Page 1 of Breaking Briar

CHAPTER 1

PHILIP

TEN YEARS OLD

Excitement floods the room, sending a sliver of anticipation running through my body. Unfortunately, as much as my body is reacting, I cannot understand what all the commotion is about. Something about a baby being brought to the castle.

If rumor is to be believed, she’s going to be my wife. But what need do I have of a baby? Everyone seems to think of this as a grand occasion, but I personally feel as if it’s pointless. Let them get all excited.

It’s just all stupid to me. I’d much rather be spending time with Master Damon Balcom, the captain of the guard, learning my sword fighting skills. Instead, I’m wrapped up in fancy clothes not fit for anything but to prance around and show myself off. Huffing under my breath, I allow the valet to continue his fussing, doing my best to hide my true emotions.

With a longing glance, I look out the window, watching as Master Balcom takes his men through their drills. Most days, today included, I despise being the crown prince. There’s no freedom. It’s a hot and stifling mantle I’m forced to wear.

I long to be free, to soar above the clouds like the birds, or even the mythical dragons of old. Closing my eyes, I breathe in the dank, stale air. Though it’s probably considered fresh to others, I can smell the age. Even one day with the windows shut, and I can smell the difference.

“Come now, Prince Philip,” the valet intones, his fingers fluttering over the front of this royal costume. “Today is a happy day. Can’t you at least try to be excited about it?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes, donning an air of respect. It’s what Master Balcom would order me to do. Out of all the people I don’t wish to disappoint, it’s him. And not just because his forms of punishment involve physical labor.

There’s something in him that frightens me, but compels me all the same. I can’t put my finger on it. It’s a certain air that even my father hasn’t been able to master. Then again, as the king, he probably doesn’t have to hone that part of his skills. It’s his crown that demands respect and not the man himself.

Shaking my head, I turn in the mirror, looking at the festoon of ripples and fabrics as they cover me from neck to ankle. All that’s missing is the golden circlet denoting my status as a prince. I practice my smile, forcing my lips to tilt in a way that feels odd and foreign. But it makes my mother happy.

The moment I smile, she stops her examinations, allowing me the freedom to be myself. All it takes is a simple show of emotions. I don’t understand, and I doubt I ever will. What does a smile have to do with who I am as a person? Isn’t it enough that I keep the more disruptive or undesirable emotions in check?

Smiling does nothing to curb the violence I feel curling through my arms and into my fingers. It takes more concentration to keep from lashing out and making my mother cry. And yet… she continues to ask me to smile.

“My Prince,” the valet continues, waxing poetic about the infant we are to meet.

I couldn’t care less about some baby. Pulling away from him as he continues to flit about, his hands smoothing out some invisible wrinkle, I push past the throng of workers and make my way to my secret room. He calls out behind me, but I don’t care to listen. I just want to be alone.

Glancing this way and that, I press my hand against a bit of stone and push hard, triggering a lever to give way so the hidden door swings inward. Once I’m inside, no one will ever know I’m here. It will be as if I disappeared into thin air.

With a smirk, I make my way over to my peepholes and watch the exasperation pour off of the man as he races to and fro. A soft chuckle rumbles up my throat, the closest thing to a laugh I can manage. He looks so ridiculous as he glances about, his hands wringing as frantic energy sizzles in the air.

I won’t be gone too long. Just enough for me to breathe in air that’s not tainted with the scent of others. Not caring at all that I’m messing up my outfit, I slump onto a makeshift bed and close my eyes.

Something is wrong. I can feel it in my bones. There’s no way of knowing or even conveying what it is. When I was younger, I tried. Even in my babblings, I did my best to convey the wrongness that is me. But no one ever understood. They were only ever frightened of me.

“I understand you loud and clear, my prince,” a phantom voice drifts into the room.

It’s not one I’ve ever heard before. At least not anyone I know of in the castle. It seems as if an intruder has found my sanctum and defiled it with their presence. But who would be so bold? From the sound, it’s a female, but what female would want to be alone with me?

Fear seizes my heart as I force myself to lie there, making my breathing shallow. In the silence, I recall Master Balcom’s instructions as they flit through my skull, almost as if he were talking to me directly. But that’s absurd. Even I know he’s not here in this room.

Still though, at his imagined whispered command, I crack an eye open, just a slit. It’s enough for me to see into the room, but small enough for my attacker to think I’m still asleep. At least, I hope that’s what I’m doing.

Nothing. A black haze fills my sanctum, rendering me unable to see anything else.

“I know you’re awake, young prince. I also know you feign repose as if to throw me off and make me vulnerable. It will never happen.”

Anger burns through me, choking out the last flitting words of Master Balcom as I stand up, ready to dispatch the person who dares to threaten me. But still, I find nothing. The only thing in this room is a soft laugh that trickles down the walls, filling my gut with dread.

“Come to the center. I shall have a look at you,” the disembodied voice rumbles into the room.

“Show yourself first,” I grind out, my fingers curling into fists. “Or are you afraid of me?”

Again, that annoying bit of laughter surrounds me, setting me on edge. “I fear nothing, young prince. Not even you.”