Eyes Up, Guardian

Chapter 17

Damian stepped up to Tessa's side, facing the crowd in front of them, watching them. He locked eyes with the guards ahead of him, holding their long swords at the ready. He watched as the nobles looked him over, judged his stature, his face, his clothes, his wings. He watched as they processed him as a threat as their gazes turned hard and cold, sharp as he moved another step towards them.

     "I am Prince Damian, of the Skotadi." He said, projecting out, as if he were speaking to the cliffs around them. As he spoke, he let the last of his light go, the last of the light that kept his features softer, that hid his fangs, or the sharp tips of his wings, or the harsh line of his jaw, or the deep hue in his brown eyes. He felt the darkness rise to greet him, as though he were sliding into a tub of water, the water level rising with his body. "I wish to reclaim my place as heir, and seek council with my father."

     As his voice rang out, there was only silence. For a few long moments, everyone was frozen in place, as if that was the last thing they'd expected to say. Then, there were whispers, that escalated until the crowd was all talking and pointing, some even shouting. He heard multiple shouts for the guards to go warn the king. Others shouted that he was dead and Damian was a liar, or a traitor, for abandoning the clan. Many of the nobles he recognized, and they were the ones shouting that he was a disgrace and a liar, and that Damian was dead and gone. 

     He stood still as he looked out over the crowd, spotting a familiar face, but moving on just as quickly as any other, regarding it as something trivial. Finally, someone shouted for silence, and a large male shoved his way to the front of the crowd, past the guards. He recognized him instantly, one of his father's head generals, the leader of the main war band of the clan, the one that oversaw all the clan war bands. He was dressed in fighting leathers and held a sword in his left hand, his face was sweaty, like he'd been training before he'd rushed to find out what was all the ruckus. 

     "Batiar," Damian said, smiling at the man as he marched towards him.

     Batiar snarled at him, baring his fangs as he seized him by the collar with his right hand, to which Tessa bristled, her hand flying for the knife strapped to her right thigh, taking a step toward him, only for Damian to raise a hand for her to halt. The man didn't speak as he roughly undid the second button of Damian's shirt, dragging the collar down, to reveal Damian's left collarbone, a small, sharp, black crown tattooed just below the bone. 

     As he saw the marking, Batiar's grip slackened, and he glared at Damian harshly.

     "You should have never come." He hissed, "Weakling." He spat, shoving Damian hard, to which he took only a small step back to keep his balance.

     Batair turned on his heel, stalking back to the crowd. "It's him." He said, "Bring him to his father." He told the closest guard, "And get rid of this crowd."

     Damian couldn't help but smirk, clearly Batair still held the same weight as he had Damian had grown up. The guards each offered quick salutes before hurrying off to their assigned tasks. He watched as the guard assigned to take them to his father approached them, cautious, but he was clearly trying to hide it. The other guard seemed relieved to shoo away the crowd, though he only managed to clear them as far as the bridge.

    With a short glance at Tessa, the guard nodded to them, "Come with me." He said.

     The guard was dressed in dark brown leathers, a sharp, black crown had been stamped on to the arms, above the biceps, his father's symbol. All the clan answered to his father, but any person who answered to his father in their profession bore his mark. It was how one could determine the king's guards and the members from the war bands of the clan. The guard they were led by bore a small quiver at his belt, on his left side, his bow held in his right hand- his grip was tense, tight. Along with the bow, a short-sword was slung across his back and he had a few knives in his weapons belt.