The sun was high when Wyrn tied Bluebell to a tree and turned to look at the tournament. He couldn’t get far with jousting. And though he could hold a sword, any number of these ones would be too heavy.

His father’d made him one thing, and one thing only, a large dagger. But not a sword. Wyrn hated it.

For while he had a dagger as his safeguard, his brothers had a variety of weapons. Strong weapons. Weapons of respect.

The idiot prince to impose his will on him was named Orm. And Prince Orm wanted him to do something strange.

“Yield all your fights to me,” he said, fixing his armor. “Once we’ve won and she’s in your care. You deliver her to me and I’ll pay you handsomely.”

It was a sound plan perhaps. Wyrn had his misgivings about this man but the way the princess stared in their direction unabashed was enough. She wasn’t pining for Wyrn.

Whatever these two morons had in mind, Wyrn wanted nothing of it. Any princess a prince could not win fairly despite his skill, meant politics—strict politics were involved.

Archery would be first. Several top scorers stood comfortably in a line.

Orm hurried along beside him. “Go on and make the request.”

Wyrn ignored him. He lined up with the other men, Orm at his side.

“You are supposed to call upon me to aid you,” the prince said, seething.

The sound of Wyrn’s arrow whizzing to its target to gasp and cheers cut the man off.

At first glance, Wyrn did not look it, but he had training. Most of that training ended with his father watching on with a heavy sigh and a shake of the head but he was trained.

The next targets, placed even farther away, were equally as easy.

Orm completed his shot but waited.

A flock of birds took flight and Wyrn balked; he, unfortunately, was no good in chaotic situations.

That hesitation was his downfall because Orm coughed loudly at Wyrn’s next attempt. And the next after that.

Unable to properly concentrate, Wyrn lowered the bow and arrow and stared at the man.

In time, the targets, carried by two guards, faded from the field.

Orm looked smug but Wyrn, hardly casting the fleeting bullseye a glance, brought his bow up and let loose.

When it hit its mark, there was silence then a cheer.

“The hunchback is beating even a prince,” someone shouted, and the crowd erupted in laughter.

After that, the day progressed in a strange way. Orm no longer begged to be Wyrn’s champion. Instead, he eyed Wyrn with a dangerous glint in his eye.

His mounting rage was no farce; it was no lie, and it certainly was no exaggeration.

Wyrn didn’t care. Should he die in combat, his father might finally summon up some respect for him.

Although Wyrn bested most opponents in fair marksmanship, some, insulted at being challenged by the likes of him, bowed out.

No matter. Wyrn soldiered on. But at the jousting event, all fell deathly silent as Wyrn, riding Bluebell, struggled with the lance. He was going up against horses, bigger, stronger horses, and riders with proper armor.

But all Wyrn had was what he wore.

Across from him, Orm, wearing his own battle-tested armor, grinned before pulling on his helmet.

Though the lance sagged, Wyrn gripped the reins, determined to die on his feet.

It was customary for the princess to signal the event but after a long wait, no such signal came.

Even Prince Orm thought to investigate as to the cause of the long delay.

The king, a heavyset man with a bulging belly, sat with his arms folded.

He did not focus on Wyrn, but rather Orm, who he gave a disgusted scowl. “The man’s on a mule and he is half your size. What sort of coward are you, Orm? I might have known you held little honor.”

Orm, carrying his helmet under his arm, parted his lips and struggled to answer. But it was Wyrn who took insult.

“I am a fighter,” Wyrn said. “It matters not if I am but half his size. I am a proper opponent.”

He hefted the lance but Orm did not return to his post. In fact, he turned to Wyrn and said, “Let us consider more fair assessments.”

“Enough,” bellowed the King. He studied Wyrn for some time then said, “I am impressed by your bravery. Surely, you are our champion.”

“I do not need your charity,” Wyrn interrupted.

A silence fell over the land. This was no way to speak to a king, to be sure, but Wyrn refused to back down.

“It is no charity, hunchback,” the king said, sitting up. He waved to a nearby guard and received a long scroll. “You’ve earned well.”

Against the ones who’d remained? Perhaps. But that would not satisfy Wyrn. Wasn’t he supposed to receive a challenger?

And then he saw it, something in the king’s smug expression.

His daughter, quite distraught, sat meekly at his side.

This was some sort of game to them. She’d defied him, perhaps by choosing Orm against her father’s wishes, and the king intended to shame her by giving her in marriage to a hunchback.

So Wyrn would be a punishment? The nerve.

“As per the stipulations of the contest, you will receive my daughter’s hand.”

“I don’t want it,” Wyrn said.

At the collective gasps, he kept his gaze trained on the heavyset king whose face was slowly drifting in and out of all sorts of expressions.

“W—whatever do you mean? You’ve won!”

“Good. Then I’d like to have another mule, and a basket of apples, and I’ll be on my way, duly proud of my accomplishments.”

The king’s face drained of color. What had begun as posturing then ultimately shaming for his daughter, now carried over to even him.

“Of course, hunchback. An extra mule for your new bride. That is understandable.”

Wyrn’s gaze turned cold. These morons were trying his patience.

The princess sat up now, two wide brown eyes brimming with insult.

“Why you….” Orm jumped back and drew his sword. “I will avenge the princess’s honor.”

Such actions no longer interested Wyrn but a proper fight did.

“It is no secret, hunchback,” the king called, “that you can spit insults unafraid of an immediate execution. And do you know why? There is a warlord to the north with a hunchback son. And he’s sent out a message far and wide, anyone who kills this boy will incur his wrath. Now, these savages aren’t necessarily anyone worth fearing, but they can become a nuisance. Therefore, most people will allow you your talk. I suppose your kind have become rather emboldened. But you forget one thing….”

Wyrn dropped the lance and folded his arms. “Oh?”

“They are only interested in battle. Anyone dying in fair combat need not be avenged. So hold your tongue, take your new wife, and be off.”

Despite their distance from one another, Wyrn remained defiant.

After a long bout of silence, the king told a close advisor, “Clear off the field of the lances and get the swords ready.”

The king’s commands were followed. Within minutes, Orm was battle-ready and Wyrn let out a sigh.

Someone hurried to him with a sword. Even the guard, towering well over Wyrn, struggled with the heavy weapon. Wyrn supposed this was what a fair fight looked like.

“What’s the matter, hunchback?” Orm boasted, “Too much power for your weak arms to wield?”

Wyrn could wield it, but why put out so much energy doing so?

Orm threw his own sword down and retrieved the one meant for Wyrn. The way he tested the weight meant he hadn’t counted on it being that heavy.

That was foolish. Taking an unfamiliar weapon into a fight. But then again, so many things about this prince weren’t well thought out.

“I know what you’re doing,” Orm said. “You’re making a show so that your claim to her will be solidified when you don’t bring her to me as per our bargain!”

What bargain?

Wyrn might have argued against that logic if he’d cared enough. This fight was a dream come true, not for the prize, but for the battle. It was no secret to him that he had nothing to fear wherever he roamed. He hadn’t known this was the reason till now, however. He’d just thought perhaps his manly persona was working.

To find that he was being held up…by words, hurt.

Words and his father’s vicious army.

No matter. This prince was a proper fight and it would be enough.

Wyrn reached behind himself and brought his hand forward, brandishing the dagger.

The crowd gasped then laughed and Wyrn burned with shame. He’d picked the wrong one. This was a small knife.

Orm let out a battle cry and charged.

Wyrn, unsure of what to do, dropped the knife and stomped the ground. He needed to work himself up into a frenzy; that was how his people did battle. Orm wasn’t supposed to attack right now.

Each stomp had Wyrn’s body burning. He was halfway there but it was too late, the prince raised the sword with both hands.

A fire ignited in Wyrn’s gut and he charged, keeping his body low. When Orm struck, Wyrn tucked his head, intentionally giving his back.

Orm struck true but the sword had no effect. The prince puzzled over that one second two long. Wyrn swept Orm’s legs and jumped on him as he toppled.

There were rules to fighting, he knew, but he didn’t know these people’s guidelines, only his own. And his father’s rules were simple—take a head when you see a neck.

Wyrn detached the whip and wrapped it around Orm before the prince had time to recover. Using his body to push down on Orm’s chest while simultaneously pulling, Wyrn summoned every bit of his strength as his aid.

Orm struggled at first then dropped his sword and began striking the ground furiously.

His cries resembled that of a pig about to be slaughtered. The crowd cheered, many on their feet.

Wyrn closed his eyes and prayed for courage. He’d never taken a life before. This was a milestone. This was a fitting fight. This was his right.

But as Orm’s twisting and jerking weakened, Wyrn felt sick.

He jumped off and loosened the makeshift noose.

The prince didn’t move. Wyrn feared appearing weak. Should he approach, wouldn’t they realize he hadn’t the nerve to take a man’s life? Wouldn’t they realize his weakness and speak of it?

Eventually, wouldn’t his father know?

For a long while, Orm didn’t budge. Wyrn felt worse with each passing second.

The moment the prince’s body jerked, Wyrn let out a sigh of relief.

Several people rushed Orm, who was rather dazed and in actual tears, and helped him off the field.

Wyrn twisted the whip in both hands, fighting back the urge to vomit. He shouldn’t have lost his nerve. He should have been a proper warrior. This had been his chance and he’d failed.

One clap came.

Then another.

Wyrn picked his head up to see the king, brimming with pride, smiling down on him as he clapped.

The crowd followed suit shortly after.

For Wyrn, there was no satisfaction in any of it. He wished he’d never come.

“Splendid. You even show mercy. Come now, hunchback. You’ve bested even a prince!”

Eyes fixed on the dirt at his feet, Wyrn felt numb.

Wyrn was a prince, too, in his own right. He should have said as much but instead, he picked his head up. “I’ll claim my victory now, if it’s all the same.”

The king sat back, joy creased in his face. “So, what was it? A basket of apples and a second mule for your new wife.”

“I don’t need the wife,” Wyrn affirmed.

Out of the corner of his eye, a man with a crossbow took aim at him.

With this hollow pit in his stomach growing wider by the minute, Wyrn stared the king down. “And I fear no death.”

“This is a great honor!” the king bellowed.

But Wyrn didn’t answer, or flinch, or move.

This time when he glanced at the crossbow, it was because its aim shifted, pointing at Bluebell in the distance.

“Or you can go home with nothing,” the ruler challenged.

Wyrn’s lips parted, and he told the king, “However…I suppose I can be persuaded.”