Though they are similar in age and are both of dark hair and dark eyes, time has worn on them differently.
Davorin has been a man of the court since its inception nearly twenty years ago. He has enjoyed the luxury of a catered lifestyle, even if he doesn’t share as many of the riches as, say, a prince. He is cared for, provided for. His baths are always steaming and his access to blood always plentiful. He is a strategist, not a warrior, but the cunning in his eyes leaves the impression that he doesn’t need brawn to win in a fight.
Harland, on the other hand, looks as if he was born on a mountain, punted off the cliffside, and then hit every rock on his way down, only to climb back up and repeat the process all over again. Scars cover more of his body than not, and the red mottled eyepatch he wears over his right eye is more a part of him than the prosthetic hand that he barely wears anymore because, as he claims, he’s stronger without it.
They both have a large presence about them, and perhaps it’s for that reason that it takes me a moment to realize…
They’re not alone.
Two men trail behind them, one young with tussled blond hair, the other with a shaved head and a thin braid of facial hair dangling from his chin. Ropes bind their raw necks, wrists, and ankles, and they hobble behind Davorin who guides them toward us.
My glare pierces Harland’s rugged face. “I thought I told you to head back to camp with the others.”
His unflinching expression tells me he doesn’t intend to deign me with a response. Fine. I’ll deal with him later.
I turn my attention to Davorin. “What took you so long?”
Davorin’s eyes flit to our grizzled friend, betraying his annoyance. But he recovers quickly, addressing me exclusively. “Regrettably, my prince, I’ve never had much of a poker face. When you summoned me away from the others, Harland suspected it had something to do with his brothers and insisted on accompanying me.”
With a tremor of irritation, I reflect on how there are apparently times when I wish people obeyed my orders like they obeyed my father’s, moments such as these when the last thing I need is someone who will fly off the handles at the drop of a dime when we’re in the middle of what needs to be a stealthy investigation.
This isn’t just about Gregor and Boris. It could be something bigger.
Before I can think of anything to say that won’t make me sound like a princeling grappling at power he doesn’t have or a petulant child, Davorin becomes distracted.
“Is that…the new cape you had commissioned?”
All thought of disobedience is washed away.
“Yes,” I say, beaming. “Isn’t it glorious?”
Out of the corner of my eyes, I see Caz roll his.
“Hmm.” Davorin raises a single brow. “I’m afraidgloriousisn’t exactly the word I’d use for it.”
“Oh?” I bristle, my pride wounded. “Then what would you call it?”
Davorin looks it over once more and says without feeling, “Ridiculous.”
Laughter bubbles out of Caz. “That’s what I said!”
One of the humans snorts, drawing everyone’s attention to the bald man.
Grabbing the sides of my cape, I wrap them around my sides as I veer the conversation toward the two prisoners. “Yes, well, I’m glad someone’s escapades through this town have proved fruitful.”
Davorin bows his appreciation.
Harland, however, growls, his bearded sneer leaving little space for his fangs to show. “Not fruitful enough. Neither of them killed my brothers. That one there couldn’t even keep his own piss in his cock.” His head bobs to the young one, then he spits his disgust. “Should’ve killed them and kept looking.”
“And wasted the opportunity to deliver two humans to the Hunt?” Davorin scoffs. “The king would’ve—”
“Fuck the fucking king!” The words are a mighty growl from a hibernating bear who’s been prematurely awoken. “Those are my brothers out there!”
Beside me, Caz slips into his soldier-self. He stands taller, and whether consciously or not, he shifts his body closer to mine, coming between Harland and I to act as my shield, should he deem it necessary.
It won’t be. For all Harland’s ferocious exterior, I’ve battled him before. He’s not nearly as skilled as he believes himself to be. Powerful, yes. But he lacks creativity, intuition, and clearly a sense of self-preservation.
“Tell me,” I say, donning my princely mask just as well as Caz can don the mask of a soldier. “Did you find any trace of your brothers? Or are you simply suggesting we chase after them blindly and subject ourselves to the same foolish danger they stumbled upon?”
