Chapter Text
Ilya startled awake on the morning of his twenty-first birthday. He was due to lead the guard’s morning training session soon, but first, he had important business to attend to.
He haphazardly perched on the stone windowsill in the corner of his room. The curtains billowed softly out and floated in the wind, while the sun kissed the top of the castle walls. The sky was painted with pale pink and orange hues, and Ilya wondered, not for the first time, why he could still see the faint outline of the moon even as the sun rose. He remembered how his mother used to say that some days the sun burnt so beautifully and so bright the moon couldn't help but stay up to watch.
He wondered if she was somewhere watching the sunrise too, or if maybe, she had sent it just for him. He craved a smoke, but it had been just over a year since Svetlana and Cliff finally convinced him to quit.
He chose his words carefully and spoke them softly, willfully letting his voice be drowned out by the wind. He described in great detail, his duties and daily tasks as Captain of the Guard. How, at times, he felt he'd only been given the position to keep him busy, maybe as some sort of consolation for the fact that he was not the heir to the throne.
He talked about his two best friends, Svetlana and Cliff.
He left out the bad parts about Grigori and Alexei. He knew his mother would be disappointed if she could see them now. He thumbed the solid gold signet ring on his pinky finger, its familiar weight serving as a sort of comfort as he ended the conversation in the manner that he usually did, with a promise that he loved her and would talk to her next time.
He'd spoken to her every morning of his birthday since she'd passed.
The parting words had just barely left his mouth when the door to his chambers burst open, flying so quickly that the ornate iron door handle smacked into the wall, right over the blemish that had just been replaced from the last time it'd happened. He opened his mouth to protest, but was swiftly cut off.
"Fuck! I know, I know, I'll fix it." Cliff interjected, his voice going a mile a minute, "And we have to meet your father downstairs, like now, but I wanted to give you this first."
Ilya decided to hold his tongue on the scolding he so desperately wanted to give. Cliff was his best friend, but he was an idiot that never learned. It was maybe the fourth time this month that he'd flung Ilya's door open so hard that it dented the wall, despite the frequent admonishments Ilya gave to be more careful and to knock.
He crossed the room, from his spot in the window. Cliff wisely said nothing about the precarious position he'd been perched in, and so, Ilya accepted a rather unappealing looking brown sack from him.
It was heavy.
He shot Cliff a suspicious look and half dragged, half carried the bag over to the round mahogany dining table that sat by the fireplace for when he decided to take his meals in his room, which was honestly most nights lately. He delicately untied the straps that held the sack together, and looked inside to find an assortment of small brown beans. His lips curled upward in a smile and a rare feeling of careful, unbridled joy overtook him.
"Is this..?" He asked quietly, trailing off, not quite yet daring to hope.
In the corner of his eye, he could see Cliff nodding. "Coffee beans from East of Anadyr, in the ruins of Mirkova," he confirmed, "The plants still grow even in the blood soaked soil, the only thing that's really left over there."
Ilya replaced his penchant for drinking at all hours of the day with morning and afternoon coffee. Always black, never a splash of milk or sugar. He asked his attendants to intentionally burn it a little to draw out the bitter taste. When he closed his eyes, he could sometimes imagine that the bitterness of the coffee beans was the perfect prelude to the crisp bite of his father's evening vodka.
"Thank you, Cliff," Ilya said quietly and gratefully as he sifted his hand through the bag, picking up the beans and watching them fall through his fingers.
"It wasn't just me, it's from Svetlana too." Cliff rushed to add, as if he were worried she were listening through the halls, ready to strike if he denied her part. "The price to bribe someone to head out there and get these was steep, not to mention the actual price of the damn things."
"You two should not have spent money on me," Ilya chuckled, shaking his head, knowing even as he said it, that it was of no use. Last year for his birthday, Svetlana and Cliff had commissioned a special sword from Anadyr's most talented blacksmith for him, adorned with a crest that matched the one on his signet ring. It was the symbol of his mother's maiden house, the emblem of the territory where she had belonged before she'd married his father.
Cliff didn't dignify him with a response. He turned to Ilya's wardrobe and began tossing pieces of his armor at him, to help ready him for their morning training session, which would apparently have to come after they met with his father.
Ilya dressed quickly, and sheathed his sword with a slight smile. He closed the doors to his chambers before following Cliff toward the throne room where his father sat most days, attending to various businesses in between meetings, and planning to conquer more territories, or whatever him and Alexei did.
The walls of the palace were elegant, adorned with the most beautiful paintings and draperies. Ilya remembered the rich black and gold decor of the palace when he was just a boy. As he'd grown, the halls had become a patchwork of colors, with stolen pieces from conquered kingdoms displayed on the walls like trophies.
All of the stolen relics displayed as trophies should have clashed with each other. And they should have been tacky, but instead, somehow, they were displayed so elegantly they almost looked beautiful, like they belonged.
When they entered the throne room, Ilya took his place in front of his father, with his back straight, his chin up, and his eyes staring straight ahead, masked with indifference. While Cliff engaged in a deep bow, Ilya remained standing.
Despite being the second son, it was one of the few things his father had impressed upon him from a young age. A Rozanov man kneels before no one.
"Father." Ilya greeted coolly, "You wished to see me."
Grigori Rozanov sat upon his throne of broken dreams in his palace full of stolen relics with an air of entitlement suited to the most powerful king in centuries.
"Ilya." His father acknowledged, with the same cool, careless tone that Ilya, himself used.
Ilya waited patiently. In the two years since he'd been named Captain of the Guard, he'd learned to deal with his father's theatrics and temperament. Grigori loved to draw things out, and he punished those who rushed him.
"There will be a gala tonight. I will make an announcement, an important one." Grigori stated calmly, and Ilya nodded in response.
"I can station my men-" Ilya began, but was cut off by the sharp raised of a hand, and a stare that could make a lesser man wither.
"Do not concern yourself with such things." His father commanded, his tone dropping into something slick and patronizing. "You will attend, as one of my guests, not as my Captain. Your second was briefed on matters of security at dawn."
The words hit Ilya like a physical blow to the chest, a cold spike of adrenaline pierced through his careful, practiced mask of indifference, and he tried to ignore the direct, irritating hit to his pride. Of course his father was babying him again, using a major state gala to parade him around as a handsome, perfect prince for visiting dignitaries.
It was his least favorite part of being a royal son. The responsibilities of Captain of the Guard he could handle, the policies, customs, and manners he'd learned as a child were all fine, it was the pointless politicking and posturing he hated more than anything.
He swallowed his response and nodded. He sent a sharp look over to his right where Cliff stood, wondering why he'd not informed him of this on their long walk from the West wing of the castle where Ilya's private chambers were stationed to the North where the throne room lay.
As he commonly did when they were before Ilya's father, Cliff ignored him in favor of keeping his eyes trained forward, perfectly locked onto the King.
Ilya would complain about it later.
"Yes, father." He stated plainly, his voice devoid of any and all emotion, though his chest burned with humiliation and annoyance. He'd dealt with his father enough that he knew he was being dismissed from the subtle tap of Grigori's pinky finger on the arm of the throne. He also knew they had ten seconds to begin their exit of the room before Grigori dismissed them more sharply.
He nudged Cliff, who engaged in another deep bow, before spinning on his heel to walk out to the training yard.
He hadn't been expecting an acknowledgement of his birthday. His father hadn't said anything when the day had passed last year either. It didn't make the fact sting any less.
There were certain privileges that came with being the spare.
People let liquor flow more freely, lips were looser, favors were not so much sought, and no one really afforded him any unordinary acknowledgements that he was someone special, someone different.
He could go into a tavern and just be Ilya, the spare, in a way that his brother, Alexei could not.
It was sometimes possible for him to pretend he was someone other than himself, when he kept the hood of his cloak pulled up and angled down to shield the icy blue of his eyes, accented by a silver ring around his irises, the signature indicator of a Rozanov.
At twelve, his heart broke when his mother died.
At thirteen, his father remarried a woman only five years older than Alexei, who was only four years older than Ilya.
At fourteen, he turned to the bottle to numb the pain, following the example set by his brother, and his father, and his father's father, and so on. He knew, vaguely, how to run the country if something ever happened to his father and his brother, but he stopped attending briefings and lessons after his mother died, and nobody really seemed to care. He wasn't sure if it was because they felt bad for him, or if they simply couldn't bring themselves to care enough, but it hardly mattered. He faded into nothing of consequence, a life that had been decided for him long before he'd even been a speck in the universe or a thought in anyone's mind.
Alexei had a bad habit of frequenting pleasure houses, drinking himself half to death, and snorting whichever drugs were new and most dangerous. He was angry, he always had been. He raised his hand to women in the same way he'd witnessed their father do it. The way that Ilya had never adopted and never would, and for that, Alexei and Grigori called him soft.
But it didn't matter how many women Alexei hurt, he would never face the consequences, because he was the heir to the throne, and Ilya was not.
And it was fine, because Ilya never wanted to be the heir to the throne.
Maybe he had, once, when he was a boy, but he hadn't in a long time, and he certainly didn't now.
At fifteen, he drank, and partied, and smoked, and paraded around the inner walls of the palace, making friends in unexpected places, and stumbling back into his private quarters at night. He acted irresponsibly, yet he listened where others turned a blind ear, and kept track of all the palace's dirtiest secrets.
He heard things that he told himself were normal, inevitable even. Told himself these things were simply the cost of such a great power.
He knew that his family was not normal, that his father, while powerful, was not the most popular ruler. He knew Alexei would be even worse, but there was nothing he could do. He was not the heir.
He told himself that his drinking was normal too, it was his way of coping. He knew deep down that was also a lie.
At sixteen, he began to share his body with anyone brave enough to ask, and often found himself floating to some place far away, not fully present in his mind during the actual event. His father did some awful things that year. Alexei did some that were even worse.
Seventeen was when he met Svetlana Vetrova.
She had skin the color of rich caramel, and her hair was so curly it made his own look tame. She was sharp, quick-witted, and incredibly beautiful. She was his brother's betrothed, a political maneuver to strengthen ties between the Rozanovs and the Vetrovs, but she despised Alexei, treated him with less respect than gum on the bottom of her shoe, and she hated Ilya too, at first.
In a poor, misguided attempt to get at his brother, he attempted to court her. She slammed the door to her private quarters in his face and refused to greet him unless he was sober. And once he was, she still refused his advances.
But, she let him lay his head in her lap, carded her fingers through his hair softly while he slept. She introduced him to her personal guard, Cliff, who Ilya developed somewhat of his second real friendship with. He stopped drinking himself to oblivion every day, and began to train harder than ever before. He went from a hollow, sorry excuse of a boy to a honed, sharpened weapon.
By eighteen, he began to formally train with his father's soldiers.
And at nineteen, his father appointed him as the Captain of the Guard.
He called it an honor. A show of trust. An opportunity to demonstrate his capability. A stepping stone, perhaps, to the next step- a General in the Royal Army, the highest responsibility that a spare could strive for.
Ilya was to be the leader of the guards, protecting the people of Anadyr who lived within the walls of the upper and lower kingdom. He would be tasked with providing what security the high towering stone walls could not, resolving civil disputes, and doling out punishments for petty thefts and crimes.
It was a promotion, sure, but it was a far cry from the outside world.
To no one's surprise, Ilya appointed Cliff as his second in command.
Days after he turned twenty, he watched his father sentence a boy his age to life in prison.
And it was, apparently, a momentous occasion. It seemed like all of the people of Anadyr, within the walls and not, had come to the sentencing. There were crowds unlike any Ilya had ever seen before, hoping to get a glimpse of the boy.
Ilya wondered if it was because he was so young. Or maybe it was because of the gravity of his crimes. He spent the whole night wondering, after a security briefing with his father and the rest of the guards, why exactly security needed to be so high.
When the boy was brought in, his hands and feet were bound with chains of iron. There were eight guards flanking him, moving perfectly in tandem as they led him to cross through the crowds of people gathered closely in the sentencing room and forced him to kneel at his father's feet.
It was abundantly clear then, to Ilya, why so many people had come for the boy's sentencing. Putting it simply, he was beautiful.
Despite the chains, he kneeled with his back held straight, strong and confident, despite the two guards with their hands on his shoulders that had pushed him to his knees. His eyes were sharp, constantly roaming in the way that suggested he missed nothing, and there was a smattering of freckles across his cheeks that reminded Ilya of the rose bushes in the palace gardens during the first snow.
In a different life, Ilya thought, this boy would have looked nice in his bed for a night or two, maybe longer if those freckles kept their allure.
But in this life, they were not to be.
Ilya listened to the charges that were read out, that the boy had allegedly committed. They were grave, and dangerous, and yet, Ilya was not afraid. He admired the way the boy stared straight into his father's eyes, broadcasting rage, and fury, and disgust, and spat at his feet upon the end of the sentencing.
Ilya had never seen anyone stand up to his father like that. It was terrifying, and inspiring, and beautiful, and...
Brave.
In the days that followed, he sometimes found himself grieving the fact that he would never know the boy. In the privacy of the garden, he confided in Svetlana that he thought what the boy had done was stupid, but brave.
She sharply questioned who he was referring to.
And he told her simply, the boy with the freckles.
She asked him if he was aware he was referring to the most dangerous assassin in all of Anadyr as "the boy with the freckles".
Ilya told her that he supposed that he was, and she looked at him as if she were seeing him for the first time.
He spent the next few days asking his guards if any of them had ever heard of the assassin, and each of them looked at him with terrifyingly blank eyes when they said no. One of the palace cooks overheard him asking and pulled him to the side after lunch.
He told Ilya that he used to live outside the palace walls where, apparently, the assassin was infamous. He spoke of bedtime stories that parents told their children, telling of the fury of the assassin, how he had once taken down nine men all on his own, how he worked in the night and the day and those who glimpsed his face never lived to tell the tale. He said that he bet people had come far and near just to catch a glimpse of the ghost, in hopes that they would know who to fear if he ever roamed the streets again.
Ilya laughed. The boy had a laundry list of crimes and would certainly never see the light of day again, much less his next birthday probably.
A couple days after that, Cliff confronted him. He said he'd heard Ilya had been inquiring after the prisoner from the other day, and told him to stop. When Ilya asked why, Cliff reminded him of the guards that were loyal to his father, rather than Ilya himself. He reminded him, that his father would not take so kindly to Ilya's curiosity, that there were plenty of guards from the lower kingdom that would sell him out for less than a loaf of bread.
After that, Ilya stopped asking. And he made himself stop thinking about the boy too.
There was a beauty in the art of sword fighting not possessed by the other more brutish forms of combat.
He could appreciate the merits of a well balanced spear when he was sparring with a less talented fighter, or when he wanted to be flashy, but swords remained his favorite weapon to train with. And he was damn good with them too.
In the years since he'd begun mastering the weight of the hilt, the specific balance of the blade, and the perfect timing required to deflect an attack before launching his own, he had become one of the best fighters in the Royal Guard. The rhythmic intensity of sword fighting kind of reminded him of dancing with his mother when he was younger, training ballroom dance, waltzing, and the occasional tango for one day when he was older and would need to impress a lady that his father deemed worthy enough for him to marry.
"Ilya, dancing is important." His mother would tell him when he protested his lessons, crying, searching, and hoping for a way out. "One day you will dance with someone you love very much, you don't want to make a fool of yourself, do you?" She asked him.
He sometimes wondered if she would still have approved if she knew his dance lessons only served to make him quicker on his feet when launching an attack and swinging metal.
His mother had never approved of fighting, and war, and conquering, and all that came with being the most feared king of one of the most powerful empires. She used to talk about finding him someone to marry in a kingdom far away from Anadyr.
One where he would become the prince consort and live somewhere more than three days travel away. She would tell him these dream-like stories, would talk about going to visit him, and how beautiful his lover would be. She would talk about staying with him, about never leaving him.
Maybe she wouldn't leave him in their dream world, but their dream world wasn't the real world. The real world had different rules, different promises, and entirely different consequences. In the real world, his mother was dead and, except for Svetlana and Cliff, he was alone.
He led the active members of the guard around the palace grounds on a run and quietly observed as they trained, sparring against each other with perfectly dulled metal swords and heavy wooden shields.
Cliff stood to his right, as always, calling out small corrections here and there. The two of them would spar later, as they did most days. Ilya would probably win, as he often did.
Cliff was fierce, and maybe the second best fighter in the guard, but he was tall and big and a little clumsy sometimes.
According to Ilya, the reason he won more often was because he was lighter on his feet, quicker, and had more of a killer instinct than Cliff did. According to Cliff, it was because Ilya was reckless, ruthless, and had no concern for his own safety when it came to winning. He took unnecessary risks, resorting to forcing attacks rather than waiting for the right opportunity. It made him unpredictable, and that made him dangerous.
For every twenty risks he took that paid off, there was one that ended disastrously. And when that occurred, Cliff would beg Ilya not to make a move like that in an actual battle, and Ilya would pretend to agree. He’d force a smile, offer a nonchalant shrug, and tell his second-in-command that it was fine, he was fine, a simple mistake made only in the liberties of practice, afforded by the dull edged blades they used, no worries.
This morning, Cliff was quieter than usual, throwing out less corrections and comments than he might on a normal day, and Ilya noticed it almost instantly. Svetlana always joked that they should keep an eye on the skies the day Cliff went silent, because surely it would be the day that pigs flew.
"What is up with you?" He asked casually, when he was sure no one around them was listening.
"What do you mean?" Cliff replied quickly, carefully.
"You are being weird." Ilya stated, sparing a sidelong glance at him.
"I'm not." Cliff said too quickly.
Ilya stayed silent in what he hoped was a quiet display of his disbelief as they made their rounds, weaving through circles on the ground that were drawn in white chalk, where members of the guard in various ages, sizes, and states of physicality grappled with each other.
"Just thinking about tonight's gala." Cliff finally admitted as he shrugged, trying to brush his concerns off nonchalantly.
Ilya hummed in agreement. He hadn't been able to clear his mind of the gala either. It wasn't unusual for the King to host one, but on such short notice, without telling the Captain of his Guard, or his second, until the day of... It was the slightest bit suspicious, and it made a restless edge of curiosity settle in his gut.
"He told you today?" Ilya asked clarifyingly, reaching his hand out to steady a younger member of the guard who had stumbled out of one of the chalked circles from a heavy shove.
Cliff nodded and confirmed, "Sent for me this morning, right at daybreak."
Their conversation lulled to a quiet as they passed a group of older guards that had been less than enthusiastic to be passed over for Captain. Even less so once it had gone to Ilya, the nineteen year old son of the King. Yet despite their quiet defiance and lack of respect for him, they remained fiercely loyal to the King, and only the King, often monitoring Ilya for any slip ups that could be reported.
In a way, Ilya knew the title was a spectacular honor, but a critically watched one. He was the Captain, acting with absolute authority and dignity, but his duty was strictly bound to the safety of the walls. He was meant to protect the heart of the empire from internal dissent, ensuring the throne remained perfectly secure.
His father’s Generals marched across the continent, conquering lands that his father commanded, bringing glory to the Rozanov name, while Ilya was left to pace stone corridors and dole out meaningless, yet life-changing sentences for ridiculous crimes, such as stealing food so one's family could eat.
In a sort of sick and twisted way, he was proud of Anadyr's vast expansion, yet a part of him deeply resented being made to hear about conquests after the fact in briefings and meetings with his father's most feared Generals.
The two of them continued to walk, steps perfectly in sync, until they made it a few paces away from the nearest guards, and the clanging of dull edged blades would drown out their words to anyone nearby.
"It's odd, no?" Cliff asked, once they resumed their positions at the crown of the courtyard, watching the steady rhythmic fighting, and out of the earshot of anyone of consequence.
Ilya simply tightened his mouth into a frown and stared harder at the men fighting before him. It was odd.
"There hasn't been a last minute event like this since..." Cliff trailed off.
They both knew what he was talking about. It was a moment Ilya replayed in his mind all too often.
Ilya remembered once again the unexpected capture of Anadyr's assassin that had led to one of the most brutal, public sentencings in Anadyr's history. He remembered the crowds of people that had gathered to watch the unknown and almost unremarkable boy be forced to his knees before the King. He remembered the way the crowd had gasped in shock at how young he appeared, and how the noise had grown even louder when they watched him spit before the King.
"No, there hasn't." Ilya acknowledged tightly before glancing up at the sky, seeing the sun almost directly above them. He cupped his hands around his mouth and announced the end of training, ordering the guards who were on patrol for the day to resume their stations.
The pure rage in the assassin's eyes lingered in his mind as he focused on the morning's match with Cliff. He tried to tell himself that it was a long time ago, that the boy was gone, probably dead, that everything was fine.
They circled each other closely, swords drawn and at the ready. Ilya watched Cliff's face carefully. He'd learned from fighting him over the years, that Cliff always telegraphed when he was about to strike with his eyes.
Ilya waited for the quick flick of them to where Cliff was about to attack.
Left side, low.
Ilya had his sword positioned to block before Cliff even raised his to strike. They clashed together roughly in the now familiar noise that Ilya used to wince at when he was younger.
He was light on his feet, dancing around Cliff, causing him to turn and pivot on his back foot while Ilya practically flew through the air. Because they fought together so often, even the maneuvers Ilya pulled when he was trying to switch things up were still somehow predictable to Cliff. They met each other blow for blow, moving quickly in a flash of wood and metal while some nearby guards still lingering after morning training formed a loose circle around them to watch.
Drops of sweat rolled down Ilya's temple as they fell into a rhythm that reminded him of a waltz. He went on the attack, forcing Cliff to take two steps back as he pushed with forceful swings of his dull blade. On his next swing, Cliff twisted his body to meet Ilya's sword with his shield, rather than his own sword, and used the height and weight he had to push back against him.
Ilya took a step to the side, and then another, they swapped places, and then it was Cliff's turn to attack.
He launched his assault with wide, slow swings of his blade that Ilya met easily. He knew the intention wasn't to catch him off guard, but to tire him out, and weaken his arms. It wouldn't work.
Ilya smiled despite himself, relishing the sharp bite of salt on his tongue when he ran his tongue along his bottom lip, tasting the sweat that had gathered above his chin. Sparring like this with Cliff was always one of the best parts of his day, second only to the times when he got to spend time in the study with Svetlana.
He would meet her there later, he hoped. She had been busier lately, training to one day assume the responsibilities of a queen. Most of her days were spent with his mother's former advisors and guides his father had handpicked to educate her on her royal duties.
His foot caught on a loose stone and he stumbled slightly before righting himself.
"Focus, Captain." Cliff grunted, abandoning his attack and stepping back to give them both a breather. They began circling each other again, spiraling while they both panted. Ilya took the brief reprieve as a chance to wipe sweat from his forehead with the back of his forearm in the hand that was holding the shield. Cliff spat on the ground, and Ilya watched the way his chest rose and fell, quicker than his own.
They'd been at it for nearly twenty minutes, and Cliff was close to the point of exhaustion. He just needed to hold out a bit longer, and Cliff would yield.
Ilya flashed a wide, somewhat animalistic grin. "Keep up, Lieutenant," he taunted, before launching into a quick sequence of attacks that Cliff barely had time to lift his arm to parry.
To hell with conserving his energy, if he could just finish his attack strong now, Cliff would yield, Ilya was sure of it. He brought his sword down, over, left, again, and again, and again, and again. He put force behind each blow, pushing Cliff back toward the stone wall of the courtyard they were in.
He was leading the dance, forcing Cliff to follow his lead, and even as his arms screamed in pain and his core began to wobble with the strength required to manage his quick attacks, he continued. He channeled his anger from earlier, his irritation and frustration at being forced into the role of weak, loyal prince later that night.
He let the insults he knew his brother would subtly hurl at him motivate him now.
He thought of how attendees of the gala would look at him later, watch him perfectly play the part of a prince, forget that he was the Captain of the Royal Guard. They would see privilege, rather than danger. They would see a spoiled son, rather than a dedicated fighter.
He thought of how his guards would watch him sit at his father's table later, drinking out of golden goblets, eating from plates piled with enough food to feed their families for days with a spoon made of pure, highly graded silver. Maybe some of them would resent him.
He remembered that his own father had forgotten his birthday.
It was all fine. None of that was important.
But this, this was important. He resolved not to let a single soul in the courtyard forget that he was their Captain, that he was dangerous, that he was the best.
His right arm, his sword arm, began to weaken considerably. Cliff's resistance to his blows came stronger, steadier.
And suddenly, back in the present Ilya realized that while he'd been tiring himself out, pushing Cliff further and further back against the wall, Cliff had been conserving his energy, waiting for Ilya to tire.
And he couldn't have that, not today. He dropped his wooden shield to swing his sword with both arms, adding more force behind each blow as Cliff's eyebrows raised slightly with concern. After a quick block to a weak parry, Ilya saw his opening. He pushed their swords out to the side and dropped his shoulder, shoving himself hard into the center of Cliff's chest and forcing him against the wall.
He dropped his sword and grabbed Cliff's wrists, pinning them against the wall, weapons still in hand.
"Yield," Ilya commanded, one knee pressed between Cliff's legs to keep him from kicking out.
"You're so fucking stupid." Cliff hissed back at him.
Ilya raised an eyebrow.
"I yield." Cliff spat on the ground, dropping his sword and shield once Ilya released him. They left their weapons for the lower ranking guards to clean up and walked toward the entrance to palace.
As soon as they were inside and out of eyeline of any nearby guards, Cliff shoved him into the wall, pinning him there with an elbow putting careful pressure on his windpipe.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Cliff seethed angrily.
Ilya felt his own irritation bubble up at the slight accusation and his eyebrows pulled together in a glare of his own. Out of literally everyone, Cliff should best understand exactly what was wrong with him. He'd been there for the meeting with Ilya's father. He'd been there for all the past meetings with Ilya's father.
"I won." Ilya replied arrogantly.
"You won because you dropped your fucking shield, and I wasn't willing to swing at you without it." Cliff replied with a frown.
"No, I won because you were tired, and dropping my shield gave me more power." Ilya replied.
"No, don't even give me that bullshit, Ilya." Cliff said, his voice rising into a medium yell as he scolded, "Don't you ever fucking do that again, not in battle, not in practice, never, you hear me? What if you'd been fighting Soloyov? Or Mattison? Or Felder?"
Ilya stayed silent.
"They would've swung at your neck, Ilya. Your neck." Cliff answered harshly.
Deep down, he knew Cliff was right.
He'd wanted to win.
And really deep down, part of why he took so many risks when he fought Cliff, part of why he dropped his shield, was because he knew that Cliff would never do anything to hurt him.
Just like he knew that Cliff was right. Any of the older guards, his father's men that resented him, would've swung for his neck without a second thought. And maybe Ilya would've been able to block it, but maybe not.
And wouldn't that have been a story.
Ilya Rozanov, second in line for the throne and Captain of the Royal Guard, takes dull blade to the throat in routine morning spare and perishes due to his own reckless stupidity.
"Blades are dull, it is not a big deal." Ilya protested weakly.
Cliff scoffed and said, "Fuck you, Ilya."
He'd never heard Cliff say that like he really meant it before.
Ilya flinched slightly.
"Do it again," Cliff said, his voice in a low register Ilya had never heard from him before, "And I'll tell your father every stupid thing you've ever done. You think tonight is gonna be bad? I'll make sure you're nothing more than a pretty face, his political pawn, until he's ready to marry you off somewhere far away."
Ilya glared at him silently while Cliff increased the pressure placed against his throat.
He was seething with anger. And he couldn't decide what he was more upset about.
The fact that Cliff was threatening him. Or the fact that deep down, Ilya knew he was right.
"You are too important to be so reckless with your life, Ilya." Cliff said, his tone softening slightly.
He released him, and Ilya resisted the urge to gasp for breath.
"I will never be king, Cliff. My life is inconsequential."
Cliff didn't dignify that with a response. "See you at the gala later. And please, try to have a good birthday." He clapped him on the shoulder and then spun on his heel to walk the other direction.
Ilya was sure he was off to some meeting or briefing with the guards who would be on duty at the gala later. They would probably be discussing guest lists, exits, entries, positions, and duties. All things Ilya wasn't privy to, because tonight his role was to play the part of charming, perfect prince.
It was a good thing he was a good actor.
Svetlana met him in the study late in the afternoon, after he'd already been there for a few hours. She brought a tray of tea with her, and a carefully wrapped sandwich that she tossed into his lap.
"Eat." She commanded with a knowing look as she began to pour herself a cup of tea.
Ilya unwrapped the sandwich and took a small bite, wrinkling his nose. There was an unfortunate amount of vegetables in it, and nowhere near enough meat.
"It's good for you, healthy." Svetlana said, rolling her eyes at his disgust, "And idiots who forget to eat do not get to be picky."
He sighed as he took another bite of the healthy sandwich, setting down his book about the history of magic as he turned to her.
She gave him a pointed look when she noticed his reading material. "Do you really think you should be reading that?" She asked rather harshly.
"Who is here to see, Sveta?" He asked carelessly, turning the cover of the book face down despite his easy words.
"Have you picked out your outfit for the gala tonight?" She asked him, changing the subject quickly, kicking her heels off, and resting her feet up on a velvet footstool that somehow complimented the golden color painted on her toes.
"I will wear whatever." Ilya replied dismissively as he choked down the last few bites of the sandwich.
"You need a haircut." She told him, and he resisted the urge to groan.
He could always tell when she was in a mood, because she nagged him especially relentlessly. Normally, he was patient dealing with her moods, but he was too wired up about the gala to deal with much tact.
"What has my asshole brother done this time?" He asked, quickly cutting to the chase, because somehow, her moods always related to Alexei.
She scoffed and rolled her eyes, "Surprisingly nothing, or well, probably something I don't know about, but," she paused to sigh dramatically, "My father is here."
Ilya sat up a bit straighter with interest.
Svetlana's father was the Lord of House Vetrov, in a territory south of Anadyr. Her family was rich, because most of the gold in Anadyr was sourced from their territory. The union of their families made sense politically, and she had been sent to live in Anadyr as Alexei's betrothed once she had turned eighteen.
Ilya could count on one hand the number of times her father had visited since then.
"Is he?" Ilya questioned, his mind racing faster as he began to wonder what his father had in store for the gala.
"Yes, I just said." She replied with a pout, "And he's brought his best fighter, Ivan Orlov, with him."
Ilya nodded slowly as he processed the information. While he'd never met the man in person, he'd heard stories of the great Ivan Orlov. Some called him the eagle. He was sharp, smart and cunning, and known for being ruthless. According to rumors, the pommel of his sword was decorated with a golden eagle that had clear, red rubies for eyes. It was said to be a gift from Svetlana's father, Lord Vetrov, as a symbol of wealth, status, and power.
Svetlana's voice dropped down low, almost to a whisper. "Dress well tonight, Ilya. I have my fears that tonight is something rather important."
He nodded in reply and tried to ignore the pang of humiliation deep in his gut. It was one thing for his father to demote him to the sidelines for the night, but to find out that a Lord of another House was bringing his champion fighter felt like another cutting blow.
Maybe the point of the night's gala was to replace him.
Svetlana sipped the last of her tea and placed the cup delicately back on the tray. With her voice raised, she said, "I have business to attend to, be well, Ilya."
She stood and leaned in close to place a delicate kiss to his cheek, "Happy birthday," she whispered softly.
"Thank you for the gift," he said gratefully and smiled at her wink.
She turned to leave, and then she was gone.
He looked over at the book that lay face down on the solid mahogany table beside him. He wasn't sure why he was reading it, or what had drawn him to it.
It was entirely boring, and yet he could not put it down, but Svetlana was right. He shouldn't be reading it.
His father would be furious if he ever found out.
Magic was somewhat of a myth in Anadyr, in the sense that speaking of it was essentially a death sentence.
Ilya knew, of course, that there had once been magic in Anadyr, but because of his father, it hadn't been acceptably practiced in a very long time.
It was a subject of stories told in taverns where patrons had far too much to drink. The kind of stories that only came out when a calming fire burned in the center of the room and melted even the toughest of secrets into a sort of soft, sweet mead that flowed softly through the voices of those who claimed to have seen it.
Stories of magic were rare, and of having it, even rarer. Whether it was truth or folk tale, Ilya could never be sure. His father had banned any theoretical use of magic, and all discussion of it when Ilya was ten. And yet, still sometimes, he heard stories of it when he was incognito in taverns in the lower kingdom on the outer edge by the palace walls , with his golden curls and silvery blue eyes hidden by a low drawn cloak.
He'd found the book earlier at the bottom of a dusty shelf near the back of the study. He had sneezed a few times when he grabbed it from the particles that swirled in the air.
The book should have been burned, that he knew immediately. And it probably would be if anyone else discovered it.
The book had sat on a shelf and collected eleven years worth of dust, so he shoved it back in the place where he'd found it, and brushed any remaining dust off of him before heading back to his room to prepare for the evening's gala.
Something more than just the simple warning Svetlana had given told him he should put in effort to get ready for the night, and he still needed to bathe to rid himself of the sweat and grime from the morning.
The gala was a magnificent display of wealth and power, a glorious testament to Anadyr’s absolute supremacy.
Ilya sat proudly to the left of his stepmother, Polina, the King's second wife. He lounged comfortably in his gaudy gold chair, a beautiful masterpiece brought back from a conquered kingdom that had surrendered to his father’s expansion. He wondered if it's owner was still alive. He doubted it, but he wondered, if they were, what they would think of seeing him sat in it. Maybe they would hate him. He wouldn't blame them if they did.
Alexei sat on Grigori's other side, both assuming positions decided for them by birth order, Ilya on the left side, Alexei on the right. It was intended so that when royals of visiting lands looked at them, they would make no mistake who the heir was.
One of the many ballrooms had been transformed for the night. Tables were arranged in lines around the perimeter, the sparkling floor open in the middle while a small orchestra played the songs of the kingdom. Dinner had just been served, an endless, decadent feast meant to show the visiting foreign dignitaries that Anadyr possessed infinite abundance, wanting for absolutely nothing.
Most of it would be wasted, but he knew that the food wasn't really the point.
The walls were draped with expensive silk curtains in the majestic colors of black and gold. Servants glided throughout the room with practiced speed, and Ilya leaned back, completely in his element, and caught the eye of a stunning, dark haired lady seated two tables over from his own. He let a slow, lazy smirk spread across his face before sending her a quick wink, thoroughly enjoying the way she blushed and quickly looked down at her golden goblet.
He was used to playing the part of the charming, spoiled prince and a shameless flirt. He had done it for years, and until Svetlana and Cliff had arrived, fresh from her betrothal to his brother, he had enjoyed playing this part.
Now it felt less authentic, and though he itched to be patrolling the room with Cliff and the rest of his guards, he had never been one to turn down an opportunity to flirt with someone beautiful.
He didn't bother with the water glasses tonight. He allowed a servant to pour him a generous measure of his father's finest vodka, and threw it back with no reaction more than a sharp exhale. He ignored the disappointed look Svetlana shot him down the table from the other side of his brother. If he was going to get through the night, he was going to do it his way.
Their table was fuller than usual, lords from places Ilya had rarely heard of engaged each other in spirited, passionate political discussions about border expansions and trade routes. Ilya nodded along enthusiastically, and tossed out a few clever, charming comments of agreement whenever someone looked to him for royal approval.
He was a little bored.
Cliff was patrolling the room, and Svetlana was sitting on the other side of Alexei. The two of them together painted a nearly perfect picture of the future King and his future Queen. They would have, at least, if not for the smudge of white powder on his top lip.
It wasn't until halfway through the dinner that the doors to the great room opened, revealing a regal looking woman with fiery red hair so straight and flat it almost looked unnatural. Even from across the room, Ilya could see the electric color of her eyes. They flickered immediately to him. They were so blue, they were almost unreal.
Beside him, Polina made a noise that could almost pass for excited. It was the first sound Ilya had heard out of her all night. He glanced at the empty chair directly across the table from him, and knew immediately it must be for the woman standing at the entrance.
She crossed the room so gracefully that she almost appeared to be floating. She was escorted by one of Ilya's guards, who politely pulled out the chair for her as she gathered up her skirts to take a seat.
"Lady Rose," Polina greeted softly from Ilya's side, "How were your travels?"
"Long and arduous, I do apologize for my lateness. We had to stop for a heavy downpour of rain, the horses could hardly see." The woman, Rose apparently, replied with all the grace of a girl who had been trained to eventually become a princess, or high ranking lady, since birth.
"Have you met my, uh, son, Ilya?" Polina asked, not so subtly gesturing to the side, and inclining her head towards him with a slight nod, as if telling him to engage her in conversation. She only stuttered slightly over the word, a vast improvement from earlier years where she'd referred to him with only vague hand gestures or points.
Ilya didn't need to be told twice. He plastered his signature charming, welcoming grin across his face, and carefully reached his hand across the table to accept her own. He leaned slightly, pressing a light, lingering brush of a kiss to the back of her knuckles once she placed her delicate hand in his.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Prince." She greeted softly, looking at him warmly.
"The pleasure is entirely mine," he replied with a smooth wink, letting his thumb brush the side of her wrist before letting go. He easily caught on to what was expected of him, and he knew well enough by now, that putting on a show for all the wandering eyes would, in the end, cause far less trouble for himself rather than fighting it stubbornly.
Given that Polina was only nine years older than him, just barely 21 when she had married his father, she never really demanded much of him or treated him in any sort of motherly way. If she wanted him to be polite to the lady Rose, he could do that easily.
Their brief conversation was interrupted by the shrill tapping of a knife on a glass. The room gradually quieted from its loud chatter to an anticipatory, respectful hum, waiting for the words of the King.
"The King will speak now." The interrupting man announced, gesturing to Ilya's father who had slowly risen from his seat.
The King's sharp eyes darted around the room, taking in his constituents with a practiced elegance. "Ladies and gentlemen, my dear subjects, lords and ladies of territories far and near, I am pleased and honored that you have all gathered here with me today."
His voice dripped with a powerful charm, and Ilya could practically feel the way the room preened under it.
"Anadyr's conquests have been vast in the past year, and our kingdom has never thrived more under the leadership of my son, Ilya, who commands my Royal Guard." His father paused, to allow a few moments of expected applause that followed.
Ilya tilted his head in acknowledgement and thanks, and ignored the holes Alexei tried to burn in the side of his head. A mixture of misplaced anger and jealousy, surely.
"But push back from the rebels is strong, and growing stronger day by day." His father announced starkly, letting the hushed concerns and murmurs resound and echo throughout the room before cutting them off with a single upheld hand. "My board of advisors has suggested the need for a Champion, one who can quietly perform the things my Guard cannot do."
The whispers immediately quieted to nothing, and Ilya read in between the lines, brow furrowing and leaning forward slightly in his chair as his smile faltered.
The things my Guard cannot do.
A sharp flash of heat passed through him, stoking the flames of his wounded pride.
He searched his mind to try and figure out what exactly his father could be referring to. What things the Guard could not do. He almost would have preferred his father slap him in the face. As far as he knew, in the Guard's history, there had never also been a Champion.
He trained the Guard himself, they worked hard every day, and all of them were prepared to do whatever was necessary to protect the Kingdom and all of its people.
He forced his practiced, charming smile back on his face. Refusing to let any of the lords or older guards in the room see his frustration and the way his father's announcement had wounded his pride.
"I will be hosting a competition, both for my Champion, and for something far grander. Many of you, tonight, will be invited to sponsor a Champion of your own to compete in my competition. And should they win, it will earn you a spot on my board of most trusted advisors." Grigori announced and the murmurs resumed, excited this time.
Ilya caught Cliff's eye from across the room. Cliff was already staring straight back at him, his face unreadable. Ilya turned the idea over in his mind, his chest burning with a stubborn, desperate need to prove his father wrong. He didn't care about a seat on the advisory board, but he would rather die than let anybody humiliate his Guard, or himself.
If his father wanted a weapon, Ilya would show him that the Guard was the most lethal force in the empire.
"Your champion can be anyone, a noble, a mercenary, a solider, a contract killer. Men and women alike are welcomed as long as they are sound of mind and body. Any and all previous crimes or unsavory actions will be overlooked so long as you can guarantee unwavering, unquestioning loyalty to the crown."
His father continued on about the finer, technical terms of the game, its trials, and expectations of the proposed champions. Ilya drowned it all out.
He seethed with a mix of rage and wounded pride, ignoring taunting glances thrown at him across the table from Alexei, and yet, he maintained a pleasant smile on his face for any visiting lords and ladies looking for indicators of tension.
Once his father sat, servants began to clear plates from the tables, and people got up to dance. Ilya sat staring at the dance floor, his mind racing with a restless, chaotic energy.
"Would you care to dance?" a soft, sweet voice asked, and he looked up to find Rose staring at him expectantly.
He swallowed his irritation, masking it instantly behind his usual effortless, charming persona. "I would love to, Lady Rose."
He led her carefully to the center of the dance floor, and placed one hand gently on her waist, the other linked in her own. They waltzed across the floor, keeping rhythm with the slow, steady music played by the orchestra.
"You seemed shocked at your father's announcement." She commented lightly as he spun her around.
"I was." He answered, maintaining a smooth, easy cadence to mask the annoyance tightly coiled in his gut.
"One might wonder why he didn't tell his Captain about his search for a Champion." She mused.
"My father is a busy King, managing an entire continent," Ilya replied evenly, his hand tightening just a fraction of an inch against her waist. His eyes, icy and sharp locked onto hers, electric and challenging.
"One also might wonder what a Champion can do that a Captain cannot." She continued.
"I'm sure there is much." He answered with his signature smile, feeling like his cheeks were stretched tighter than usual.
"Any idea?" She asked innocently.
He gave her a flat look, and she granted him a few moments of peace. The music swelled, the violins and the cellos carried them through a sweeping turn, as the air between them thickened.
"If your Champion were to win, maybe you could find out." She suggested softly.
"I don't have a Champion." He replied.
"Shame."
"Is it?"
She huffed, then glanced at the people around them before taking in a deep breath. "Do you ever wonder what goes on outside the palace walls? What goes on outside of Anadyr?" She questioned, her voice dropping into a register that made the hairs on his arms stand up. "Do you ever wonder why you are the Captain of the Royal Guard and not a General marching with his army, Ilya?"
The question struck a nerve, one that had been tender for a long time. And he had a sneaking suspicion that she had been watching him, and had seen the way his smile had slipped earlier. In fact, he was pretty sure she hadn't struck blindly, but precisely.
"Do you ever-" Rose stopped, the clouded look in her eyes disappeared, and she straightened in his arms. "I-I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. Be well, Ilya," she muttered, before stepping back from him and slipping away into the crowd.
She had barely stepped back a few feet when an old familiar face swooped in and took her place, placing one hand on his shoulder and one on his chest.
"Ilya." The voice purred softly and seductively in his ear, leaning close.
"Alexander." Ilya acknowledged gruffly, stiffening under his wandering palms with a slight frown.
"Boo," Sasha pouted, sticking out his lower lip and widening is eyes in a way that made him look more pathetic than sympathetic. "Don't be like that, Ilyusha."
Ilya brought his foot down hard on the toe of Sasha's thin, impractical formal shoe. "Don't call me that, Sasha."
Sasha hissed through his teeth, a smile remaining plastered on his face. "We used to have fun, didn't we?"
"Yes, we had loads of fun when we were 16, and I was drunk to the point of forgetting, and you were high out of your mind on who knows what drugs." Ilya whispered under his breath. He frowned slightly as he glanced around the room.
His father was busy speaking with Svetlana's father, Lord Vetrov, and Sasha's father, Lord Morozov, and probably wouldn't pay them any attention. Alexei was probably high enough himself that he wouldn't remember the finer details of the night by morning, and Polina was busy socializing with some noble wives.
"You make it sound so juvenile." Sasha said frowning, lifting his hand and trailing his finger lightly across Ilya's jaw.
Ilya gave him a blank look that he hoped conveyed how he felt about it.
Because the truth was, it was juvenile. Not the part about having an affinity for men, as well as women, but the part about drinking, and smoking, and snorting, and whatever else it was that Sasha did when they were together. It was the part about sneaking around, right under both of their father's noses, hooking up in the middle of the night, and making out in empty corridors where anyone could have caught them.
It was the part about how they were both born to forget political ties, to be promised off to daughters of high ranking nobles, simply means to ends to form alliances. And it was also the part about how if anyone found out what they both got up to in their personal hours, their prospects and capital would significantly dwindle.
It wasn't as if it wasn't okay for men to like other men.
It just wasn't okay for princes to like other princes, which was what Ilya was, or for lords to like other lords, which was what Sasha was to be.
Ilya hadn't seen Sasha since the last time he visited, when they were seventeen, before he met Svetlana and Cliff, before he became Captain of the Royal Guard, before everything changed.
"You're so serious now." Sasha purred, leaning in closer to Ilya to try and angle to press their fronts together. "It's sexy."
He brushed up against Ilya, and Ilya stepped back quickly. "Enough, Sasha," he hissed, "Do you have a death wish?"
Sasha rolled his eyes. "Ilya, no one is looking."
"Someone is always looking."
Sasha inclined his head as if to nod in agreement. He hummed.
"Okay, then come to my room in the Southern wing tonight after the gala." Sasha replied, his voice slipping easily back into that low, sultry tone that was supposed to be seductive. It only served to remind Ilya of just how bad of an idea it would be. "It will be like old times."
Ilya gave a placating but noncommittal grunt, and Sasha danced away.
He wouldn't be going to Sasha's room later, and he was pretty sure Sasha gathered that too, but there was no use in making a big scene out in front of everyone dancing. He'd already said too much, let too much happen out in the open surrounded by watchful eyes and listening ears.
He danced for a bit longer to keep up appearances, putting on a brilliant performance with a few daughters of visiting noblemen, flashing easy smiles and tossing out charming compliments. He danced with a few handsome men when his father and his brother weren’t looking, future noblemen no doubt. He flirted, and winked, and spun them in circles, until he was sure no one would think anything unusual of his earlier dance with Sasha, and he was certain no one would notice his absence.
He slipped out onto the balcony above the palace garden. Just entering spring, the air was still close to freezing at night exactly the way he liked it. The air bit into him hard, and the music faded to the slightest hum in the background.
He was alone for less than a minute when Cliff found him.
"You left early, Captain." Cliff commented, a slight edge in his voice.
Ilya hummed in response, eyes tracing over the lines of the perfectly manicured shrubbery down below. He felt the warmth of Cliff's presence beside him, steady and grounding. "My father thinks we aren't enough, Cliff. He thinks the Guard is too soft to crush a few northern rebels."
"Svetlana's father asked me to sponsor a Champion." Cliff said lowly, an answer that wasn't an answer. The wind carrying his voice just enough for Ilya to hear it. "He said he would pay any expenses. He wants more representation from the South."
Ilya scoffed, a short, sharp bark of laughter that lacked any real humor. He wasn't surprised. The sharp tension between Lord Vetrov and his father since Svetlana and Alexei's betrothal and his father's refusal to give Lord Vetrov a seat on the board had been starkly apparent. "Of course he does. Lord Vetrov wants to buy himself a seat on the board of advisors."
"Of course." Cliff agreed, "But what do you want, Ilya?"
Ilya slowed for a minute, swirling vodka around in his low glass. What did he want? He wanted to be rid of this joke of a competition. He wanted to prove to his father that the Guard was capable of handling anything he needed.
"I want this stupid competition finished. I want one of our men to win it."
"No," Cliff said immediately, his voice dropping an octave as he stepped closer, blocking the wind. "You can’t submit a guardsman, Ilya."
Ilya turned his head, his icy blue eyes narrowing in the dim moonlight. "Why the hell not? They are the best trained fighters in Anadyr. Any one of our guards could easily win this competition."
Cliff scoffed disbelievingly, "Ilya, are you serious? You know your father. You would subject one of our guards to that?"
Cliff was right, and Ilya hated it. He had just as much of an idea as Cliff about what sort of competitions and trials his father would host- absolutely none. Ilya answered defiantly, "Maybe I would."
Cliff shook his head disappointedly and thought.
"Then submit me." He said determinedly.
Ilya did a double take, "What?"
"If you want to sponsor a guard, choose me. I'll ignore Vetrov's request, and I'll be your champion." Cliff said.
"No." Ilya said immediately.
It was out of the question. Cliff was ridiculous if he thought Ilya would subject him to his father's games.
Cliff gave him a pointed look.
"Fine," he sighed, "Then what?"
"If you want to prove the capability of the guard, you can't submit a guard." Cliff cautioned calmly, "The visiting lords wouldn't allow it even if you did. They'll say we have an unfair advantage, and claim the trials are rigged."
Ilya grit his teeth and clicked the gold signet ring on his pinky against the warped iron railing of the balcony. "So what? You suggest I just sit back and let my father make a mockery of our Guard? Let some random mercenary hired by a predatory, power hungry lord win and make us look like powerless fools?"
"I didn't say you shouldn't sponsor a champion." Cliff said smoothly, glancing around worriedly, like there could possibly be someone hiding and listening. Apparently satisfied with his search, Cliff leaned in and continued, "Play by the rules of the court, Ilya, the written ones and the unspoken ones. The lords are bringing in wild cards, mercenaries, and arena fighters. If you want to prove the Guard's dominance, you have to find someone with nothing to their name and absolutely nothing to lose."
"A nobody?" Ilya questioned.
"A criminal, Ilya." Cliff said, "That way, when they win, they'll owe nothing to nobody, and be loyal to no one, except you."
Silence stretched between them. Ilya looked at Cliff both disbelievingly and coldly. "A criminal." He repeated.
"Think about it." Cliff said softly.
"If they lose, I'll be a joke." Ilya hissed.
"Then don't let them lose. Train them like you train the guards. Prove that we are the best." Cliff replied as if it were easy. "Prove that you are the best."
"My father will think I've lost my mind." Ilya replied, taking a slow, long sip of his vodka.
"After that stunt you pulled during training this morning, I already think that." Cliff joked, and Ilya shot him a flat look.
Ilya looked out over the garden, catching himself looking over it with the eye of a guardsman rather than a prince. He was scanning perimeters, entries, exits. He paused. Tonight he was just a prince. He looked at the gardens again, with a prince's eye, and tried to appreciate its beauty.
"I don't know, Cliff." He said softly.
"You take a dangerous, unpredictable criminal with no outside allegiance. Someone who already has every reason to want to win and all the tools and basis to do so. They'll be indebted to you, and only you, for getting them out. You train them how you train the guardsmen. You show your father—hell, you show everyone—exactly what the guard is capable of. And when the games end, and your champion wins it all, no one will doubt our capabilities." Cliff said. "And when you win, they won't just be the King's Champion, they'll be yours too."
The words struck a nerve, playing perfectly into the arrogance and desperate need for recognition that Ilya harbored. It was the best solution if he wanted to maintain what little power he did have. A King's Champion who answered to the Prince.
"And what of your own champion?" Ilya asked.
"Lord Vetrov has already chosen and sent for him. He will be mine in nothing but title." Cliff replied smoothly.
The silence stretched between them, thick and dangerous. The wind howled through the bare branches of the garden, carrying the faint, distant scent of smoke from the lower city.
"And where do I find a criminal?" Ilya asked.
Cliff smirked, "Fancy a ride tomorrow? I know a place. You'll have your pick of the lot."
Suddenly, a picture of defiance flashed through his mind, a grand courtroom, heavy chains, the fierce, unbroken gaze of a boy forced to kneel at his father's feet. A prisoner. A criminal. A dangerous thrill sparked in his chest, one that left him almost breathless. He wasn't sure if the assassin was still down there, if he was even still alive. But if he was... Ilya would play his father's game, and he would play it to win.