abandoned blade.

A third lance spears him through the chest midair. His body jerks, then goes limp, crashing to the ground with a wet smack and sliding to a stop in front of the foxkin, leaving a streak of blood and glistening innards across the stone.

Valen takes a deep breath, as if steadying himself, then looks around and waves to his audience, and we respond with renewed, frenzied cheers. He strides forward, stepping over the fallen bovinekin and casually kicking the severed head aside.

"See?" Langley's friend says. "How can you say it's rigged? He got injured."

Langley scoffs. "That were a lucky shot. Lizard went off script. But tell me, that foxkin begging for her life look like a warrior to you?" He nods toward the arena. "They probably got slave collars on, stopping them from using magic. Not fair, no way, no how."

The grey-furred foxkin drops to her knees, hands raised, sobbing in her savage language. I cannot hear the words over the crowd, but I imagine it similar to the wretched wailing of a beaten hound.

Valen does not hesitate. He closes the distance at an unhurried pace, draws his sword, and runs her through. She gasps, convulses, and then goes limp. As her body slumps to the arena floor, three mages in white robes bearing the symbol of the Red Lotus rush in from a side gate, crowding around Valen and bathing his wounded arm in layers of green light as the audience roars its approval.

The praise of the crowd goes on so long that few likely hear Ambrose pronounce his victory or the announcement of the next contest. By the time the noise finally begins to fade, two knights in mithril plate have taken the field, but I have not caught their names.

"Yeh, sure he's impressive, but he can't hold a candle ta Prince Drakemore," I hear Langley continue his chatter. My ears perk up immediately, my full attention on the old man.

"I have heard he is skilled, but is he not fairly young?" asks the other man.

"Ain't even old enough ta attend the academy, but he already doin' great things," Langley says with a firm nod.

I smile. Perhaps I judged these two smelly commoners too harshly at first.

"Mark my words, that boy'll make a great king one day, much better'n his father," Langley says matter-of-factly.

My smile grows even bigger.

"I heard he killed a dreadcoil worm when he was only five," the man says.

Wait... I did what?

"That is not all. He arrested somethin' like ten bandits a few arcs back," Langley adds. "And not to mention he gave all them potions out of the kindness of his heart."

I blink, looking at the old man in stunned confusion. I did not do any of those things.

"Everyone in the commons has been talking about him, calling him the true prince," the younger man says.

"Yeah, Ren Drakemore's way better than that good-for-nothing little tyrant Charles."

For a moment I struggle to be sure I heard the old man correctly. The clash of swords and the gasps of the enraptured crowd fade to a dull whisper as his words ring in my ears like bells, their reverberations shaking me to the core.

"How dare you!" I roar, leaping back to my feet, red-hot fury in my face, teeth grinding and my hands balled into fists. Every head around me turns in shock, including Langley. He stumbles backward, just missing a kick I had meant for his stupid face. With my hood fallen back, he looks back at me with an expression of utter terror.

"That imposter is not a prince, he is not my brother, and he is not better than me!" I shout. "He's nothing!"

"Prince Charles!" several people around us proclaim in shock as the commoners around us begin scrambling back from me. Langley scoots away on his backside, eyes like pinpricks and his jaw quivering in terror.

"I will have you hung for treason!" I yell.

"How's that low profile going, Charles?" Yuri quips as he, Eric, and Nathan look between me and Langley, confused.

"Arrest him..." I start, but I am cut off as I wheel around to call the guards and find Sir Wyatt right behind me, looking furious.

"You are coming with me," Wyatt says as he grabs me under the arms and drags me through the crowd.

"Wait, stop, you need to..." I protest, but nothing can be heard over the crowd's applause for one of the two nameless knights forcing the other to yield.

I tug, but I cannot free myself from his iron grip. He wordlessly pulls me up the street, his stern eyes fixed on the castle. Even away from the roar of the crowd, it is clear Wyatt is in no mood to listen.

I know there is a lecture and a round of painful training waiting for me back at the castle, but my mind is still reeling from the old man's words. How dare he compare me to that imposter? How does he even know about him?

Did he say... did he say Ren single-handedly killed a dreadcoil? Something tightens painfully in my chest. I have heard stories of dreadcoils destroying cities, of small armies being sent to bring them down. How could a kid younger than me kill such a creature?

What have I ever done? Nothing even close.

They called him "Prince." Not just that, they said he is the true prince, that he is better than me.

"Everyone in the commons is talking about him," they said. How much support does this fake prince have?

Is it possible he could take my title? My throne? My home?

What am I… if I am not the Crown Prince?

No. No, that is impossible. I will not allow it. That imposter will never take my throne. It belongs to me. My birthright! He is not and has never been a prince, he is not my brother, and he is not stronger than me.

But what if he is...

My heart beats hard in my chest, thumping like a drum in my ear. My thoughts are a tangled mess of anger and dread.

If that imposter really is stronger…

I look toward the castle gates, hands clenching and unclenching at my sides. For the first time in my life, the idea of going back to training does not feel like a punishment. It feels like the only way to prove I am better, the only true prince.

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