Cursed Without A Crown

12 | Behind the Scenes III; The Apple Didn't Fall Far

YET AGAIN IN THE KINGDOM OF ORODEN

IN KING DROKAH'S PRIVATE CHAMBERS

The King of Oroden fisted the sheets with a snarl before he rose from his enormous king-sized bed. Setting his feet on the silver polished floor, he remained seated at the edge with his eyes shut, waiting until the heavy pounding stopped.

Trust incompetent fools to disturb my slumber, he thought while gritting his teeth.

Though to be fair, the thundering echoes booming across his bedchamber were no match for the constant damning ones slicing through his skull, and he supposed that he should be grateful for the distraction as it was bound to take his mind off the throbbing.

However, Drokah hated to be disturbed—especially after retiring for the night—so that ignorant halfwit who had dared to rouse him from sleep had better have a dragon hot at his heels, burning his condemned arse.

Wincing when the heavy thuds persisted, Drokah let out a menacing growl. He was left with no more patience.

Opening his sharp gaze to fixate it on the intricate oak door of his bedchamber, the wizard could feel his eyes burn as he slashed his right hand through the air, causing a green haze to follow in its path. The wooden structure, recently dormant, then burst open with the force he'd mentally applied, revealing the culprit behind the bothersome pounding.

Short, black hair ruffled and white shirt hanging rakishly over his brown pantaloons, the intruder dropped the hand that had been ready to knock the door down and placed it calmly into his pocket.

"Father," Prince Micah Rhakys of Oroden, Crown Prince and second son of King Drokah Rhakys, greeted with a casual nod as he strode confidently into his father's bedchamber, a lazy smile crawling along the length of his lips.

At seeing the arrogant way his son had burst into his private chamber, Drokah could only imagine what the insolent young wizard had to say at such an ungodly hour.

Micah reminded him so much about his late wife that at times, he couldn't stand to look at him. They had the same black locks, same cunning smile, the same mark—which sat squarely on top of his right brow—and even the same bloody nose.

It sickened him that Forodi had left him to raise an image of herself, a striking reminder that she had existed in his life, and he hated her every day for it.

"Your frail mother ought to have taught you some manners, child," the king growled, wishing he were by himself as he shut the door behind Micah. Now that sleep had eluded him, he yearned for more than a few moments alone to gather his thoughts. A lot needed to be planned with caution now that certain circumstances no longer favoured him that he just couldn't stand to be disturbed.

Not that he could before, anyway.

Micah's smile only widened at his father's comment. "Unfortunately for you, sweet sire, my mother was a bit preoccupied dying of a broken heart to worry about how I was raised. It had been the least of her concerns then." His handsome face sported a flash of spite when he added, "She always worried for your return like the weakling she was."

Not caring to respond nor wanting to imagine what his deceased wife had gone through in his absence, Drokah thrust the tangled covers about his mid region aside and snatched the pair of night-trousers that had been laid neatly by his valet from the bed.

After he'd covered his nudity, the king rose to his feet and grabbed the decanter from his nightstand, pouring himself a glass and dousing its specially spiked contents before turning to face his son once more.