Scorned Prince: Ringdweller Series #1, page 1
Scorned Prince
Ringdweller Series Book #1
Brady Hunsaker
Lightfire Publishing
Published by Lightfire Publishing LLC
Cover art illustration by Miblart
Copyright © [2023] by Lightfire Publishing LLC
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Dedicated to my father. It's his fault I
started writing, and he was my first great enthusiast.
Love you, dad.
Chapter one
Scorn
The queen was going to kill him. His own mother. Prince Migo Rikaydian squeezed his eyes tight. He didn’t want to be afraid, but the feeling seeped into his soul.
“Migo!”
The voice was distant. Muted. The whirling roar of the storm drowned it out. Thunder echoed with every heartbeat. He huddled deeper into the corner of the room, thick arms wrapped about himself. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t escape the storm. The voice always haunted him. How childish he seemed. Seventeen years old, but still he cowered.
“Migo!” The voice was closer now.
A sharp pain stung his face. The familiar bite of his mother’s nails nipped his cheek. He deserved it.
“Coward! What would your soldiers think if they saw you cowering like a child in the corner? Look at me!”
Migo cracked his eyes open. He needed to be brave. His mother stood over him menacingly, a fierce queen, her fine black hair, glittering apparel, and flawless, light brown skin gave her a regal appearance, marred only by the angry sneer that curled back her lips. The Maedari, a powerful storm tainted with dark magic, sprung up so suddenly that Migo hadn’t had time to close a window. Torrents of sand and ice shot through the opening with unnatural force and formed a swirling maelstrom that churned the contents of the room.
“You’re pathetic.” They locked eyes. “The shamans could take you without trouble, and you’re supposed to fight them.”
Her words stung harder than her nails. Migo struggled to his feet, cheeks burning with shame. His eyes strayed to the window where the storm thrashed its way into the room.
The queen clicked her tongue and covered her face with a veil. She strode through the elements to the window, forcing it shut with a quick jerk. A painful stillness settled with the dust. She dropped the lock in place then shook her head at him as she pulled her veil down. “Make yourself presentable.” She exited the room, leaving it empty. Broken.
Migo let out a shuddering breath and wiped his face where a tear managed to sneak by his defenses. He trembled. Rage and shame boiled beneath his skin.
The room was in shambles. Everything smelled of wet sand. His mother was right. What would the soldiers think if they saw their captain like that—deathly afraid of the storms? Coward. He clenched his fists. I deserve to be a captain. I deserve to be the prince. Even in his mind, the words felt fickle. They made him angrier. He clenched his fists tighter, resisting the urge to punch the stone wall.
He brushed his arms and face, sand scraping off his skin. The storm raged outside, and he barely suppressed a shudder as he walked by the window, boots crunching. Though it had been eight years, every storm brought with it the same nightmare about his mistake. He would never be forgiven. He saw the spite in his mother’s eyes every time she looked at him.
I will make up for it, mother. But what would it take to please her?
A knock rebounded on the door. “Captain?” The deep, friendly voice was that of his cousin, Hatan.
“Come in, Hatan.”
The door opened, and Hatan rushed in. “I came as soon as I heard,” Hatan said, voice thick with relief. His cheeks were red. “I’m sorry the queen made it here before me. How... how was she?” The man was more than twice Migo’s age. He was tall, with the large body of a hardened warrior. It was nice to have somebody who cared.
Migo shrugged. “The damage has been done. Besides, how much more of a shame or disappointment can I be?”
Hatan winced. “There’s no shame in it, Migo. Anybody who’d experienced what you had could have reacted the same way.”
Trauma. That’s what it all led back to. “This was the first time she’s come to my room the whole year I’ve been back. It had to be right then.”
“She's been wary of you since your seventeenth birthday.”
Migo narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
Hatan placed a hand on Migo’s shoulder. “Migo, I don’t know how to put this any simpler, but the queen has no intention of abdicating the throne when you turn 18, as is your right.”
Migo’s mind spun. “How can she do that?”
“There’s only one way.” Hatan gave Migo’s shoulder a squeeze. “I was going to wait for a better time to tell you, but… I have a source within her inner circle. She plans to have you assassinated in seven cycles.”
Migo gulped hard. He was out of breath, like he’d been punched in the gut. A cycle was a full rotation of the moon, the only way to track time since the sun never moved. Night and day was a thing of the past. “I have seven cycles to live.” That was it then. She’d given up on him.
“I’m afraid so. She’s hiring professionals so that it can’t be traced back to her, of course.”
“Is there any way to change her mind?” Migo asked, closing his eyes.
Hatan sighed and rubbed a hand through his short black hair. “Possibly. But she thinks you are weak. Cowardly. Unworthy to rule.”
“Maybe she’s right.” He’d just been cowering in the corner. It was the same reason shamans had been able to assassinate his father. Because of Migo’s cowardice. Sorrow enveloped him like a cold blanket, but he had no urge to cry. What was the point?
“She’s wrong,” Hatan said, eyes fierce. “You are strong and capable, as a warrior and a leader.”
“Then I must prove it to her.”
“No, you should flee. I won’t let her destroy you.”
Migo took a deep breath. “If I flee, then I will only prove her point that I’m a coward. I will not abandon my honor, even for the sake of my life.”
Hatan shook his head. “Cousin, please reconsider. How would you prove this to her?”
Migo didn’t answer at first, but opened his battered wardrobe, selected a beige and maroon uniform, and threw it over his shoulder. With his left hand, he drew forth his heavy battle glaive. “If there’s any chance to redeem myself, I’ll take it. I’ll find the shamans,” Migo growled, grip tightening on his weapon. A calmness washed over him. All of this was the shaman’s fault. The shame. His mother’s hatred. His father’s death. The storms themselves. There was only one solution that remained. “I will kill them all.”
Chapter two
Magic In the Storm
Constant thunder rumbled between the stone walls of the sturdy hut. The Maedari was just picking up.
Katsi Danan welcomed the sound and pulled her veil over her face.
“You’re not really going out there, are you?” Damani asked, voice soft as he stepped between her and the thick, brasswood door. His brows furrowed into a frown that made Katsi uncomfortable.
“Of course I am. I’ve got things to do. I’m protected.” She gestured at her stormwading armor. Reinforced with powerful bewitchings, the leather material was much sturdier than it looked. She certainly wasn’t about to tell Damani that she was going out to steal from a merchant lord.
Lightning flashed in various shades of pink, white, and orange, brightening the otherwise dark building.
“I thought maybe you could stay.” Damani fidgeted, running a hand through his light brown hair. The curves of his young face shimmered into focus under the glow of the lightning.
“And do what? More kissing?” She raised her eyebrows at him. They kissed for the first time two weeks ago and he sought every opportunity since then for a repeat.
Damani raised his hands. “No. Just… stormwading.” He took one of her hands, his skin calloused from hard labor. His eyes narrowed. “That’s something shamanfolk do.”
Katsi grunted and pushed him away from the door. Well I am shamanfolk. She couldn’t voice the words. They both knew the truth but didn’t dare speak it. She undid the heavy storm latch with a loud clunk. “I’ll see you after the Maedari.”
“Wait, don’t open—”
Katsi shoved hard, forcing her way out into the storm. Roaring winds and booming thunder assaulted her senses, drowning out Damani’s voice. Sand and ice whirled together, blurring her vision. Katsi shut the door behind her and ran to the north, though north in this case meant sunleft. The sun itself was stationary, never moving from the same spot in the sky. Half of the planet was a blistering Scorched Waste, and the other half was frozen, leaving only an eleven mile wide Ring in between where life could thrive.
Lightning streaked across the sky often enough that Katsi could read a book under its light. Granted, the book wouldn’t last very long. Who has time for reading anyway?
Damani farmed for a living. Katsi thieved. Simple as that. Another secret she kept from him.
Her target for this storm was a merchant lord, Nedro Wajek. A ruthless murderer. His private army killed all shamans they came across, looting their bodies. He didn’t deserve anything he’d stolen from her people. She still identified with the shamanfolk, even though she hadn’t lived among them for years. It was her heritage.
She ran at a steady pace, her body occasionally buffeted by the strong winds.
Thick foliage signaled Katsi’s arrival at the small jungle that lay between the marshy farmlands and the city of Jehubal. The jungle trees grew thick and strong. Their massive leaves drooped as if hoping to hide from the storm. Katsi passed beneath their beautiful, thick limbs, her feet treading over the hard moss that blanketed the ground. The sound of the sand and ice was muted, softened by the life around her.
Not everything could find shelter in time.
Katsi dropped to a knee with a gasp as she saw a small scaila trying to wriggle free of a rock that had fallen on the back half of its body. She lifted the rock, but the tan lizard struggled to walk. It could do little more than drag its hind legs.
It was so tiny and young. The thick scales across its body had hardly developed. If she left it behind, it would surely die.
Katsi’s heart sank. “Okay, come on then.” She picked up the lizard, its small body fitting in the palm of her hand. “Maybe you can stay in here for now,” she said, tucking the scaila into a pocket of her thin overcoat. “I’ll keep you safe.” She didn’t know if it would survive the storm from inside her pocket, but she couldn’t just leave it on the ground.
She emerged from the jungle, lightning streaking overhead, thunder shaking her very bones.
Through the haze of sand and ice, the rounded buildings of Jehubal were mere shadows. She entered the deserted streets. No ringdweller dared venture out during a Maedari.
When she turned the next corner, her target came into view. She flushed with excitement. Wajek Manor was protected by a wall of thick, red stone. Guard towers rose at every corner of its octagonal shape. The soldiers here were better trained for handling shamanfolk, but during a Maedari, she was immune to them. Ringdwellers would never dare come outside. She crept to the building nearest the wall. It provided a narrow blind spot from the towers, not that she worried about getting attacked, but she simply didn’t want to be spotted.
Katsi dashed to the wall. It was just over twenty feet tall. She found the spot she’d previously chosen to climb. Some of the stones protruded from the wall just enough to provide handholds. She took a deep breath, braced herself, and climbed, clinging as close to the wall as she could.
As the wind changed its speed and direction, she held still, but while it was constant, she made her steady ascent. She pulled herself up in one final heave and rolled across the top of the ramparts. The guard towers were still.
Katsi smiled. Excitement boiled in her stomach. She snuck to the railed stairway that led down the other side of the wall. As she sprinted to the manor itself, a rock crashed into her arm hard enough that she felt the pain through her stormwading armor. She bit back a curse as she leaned against the side of the manor. If it wasn’t for her armor, the rock might have broken her bone. At least it didn’t hit the scaila.
Light shone from a window just above her right shoulder. She pulled out the shakestone mallet from her belt, gripped it in her right hand, and struck the armored window. A high-pitched ping rang out above the noise of the storm, the only evidence of the tool’s magical vibration. The window shattered. Katsi scrambled toward the back of the manor. She came to the next window and did the same thing.
With two rooms in chaos, Katsi was ready to head to the back. The residents of the manor would be scrambling to restore order. That, or they’d be quivering in fear, worried that the shamans had come to spirit them away.
But Katsi had something else in mind.
She returned the mallet to her belt and rounded the back of the manor. A smaller, single-floored section of the manor protruded from this end. She ran full-speed at the building, jumped, and took two steps up the stone surface of the wall and grabbed the edge of the roof. She heaved herself up the rounded surface.
The wind nearly buffeted her into the air, but she threw her body flat against the roof and clung on tightly. Once she got a moment to establish her balance, she crawled forward until she was just below another window on the second story. She drew the shakestone mallet, stretched her hand up, and tapped the window. Ping. The glass fell toward her before getting swept away in the wind.
Now or never. She got to a crouch, gripped the bottom of the window, and leaped through the opening with precision, the wind giving her an extra shove inside.
A man shrieked a curse and scrambled out of the room. His flight was so speedy that she had barely caught a glimpse of him. For all she knew, it was Nedro Wajek himself. This was, after all, his private study.
The storm swirled about her as she crossed the room, her feet treading on a soft Malorian rug, imported from halfway across the Ring. The room was precisely what she’d expected. A few shelves lined the walls, filled with books and trinkets from his trading business. Not only that, but, as rumored, she was quick to identify the trophy case where Nedro Wajek kept his prizes. He was known for trade among the ringdwellers, but he was also infamous for his brutality against the shamanfolk, and he always liked to collect keepsakes from his victims.
Katsi used the mallet again, shattering the glass that protected Nedro’s trinkets. There were several items inside, but one was wrapped in a cloth. She reached for it instinctively, drawn to its mystery. As soon as she touched it she felt… something. It was like a small vibration that ran up her whole arm. Books and items fell to the floor as Katsi stared at the covered item in her hand. What she’d just felt… Father described that kind of reaction to her once. It meant two things. First, the item was magical, and second, that it was responding to magic inside her.
Not all shamanfolk had magic. Only the shamans did. This means I’m a shaman. Her heart rate quickened, and a shiver ran up her spine. She shook her head, focusing on the time at hand. She grabbed a few other items for good measure.
Nedro’s fancy Malorian rug was getting soiled with muddied sand. Just the kind of thing Nedro deserves. A satisfied smile curled her lips. She sprang out the window, back into the cover of the Maedari.
Chapter three
Threats
Migo stepped onto the floor of the training court, boots scraping against the dusty stone. The massive room was intentionally left unswept in order to simulate a more accurate battleground. A series of thick columns, exactly parallel to the rounded walls, supported the roof. Thick windows lined the circumference to allow natural light to filter in. Lightning flashed outside, but it was growing less frequent. The Maedari was coming to an end.
Still enough time for a match. Migo gave his practice stave a few spins, testing its weight.
He wanted to lie in his bed. To scream. To cry. To let his shame smother him until it boiled into rage. A match would help soothe the pain. He loved the ecstasy of victory. It was his only means of becoming something more than the dirt beneath the queen’s boot.
The room echoed with voices. Most of the other Rikaydian soldiers, about 500 of them, had gathered into the room. They waited for the Maedari to end so they could resume their patrols throughout the territory.
“I’m ready, captain,” a soldier said as he stepped up before Migo, equipped with his own practice stave.
