Royals & Wretches

To Whom It May Concern

Alanis

Mika was a real bitch ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time. The first time we met, I was a young and naïve thirteen-year-old omega. I'd been starry eyed and excited when my father had made me aware that I might be considered as an official suitor to the Prince.

Mikaela poured gasoline on that fantasy, lit a match and laughed as he set it ablaze by opening his mouth with a disgusted sneer, glaring at me with cold, colourless eyes and went, "Him? Disgusting."

I'd been rendered speechless. His father, the King, apologized profusely while pinching his son's ear until it turned red. My father, with a chagrined smile, tried to placate the King and attempted to convince him that the prince did not intend an insult.

The Prince had stubbornly refused to apologise and endured the fierce tugging of his face by his father in rebellious silence.

I stared at Prince Mikaela. Even amidst the chaos he was beautiful. Silver hair, high cheekbones, a straight and proud nose, pink lips that seemed to constantly pull tight in irritation and glasslike eyes that seemed as if they looked down at everything and everyone. He was exquisite and cold, he seemed to draw the warmth out of everything around him.

There was a moment. The older men had missed it as they fussed about etiquette and manners, but I hadn't.

Mikaela's cold eyes had found something and impossibly they softened their harsh gaze. It was as if all the warmth he'd absorbed before flooded out all at once. Where his eyes had been hard as glass, they were now a clear stream. The moment lasted only a second, but when I followed his gaze, they led across the room to my brother, Kyros, as he entered the door.

*

Two years my brother had been at the interstellar border. For two years Mikaela had been unbearable in court. He regularly antagonized the council, shirked on his appointments and openly disobeyed direct orders from his father. Despite these antics that surely would have gotten any other person rightfully disowned from the royal family, it was understood that Mikaela was quite untouchable. The King wouldn't hear any grievances or criticisms from the council when it came to his only heir.

Yet, now, in the quiet training yard of the west wing, after two years Mikaela was smiling. It was blinding, of course. I was perched on the second floor balcony. I'd paused on my way to meet with my father and the King.

Beneath, in the shaded training yard, the Prince and my brother sparred like Kyros had never left. A moment of deja vu washed over me as the past seemed to superimpose itself upon the present and I remembered the countless times I had stumbled across this exact scene.

They had no swords this time. Kyros had a defensive stance, his left fist raised up to his cheekbone with his right fist slightly lower near his chin. His elbows were tucked closely to his body and he kept moving by bouncing from foot to foot.

Mikaela had a similar stance several paces away, but he was ready to attack. He used the same speed he had in the festival. Within three steps he had closed the distance between him and Kyros and unleashed a flurry of quick jabs, alternating fists with each punch. Kyros dodged the first three hits but Mikaela stepped forward again, getting right into Kyros' space with his right arm held parallel in front of him, using the back of his forearm instead of his fist. His elbow caught Kyros on the chin and sent his head reeling back. Mikaela smirked and I vaguely heard his voice but I couldn't make out what he had said. Kyros rubbed his chin mildly as he replied indistinctly, he was grinning too.

They started again. Both retaking the same stances. Mikaela looked weary though, he didn't rush in this time. For a long time they did nothing but circle each other. I'd guessed that they were sizing each other up, trying to gauge the best approach. However, in the time they had taken circling each other, it seemed as if the outcome had already been decided.