Page 118 of The Sun King's Noon

The face beneath was older than Richard remembered, with a new hardness about the jaw, and a trimmed beard. But the rest of it, Richard knew. The crimson curls, now cut short. The arrogant cheekbones. The haughty sneer.

Prince Alaric of Estara.

Richard gaped, his thoughts stuttering to a halt. Kaelen let out a curse and wrenched Richard behind him.

“You,” Kaelen spat.

“Yes, dog. It is me.”

Kaelen lunged with startling speed. The bulky shadow at Alaric’s shoulder stepped in to intercept, and Richard’s stomach flipped to see the cauliflower ears, the crooked nose, the hefty shoulders. Sir Varkos.

Kaelen’s fist smashed into Varkos’s jaw with the full pivot of his hips. Varkos’s head snapped sideways, and he toppled with a grunt. Stepping over his body, Kaelen seized Alaric’s collar and slammed the prince against the alcove’s wall.

“If you are thinking,” Kaelen snarled, “of trading him to your father—if you have so much as whispered of him to anyone else—I shall gut you.”

Alaric bared his teeth. “Take your filthy hands off me, you vermin. Seven years it’s been, and I see you’re still the rash fool you were.”

“Kaelen.” Richard hurriedly slotted himself between the two and shoved Kaelen away. “Stop this.”

“That’s bloody right!” Nyx yelled from the table, daggers twirling. “Listen, you tall lout. I’ll say it the once. You don’t start fights in my house. You don’t draw steel in my house. You don’t lay a hand on Alaric, or on Varkos, or on a single soul under my roof, or I’ll be feeding you and your kingly friend to the eels in the sewage. That plain?”

“Plain,” Richard said quickly. When Kaelen continued to glare at Alaric, he stomped on the knight’s foot.

“Plain, my lady,” Kaelen muttered, swivelling to meet Nyx’s gaze.

“There’s enough bloody fighting going on above our heads without you two starting fresh down here.” Nyx slid the daggers up her sleeves. “Now, sit, and let’s us chat like civilised folk.”

“Yes,” Alaric said sourly, fixing his collar. “Let’s.” He gave Richard a flat look. “Hello, betrothed. Did you miss me?”

CHAPTER 43

Richard had never held much regard for Alaric. Seven years ago, the Estaran royal family had visited his home, hoping for a match between Alaric and Ardenia’s still unwed Crown Prince. Alaric had smiled at Richard charmingly enough, but later that night, he had tormented a servant boy and boasted his crude intentions for Richard before an eighteen-year-old Kaelen.

To this day, Richard knew not what vile words Alaric had uttered. Kaelen had refused then to repeat them, even with execution looming. A consequence of his heavy punch to Alaric’s jaw.

Perhaps it was then, Richard mused, that his curiosity about the squire stirred. Who was this boy, he’d wondered, who had so foolishly defended his prince’s honour? Who was this boy, who agreed to a fistfight duel with Alaric’s personal guard, despite being outmatched and outsized? Richard had warned Kaelen to yield, sure that the boy would be wrecked.

His prediction had come true. Varkos had fractured Kaelen’s arm and battered him so thoroughly that the boy had barely been able to stand.

But stand, Kaelen had done, to the very end. With sheer will, he’d pushed himself up, legs quivering, arm hanging useless,and his defiant grin bloodied. Refusing until the end to yield. How the Ardenian crowd had roared, how Richard, too, had held his breath in awe?—

And now, Sir Varkos was staggering up, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth into his beard. He spat on the floor, prodded a tooth with his tongue, and guffawed.

“Bloody hells.” He grinned at the table, where Richard had forced Kaelen to sit beside him. “The whelp has grown up.”

Kaelen peered past Richard, and his glare—that had been pointed at Alaric on the opposing bench—simmered into shocked recognition. He made as if to get off the bench, and Richard yanked him back down, not trusting Kaelen to hold his fists.

“Sir Varkos,” Kaelen gasped, straining against Richard’s grip. “I—I do apologise. I struck before I thought. That was not honourable of me.”

“Lad.” Varkos cupped his jaw and rolled it, wincing. “I landed you in the healing wing for days last time. You owed me one. Call us square.”

Kaelen returned his smile tentatively. “Square, then, Sir.”

“There’s a good lad,” Varkos said. “Gods, but the boy hits like a horse now. Did you see that, Your Highness? Felt as if my skull went one way and my brains the other.”

“Yes, I saw,” Alaric scoffed. “You are rather outliving your usefulness, Sir Varkos. By all measures, I should replace you with a younger knight.”

He still wore court clothes, Richard noted. Under the dusty black cloak, slivers of a deep blue tunic poked out, with stag horns embroidered around the seams.