Nyx is a girl who can heal any wounds except her own.
When a king captures and murders her mother, she is imprisoned; forced to heal men of war who deem her lower than dirt and forced to marry the king she loathes the most.
Saval is a servant boy w...
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LittleCrown
•—||—•••—||—•
There is a stranger in their house. And, he has to call her Mother.
Prince Valentine acidly roots out the weeds in the field and grimaces at the sun, his trainer, and the wooden sword resting on his knee. The joints on his shoulders ache as he pants for air and he wipes the falling rolls of sweat off his sun-kissed face.
“No, no, again please—Your Majesty, your form is too wide and..” Valentine internally groans and stands up with heavy reluctance.
The wooden sword limps on his side as he steps out of the shade of the tree. The sun glares and he glares back. He and his tutor spar once again and again (all of whom which end with Val on his butt and sword flying out of his hand) until the tutor curls his lips into a displeased smile and dismissed him.
Horse riding, archery, swordsmanship—all of whom he fails spectacularly and well, Valentine is no stranger to whispers in the grapevines; there's one circulating that he's a bastard because how can a king so great beget such a doormat? And not to mention—
“Did you get your arse kicked once again, brother?” teases Arzha as they dine with Father.
Valentine scowls, cheeks turning pink as Father's eyes fall on him. “I am learning sufficiently. It's perfectly splendid, Arzha. How are your lessons? Learned how to sew?”
“It's fun actually.”
Valentine snorts. Girls.
Arzha quirks an eyebrow at that. “Oh please, be thankful that sewing exists, Val. Without it, the bruises from our spar—that I won, mind you—will be plainly discerned.”
Valentine scowls even harder.
“You two sparred?” Father asks.
“It was a lucky hit,” Val immediately says. “And my tutor is terrible. I can't understand his rants about politics.”
Father drinks his wine and looks at him carefully. “He's the best in the kingdom.” He wipes his mouth carefully. “Well, do not fret, you can still improve.”
His frog-faced sister grins, blue eyes twinkling as she sticks out her tongue. “I snuck into your classes and he's pretty good at explaining the historical, economical and political impacts of witches. Maybe, you just suck.”
Valentine kicks her leg under the table.
“Children. Do not argue at dinner.” Father reprimands. “Arzha, focus on your own subjects and do not spar with your brother, goodness.”
