Heir to the throne: Broken Blood

ACROANS.

The village streets were alive with the sounds of merriment and revelry as Notah made his way to his friend Kaell's humble cottage on the outskirts. His mind was awhirl, desperate to find distraction from the from everyone . The royal family's draconian rules prohibited their union, no matter how fiercely their hearts may burn for one another.

Kaell greeted him with a sympathetic smile, having become well-accustomed to Notah's melancholic spells when thoughts of the fair Clover consumed him.

"You look like you could use a reprieve from your troubles, my friend," Kaell said, pulling on a tattered cloak. "The bear fights are happening on the village green today. A rowdy diversion, but sometimes a mindless spectacle is just what one needs."

Notah managed a half-hearted nod of agreement, allowing Kaell to lead them through the winding dirt pathways toward the raucous sounds of jeering and merrymaking. 

The village green was a chaotic sight to behold. A large wooden pen had been erected, snarling caged bears writhing restlessly within. Rowdy onlookers crowded around, shouting and jostling as coin purses were flung about, bets being struck on which fearsome beast would emerge victorious from the looming showdown.

Kaell steered them toward a couple of vacant stools, nodding to the burly figure of Shune hunched nearby. Shune's face was marred by ropy scars, a grim souvenir from his harrowing last encounter with the dreaded Wessex warriors. His brother had returned from that gruesome campaign a hollowed husk, petrified into an unmoving statue by the Wessex's devastating powers.

"I'll slay every last one of those snake-blooded Wessex wretches if given the chance," Shune growled, slamming his flagon down with a violence that slopped ale across the weathered wooden surface. "They're nothing but cowering weaklings without their dark magic to cower behind."

A sleazy-looking lout sitting beside them let out a bawdy guffaw. "Save some of those pretty little Wessex lasses for me when you're done slitting their men's throats! I wants me a taste of their—"

The repulsive churl's crudities were cut off as Notah abruptly shoved his stool back, the legs screeching harsh against the hard-packed dirt as he shot to his feet. How dare this filth sully the name with such vile depravities!

"What's got your smalls in a twist, Notah?" Shune called out with a sneer. "You're the chieftain's get, are you not? When did you become such a wilting daisy at the mere mention of richly-deserved vengeance?"

Kaell placed a hand on Notah's forearm, seeing the muscle clenched furiously beneath his tanned skin. He knew all too well his friend's aversion to mindless cruelty.

"Our friend is cut from cloths of a more enlightened make," Kaell said evenly. "He takes no joy in lurid tales of torture and subjugation, no matter how vile the foe may be."

Shune barked a harsh laugh as he drained his flagon. "Well then mayhap your 'friend' best grow a thicker skin if he wishes to lead men someday. Unbridled savagery is the very language our Wessex vermin neighbors understand."

Notah's jaw clenched, his eyes smoldering over the injustice of it all. If only they knew the truth – that fair Clover's heart was as pure and virtuous as the whitest desert moonbloom.

"You'd do well to leash that savage dog of a companion," he bit out through gritted teeth, turning on his heel. "Lest his foul palavers besmirch the honor of one worthier than his entire barbaric ilk combined."

The raucous cheers and vulgar catcalls faded into the distance as Notah stormed away from the spectacle, his heart burning with equal measures of forbidden desire and righteous indignation. So hung the scales between the opposing dynasties – balanced upon the razor's edge of tragic inevitability.