Gordon shook his head. “I’ve seen ‘Mish infatuated, this isnae that. Were you hoping it wasnae true?”
Darshan shook his head. Of course he wanted to believe what the man said was the truth, but… Shit. It made the prospect of losing that much harder. He could’ve weathered having his heart cracked again, but not Hamish’s as well.
I have to win. There was no other way. If he failed, Hamish lost right alongside him.
He would not let that come to pass.
Darshan tugged the scarf a little higher across his face, surreptitiously shielding himself from the fog that had settled around the castle. The act allowed a tendril of cool air to slip beneath the linen. Even though his feet were growing numb with the cold, his breath was trapped by the thick fabric of the scarf and turned it into a veritable sauna for his face.
Women garbed in similar attire surrounded him on all sides, the last of the competitors having arrived just this morning. None of them had given his presence more than a passing glance. At least he hoped so. Deciphering expressions was difficult at the best of times without his glasses. To go only by eyes, that were so often dark pits in a vaguely oval face, was practically impossible.
Nevertheless, here he stood amongst the final handful of others that had trekked from the other side of Tirglas. To everyone’s knowledge bar Gordon’s, Darshan was here to stake his interest—going by Moira of the Dathais Clan at the man’s insistence. He had trained the whole week leading up to this and just a stray word could see him outed.
Yet, no one had called out the anomaly in their group.
Now that he was amongst all the competitors, Darshan slowly became aware of how small he was in comparison to quite a few; not just in height, but also in the broadness of his shoulders.
The noblewomen back home spent much of their time lounging around and scheming from the comfort of their mansions rather than in a straight battle. Whilst just possessing magic consumed a great deal of energy—even more when actually used—and the general revelry at the multitude of soirées hosted across the empire took quite a chunk of energy, the rich food the Udynean nobility ate was more than the required extra amount and left the idle with a certain physique. Voluptuous, his twin called it.
Still, he had thought the women within Castle Mullhind had gained their bulk by way of labour or military training—or in the case of Nora, her bloodline—but this collection of Tirglasian noblewomen looked as if they’d been training their entire lives for this moment. Maybe they had. He wasn’t exactly privy to all of Tirglasian customs, but this union contest seemed to be a commonality amongst their nobility.
The women milling around him straightened.
He swiftly followed suit. Gordon had told him little of today’s proceedings, only that Darshan wouldn’t be expected to fight just yet. That would come tomorrow. With swords. He sneered. Such a primitive weapon. Nobles in Udynea relied on their magic for battle, with a few eccentrics seeking out lessons in fencing. His father was one such man who’d tried to instil a similar mindset in his children to little avail.
“Welcome, dear competitors,” a voice boomed across the courtyard.
Darshan stiffened. Queen Fiona. Although he couldn’t see much of the wooden platform where the royal family sat—beyond a few colourful blobs—there was no mistaking that icy voice. Would she notice him? Surely he would be lost amongst the drab-clothed masses. By rights, only in his unveiling would his identity be made known. Unless he was forced to speak.
“By right of heritage and birth,” Queen Fiona continued, “only those of noble blood may present themselves as competitors and fight for the hand of a Mathan Prince.”
There was a pause. Was Hamish up there? Had that wretched woman really forced her son to face all these people knowing that he would have to marry one? Did he know Darshan was amongst the competitors? Had Gordon told his brother of their plan?
With Gordon having his training begin at first light and not stop until the last hint of day had departed the sky—and his muscles still remembered the bone-deep ache that came from overuse—Darshan hadn’t seen his lover since the night of the bear attack much less have found the chance to speak with Hamish.
“I ask you all to forgive my son’s melancholic reaction,” the sweetness in Queen Fiona’s voice was enough to make Darshan’s teeth ache. “He recently took on a bear that has been tormenting the nearby forests and has yet to recover his humour.”
Should’ve been in the Crystal Court. She certainly sounded like one of them with her half-truths.
“Whether you have come from prestigiously large clans or hail from a smaller one, you will be given an equal chance at my son’s hand. However, as we all ken, there can be only one winner.”
Rolling his eyes, Darshan subtly stomped his feet to work out the cold seeping into them. Did anyone honestly think more than one of them could marry Hamish? There had to be over fifty competitors, maybe even close to a hundred. He had no idea how many clans were in Tirglas. According to Gordon, the first trial would see the number halved by tomorrow evening and the second trial, an obstacle course through the forest, would leave just a handful.
“The rules of the union contest are simple,” Queen Fiona continued. “Prove your strength and stamina in a battle of arms, your cunning and fleetness in a course of my clan’s design and a final test that is customarily chosen by the prince himself.”
Darshan shuffled a little closer to
