Cal C Long || Author

Nothing ever prepares you.

I

The wait for the call to charge stretched every second into an eternity. Rain pelted my helmet, adding a tinny beat to the bassy one thudding in my chest. I swiped at the droplets sprinting into my eyes to blur what little I could see between the towering wall of soldiers.

“You crying, princeling?” 

The gangly boy at my side wore a water-resistant smirk, his corn-blonde hair plastered to his freckled face.

“Only in anticipation of your untimely demise.” I gave an exaggerated pout. “So much potential lost…well. Some, anyway.”

“Arse.” 

His eyes reflected none of the amusement on his mouth, the jibes a desperate act of bravado to stave off fear. I hoped he couldn’t see the fear in mine.

“I won’t let you die, Klaus. Your insults are a refreshing change from the constant praise. I’d miss them.”

His eye-roll was louder than the rain. 

“Someone’s got to keep your ego in check, lest your head grow too large for that helmet. Then what would protect that thick head of yours?”

“My charming personality?”

The look he gave me told me exactly what he thought of my personality.

We’d met at the age of ten on my first day of combat training. I’d had private instruction years prior of course, but it had been the first time I’d been permitted to train with others, of both common and noble birth; Klaus being of the latter. I’d quickly and thoroughly established myself as the superior swordsman, and in so doing, established myself as utterly unfriendable. I’d thought they’d admire me, but their bruised ego from the trouncing I’d given them proved too much pride for them to swallow.

Klaus had called me an arrogant arse then, to the delighted shock of the others. I’d punched him in the eye for it. Then had been left speechless when he’d dared throw one back, busting my lip. It had degenerated into a graceless brawl until the Arms Master had pried us apart and I’d stared, panting and bloodied, at the boy who’d had the audacity to raise a hand against me. He’d just grinned back, teeth crimson, extending a filthy hand in truce. 

—Klaus of House Calkoen. Nice to really meet you, Prince—

We’d been inseparable ever since.

“Gods spare me. After all the glory you’ll garner this battle you’ll be insufferable,” he said, spitting rain onto muddied ground.

Our elation at being the youngest to join the ranks had been short-lived once we’d seen which we were to join. It was doubtful we would glimpse an enemy the entire battle. I buried the small part of me that felt relief at that.

“What glory is to be had here, at the back, surrounded by a wall of unwashed, metal-clad plebs?”

A few irritated growls from the surrounding guards sent the young nobleman snickering, but the smile died on my face as a horn sounded, long and blasting, turning my guts to ice. We shared a wide-eyed look. 

Then charged.

Not that we’d had much choice in the matter. The block of steel surged forward and Klaus and I were swept up, legs peddling, desperate to find purchase in the waterlogged earth.

People were dying.

Because my father had sent them here.

Sent me. 

I slammed into the soldier in front as my retinue came to a sudden halt, the clang of weapons growing to a cacophony as more and more ranks joined the melee ahead. I could have sworn the ground shook with it. 

My view barricaded by bodies, I was left imagining the carnage accompanying the swirling music of violence swelling like a wave, rippling closer.

Sweat itched my skin as I buzzed with immediacy, the stillness wrong. I needed to run. Swing. Scream. Hide. I could do none of those things.

Only look at Klaus.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales are entirely coincidental.

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