A HENRY STORY 2: Trials Of The Fallen Prince

I. Limit

Once around, then up the mountain, five shots at the target, then down and into the final loop—Henry ran through the course in his mind. He gnashed his teeth, vowing to stay up all night, firing stones if he missed them all again. He would not miss. He would not fail.

Absentmindedly, his left hand toyed with the weight fastened to his right arm, causing it to clang against the one on his left. He wouldn't miss. He would break his record.

Henry allowed his eye to fall shut and inhaled, then angrily shook strands of hair that were too short to tie out of his face. He breathed in again and took position. His fists clutched the weights, and his eye flew open, meeting the suspended stone bowl to his left. His arm shot up and pulled the string that connected to the plug sealing it; sand gushed out at once, but Henry did not watch—he vaulted forward.

Henry sprinted like a hundred rats were chasing him. He paid no mind to the sand beneath his bare feet or the calm waves breaking on the beach. He was not running for the scenic view. On his mind was only one thing: the outstanding record.

When his stopwatch came into view again, he bothered not to check it; instead, he took such a sharp turn that the sand sprayed out from under his foot and bolted toward the mountain. Clenching the weights tighter, Henry found the mark he had stuck into the sand and picked up speed. By the mark, he vaulted as high as he could, latching onto a ledge some eight feet up. Layers of bandages protected his hands as he climbed, fighting the weights for every inch upward.

Henry ignored the faint phantom sting that pierced the right side of his face and wedged his foot into a crack with force, scraping his knee in the process.

He did not even flinch. Faintly, he registered a trickle of blood running down his lower leg, but he had other concerns. Records were not broken by succumbing to such minor inconveniences.

Henry climbed with no safety rope, but also with no fear. Whoever had time for fear? A ceaseless time later, he pulled himself over the final hurdle and to his feet, darting toward where he had left his slingshot.

He nearly tripped before scooping it up, cursing under his breath. The torch he had placed next to his target—a sloppily drawn white circle on black stone—crackled quietly.

Henry disregarded the sting of his knee and the gravel digging into his bare feet, raised the slingshot, and steadied his hand.

Miss.

Miss again.

Henry let out a string of curses and brought his hand up to his face. He blinked once, twice. Then raised the slingshot again.

The next stone struck the line, smudging the chalk. Henry blew out a relieved breath, then instantly reprehended himself; he could barely count that.

Miss again.

His teeth clenched so hard that it hurt. He rubbed his eye aggressively, not even giving the tears a chance.

His last shot was a hit, although Henry inadvertently wondered how much luck was involved. Crossly, he stuffed the slingshot into his belt; two out of five was about average . . . if he decided to count the third one.

He should not count it. With one pull, Henry extinguished the torch and leaped toward the edge.

The initial stretch of the descent was incredibly steep. Henry often found himself hanging precariously from a ledge, gripping onto it with just one hand. Nonetheless, he had no fear. Heights didn't scare him anymore, not like they had after the fall. Not for as long as he had a bond who would not let him fall.

For a moment, Henry allowed in the thought of where Thanatos was; he had not seen him since morning. If he were not here, who would catch him if he fell now?