Page 2 of His King Enslaved

“I couldn’t write you and risk word getting out.” Patel sat heavily, the weight of the kingdom on his shoulders. “Sindar, there’s been an accident. A stroke, we think. Your brother is in a terrible state.”

Sindar wiped his nose, his eyes narrowing. “How terrible?”

“He’s in a coma. Alive, but completely non-responsive.”

“For how long?”

“Three days. According to the doctor, he may not come out of it.”

They’d sent for him almost immediately. Sindar let that sink in. “And you’ve called me here to announce to the kingdoms I am in fact alive, and as second in line to the Kysanian throne, I will assume control as regent. Right?”

Patel’s look was grim.

“Right?” Sindar asked, his voice rising.

“Your Highness, no one can know the king is incapacitated. We are in a perilous position. Between the insurrection at the border and the looming war…”

“Patty, you can’t be serious.”

“I need you to step up. If not for your country, for me.”

“As regent, gladly!”

“No. That won’t work. A transfer of power will weaken our position. I need you to pose as Xandar until he recovers.”

Years in exile gave Sindar plenty of time to think about how it all went wrong, and it started with his face. Growing up, the servants constantly mixed up the mischievous twin princes. When they were young, their similarities made for a fun game. Sindar loved sharing a face with his best friend and using it to wreak havoc amongst the royal staff. But as they grew older, Xandar recognized their uncanny likeness for what it truly was: an existential threat. By the time they were teenagers, being identical twins wasn’t fun anymore.

Sindar stared at his mentor. Patel knew what he’d gone through better than anyone. “The fuck I will,” he said evenly.

“You can, and you will, or people will die, and I might be one of them.”

Silence settled over the room. Patel’s aged eyes were searching. “I only ask that you pretend to be your brother until he recovers. There is one duty, in particular, that only a royal can undertake. I will manage the kingdom and make sure everything goes smoothly until then. Xandar will resume the throne when he recovers, and no one will be the wiser.”

“What if he doesn’t recover?”

“It will never be safe for Sindar of Kysan to take the throne. If he does, enemies within and without will conspire to destroy him, and I fear they will succeed. The Pavarians will march, and many Kysanians will die defending our fields. King Xandar’s reputation is the only thing keeping our alliances strong and the Archon at bay.” Patel rose and circled the desk, his expression grave. “My boy, I would not ask you if there were another way.”

Sindar’s stomach churned, bile tickling at the back of his throat. “What you’re asking is grotesque. After what he did to my friends, my allies... And for you to ask! You watched him take Shashi’s head right in front of me! Patty, you of all people…”

Patel went down on one knee. “Your Highness, I am begging you. Please. If you won’t do it for the people, do it for me. When Xandar wakes, he will know you can be trusted, and you will finally be safe. If he doesn’t wake up, you will have the throne.”

“As a puppet! Everything I do will be credited to Xandar! It will be like I died after all!”

Patel clasped his hands together. “Please.”

Gazing into the beseeching eyes of the man who’d practically raised him was like falling into a hole. Patel had given him time and attention when everyone else wrote him off as a second-rate spare. Could he really say no to this man after everything that happened?

Sindar never expected to sit atop the ruby throne. He’d put it out of his thoughts, for his own sanity, but the desire never left him. He wanted that throne. He’d wanted it his whole miserable life, and he’d always rued the sixty seconds that kept him from it.

Now, he’d been granted an impossible chance. He’d be a fool not to take it. There was only one answer he could give.

“Fine,” he said. “But you owe me, Patty. Big time.”

* * *

THE FIRST ORDER of business was getting rid of the allegedly terrible beard. Patel carefully shaved Sindar’s face, and each pass of the razor sheared away another layer of the life he’d made for himself as a skilled but otherwise unremarkable horseman in a backwater town. Sindar wiped the shaving cream off his face when it was done, and Patel patted a bit of the grime back onto his cheeks so they wouldn’t be so conspicuously clean compared to the rest of him.

“The moment you step out of this office, you must follow my instructions to the letter,” Patel said.