Everything hurt.
As the carriage rolled along, every rattle and bump made his body tense, his muscles cringe. Berras Emery sucked in a breath, let it out through his teeth. He could feel the bruises blooming across his chest, along his ribs, the ache taking shape at his jaw, in his skull.
The worst of it, at least, was hidden beneath the tunic, with its high collar and long sleeves. A noble’s garments hiding a fighter’s form. Only his hands showed the damage. His knuckles were raw, blood seeping through the bandages that wrapped them. He had won the fight.
These days, he won them all.
Nineteen, and they roared his name when he entered the ring. Of course, there were no arenas constructed for matches like these, no tournaments attended by vestra and kings. Not in Arnes, where the greatest insult one could show a fellow man was to strike him, not with fire or ice, but one’s own hand.
It was base, they said. Brutal.
And they were right.
These were not element games, graceful bouts adorned with magic. The very use of magic was forbidden, the buildings warded to keep it out. As it should be. A man did not choose his magic. It was a gift, a luck-made thing. But a man chose what to do in its absence, when they were nothing but flesh and bone and brute force. The will to get back up, to keep going.
That was a different kind of strength.
The carriage pulled through the gates of the Emery estate, and Berras took a last, low breath, steeling himself. A servant opened the door and he stepped down and crossed the stone drive, his back straight and his head up.
He would not let the pain show.
And he didn’t, not as he climbed the steps, not as he slipped inside, not as he peeled off his coat and tossed it to a servant and strode down the hall. There were tonics and balms, he knew, to smooth the cuts and ease the ache, but they would soften the skin as they healed it, and the next time he struck, or was struck, it would hurt just as much. No, better to let the skin harden, the tissue scar.
The study door stood open, a handful of voices spilling out. His father, clearly holding court. Berras didn’t dare stop, but he slowed enough to pick up pieces as he neared.
“… eight years old, and not a drop of magic…”
“… the Antari follows him like a pet…”
“… Maxim should be ashamed…”
“… a son so weak…”
And then Berras was passing the door. He saw three men with their backs to him, but his father sat as he always did, facing out. Reson Emery didn’t pause his speech, but his eyes latched onto Berras. They dropped to his hands, before cutting away, his attention returning to his guests.
Berras kept walking, the pain replaced by something worse.
He was tall and broad, the picture of strength, while his father was old, sinew on a shrinking frame, and yet, Reson could still make him feel small with a single blue-eyed glare. In that moment, he missed his mother, dead six years, missed her cool touch, her gentle voice. It was a weak thought, small and soft, and he clenched his fists until the injured knuckles wept, and continued down the hall.
Quiet laughter trickled out of the sitting room.
There was a fire in the hearth, and before it sat Alucard, his back against the sofa and an empty pitcher at his side. He was holding out one hand, upturned, and in the air above, a tendril of water twisted and curled into the shape of a dragon. It coiled and danced, the water catching the firelight.
Berras watched, his mood darkening.
He was not without magic, like the prince, but his power lacked refinement. He could draw up a wall of earth, or bring it down, but the gestures had all the nuance of a butcher’s cleaver, while his younger brother had been handed a surgeon’s blade. It did not matter how much Berras tried, how much he trained, he still ended up with a pile of dirt.
Alucard’s lips moved, his fingers twitched, but otherwise, he didn’t even seem to be trying. It came so easily to him, and he treated it like nothing but a parlor trick.
Their little sister, Anisa, knelt on the cushions behind him, braiding his hair as she called out different things for him to conjure.
“A boat … a cat … a bird!”
“Alucard.” Berras’s voice cut through the room. The water, now a hawk, faltered in the air, a few beads dripping from its feathers as he turned his head.
“Yes, brother?” he said without rising.
“Come here.”
The water hung suspended, then reversed its curl, returning to the pitcher as Alucard stood and came toward him. He looked ridiculous, two half-finished braids in his shoulder-length hair. At fourteen, he was a full head shorter than Berras, and had to look up to meet his brother’s gaze. When he did, Berras saw that Anisa had painted his eyes, gold dust smudging his lids.