Page 32 of The Phoenix Inheritance

“Argh!”

The small cry of anguish is a victory cry to my ears. Though I only succeed in sending Warwick spinning through the air for a few moments, it’s the first time I pose a serious threat since the beginning of this competition.

As the battle progresses, I begin to truly dominate the field. I sweep from the skies over and over again, until my brother can do little more than flee my ambushes. However where I outweigh him in brute force, my brother makes up for with agility. He always seems to avoid my attacks at the last minute, though I drive him closer and closer to the ground.

This time I sail towards the sun, figuring Warwick may take more time to escape if he’s blinded and doesn’t see where I come from. Soaring higher than I ever yet, I let the wind accompany me as I lunge back down. I never lose focus of that familiar mop of auburn hair. As I approach him, I flex my talons to cut back my velocity.

My strategy works. Warwick reacts a second too late. Out of instinct I thrust him down with my outstretched claws. As its razor sharp end grazes his bare back, I realize what I’m doing. Warwick’s head flips back, azure eyes staring at me in astoundment.

I draw back and my brother falls to the dirt. Half the audience roars as the other jeers in disappointment, the horn blasts, my father shouts my name as the victor of this round.

But I couldn’t care less. I push away the man who tries to sling a medal around my neck. Warwick’s limp form still rests on the ground.

What have I done?

I drop to my knees and shake his shoulder. My heart beats louder than the racket in the arena. A wild litany runs through my head. Please wake up. Please wake up.

Warwick, who encouraged me with a smile more times than I can count. Warwick, who always defended me though he’s clearly the favorite son. Warwick, who mere days ago helped me escape Østrom so I could visit Isobel.

I used my lethal talons against Warwick. I pray the cut was only superficial and didn’t carry any poison with it.

At long last – though in truth it can’t have been more than half a minute – my brother’s frame jerks. My chest soars as he flips around and sends me one of those silly grins.

“That was quite a match, little brother,” he utters raggedly. “I’m glad you finally rose to the occasion. It was fun, wasn’t it?”

My entire body sags with relief, but I don’t have it in me to match his mirth.

Because for the first time since I remember seeing my father sit on the throne, I question the soundness of my ambitions.

My reason to become ruler hasn’t changed since I was nine years old – I only want the crown to prove that I’m stronger than anyone. Not because I yearn to serve my country. Not because I care about the plight of Sowilo’s citizens, because I’m particularly interested in politics or because I have a vision for this state.

And I got so carried away by my own bitterness, by my raging thirst to crush everyone above me that I almost killed my own brother.

How can such a man be King?

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