Page 24 of Taken By the Alien Siren King

“Enough,” I growled, my voice low and dangerous. “You want to prove you’re worthy of the crown, Nedaris? Then face me. Right here. Right now. I challenge you for the throne.”

For a moment, everyone was frozen, staring. Then the hall erupted into shouts. Cries of betrayal rang out alongside demands for justice. And above it all, I could see Emme’s terrified gaze locked on mine.

I forced myself to smile. To appear calm and in control, even as my heart pounded like a drumbeat in my ears. There was no coming back from this. Either I killed my brother, or I died trying.

“Unless,” I added, twisting the knife, “you’re afraid you can’t beat me without your loyal dogs to hold me down.”

That did it. Nedaris’s face contorted with rage.

“Very well,” he spat. “I accept your challenge.”

Relief and dread warred within me as the Knights formed a circle around us. This was what I wanted, but now that it was happening, memories of my own trials flooded back. The taste of blood in my mouth. The ache of bruised ribs. The weight of the crown as it was placed on my head.

Glimpses of my young brother between the packed bodies, head barely dusting their shoulders. I remembered thinking he’d have been better suited trying to watch from between their legs.

A Knight approached with a practice sword. The blunted steel was meant for training children. No extra power sung into the blade, no pulses of energy. Naked and true for ritual, but not a thing for combat.

My lip curled at the insult as I took it, leaning close enough to see sweat beading on the man’s temple. “I’ll remember your help when I retake my throne.”

The man’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard before melting back into the crowd. Good. Let them all remember who the true king was and the wrath that would follow.

Nedaris handed my crown to one of his Knights and drew his own sword, testing its weight. It was a ceremonial weapon, one carried by monarchs sinceOldDelovia’s founding. Perfectly balanced for both defense and offense. Light, flexible, and razor sharp.

And not used in combat in his entire lifetime.

“You remember the rules, brother?” I called, falling into a fighting stance. “Or do you need someone to recite them for yourNewDelovians?”

“Of course,” he ground out, eyes narrowing as if trying to determine whether I’d offered insult or genuine question. “First to disarm. Then we fight with fists until one of us yields or dies. No siren song allowed.”

I nodded. Our father had been more fond of making enemies than friends, and many houses thought their time had come for a change in power. Exhaustion had clung heavier and heavier as I faced challenger after challenger, each fight draining me further.

Now it was time to do it again.

Nedaris struck first, his blade whistling through the air. I parried, and the impact added another nick to my practice sword. Pain lanced up to my wounded shoulder, but I pushed it aside. I couldn’t afford weakness now.

“All these years watching me,” I taunted, circling him, “and you still lead with your shoulder.”

His next attack came faster, a flurry of strikes that might have impressed the court sycophants but told me everything I needed to know. My brother fought with textbook precision and not a drop of battlefield instinct or spontaneity.

I let him drive me back, step by calculated step. Every retreat fed his confidence, every blocked strike made his eyes gleambrighter with anticipated victory. Behind him, I caught glimpses of Emme’s face between the shifting bodies of the Knights. Her eyes never left me, even as she tested the grip of her captors.

Smart woman. Looking for flaws while everyone else watched the show.

Nedaris’s blade whistled past my ear, too close for comfort. “Getting slow in your old age, brother?”

I grinned, tasting blood where my lip had split. “Just giving the people what they want.”

His rhythm faltered at my casual tone. I seized the opening, twisting inside his guard. My shoulder slammed into his chest, sending him staggering back. The Knights parted to avoid collision with their chosen ruler.

“The problem with you, Nedaris,” I said, voice pitched to carry, “is that you never understood what makes a king.”

I pressed forward, no longer retreating. Each strike of my dulled weapon against his sharp blade sent vibrations up my arm. The pain sharpened my focus to a knife’s edge.

“You think it’s about the crown.” My sword slammed into his, forcing him back another step. “About sitting on a throne and having people bow to you.”

Nedaris snarled, abandoning technique for rage. His blade slashed wildly, leaving his right side exposed. I drove my elbow into his ribs, satisfaction surging as I heard the crack.

“It’s about sacrifice,” I continued, each word punctuated by a blow. “About putting your people before yourself. Every. Single. Time.”

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