I track Bethen down to one of the Citadel’s many training yards soon after, on the word of a guardsman that had seen the Valont heir head in the direction of the training yard. The yard is a tiny one, located in a secluded corner of the massive Citadel, and devoid of guards except for two men that patrol the lip of the parapet that rises above the yard. They watch Bethen without much interest as he practices against a dummy with a training blade, swinging against wooden ribs and limbs and skull, his boots singing a soft song against coarse sand and swaths of yellow grass..

  I approach the two men and tell them that the head guardsman has called for them. They turn, frowning, but start when they see my face. “Prince Calix,” one says, paling, ducking into a half-bow that can only be described as pathetic. They take their leave without even asking me for a reason, departing the yard and leaving me alone with Bethen, oblivious to the sudden conversation above his head as he grunts and clacks his blade against the dummy.

  I enter the yard, ensuring his back is to me, and stalk towards him like a vengeful spirit. At the last moment, Bethen seems to become aware of my presence, and turns, but not before I bury the tip of my knife in his neck a centimeter deep. Bethen stills, sword falling to his side as a bead of red blood trickles from his neck and down into his collar.

  He smells of sweat. His cotton shirt is stuck to his body, his pits dark and matted, his hair wet and shining.

  “Prince Calix,” he says, his voice somehow remaining arrogant even with a blade pressed to his neck. He displays no such surprise, to my disappointment. “I was wondering when you would make an appearance.”

  “Drop your sword,” I say. Bethen does not oblige, so I press the blade into his neck a little deeper. Two rivets of red spill past the blade. “Drop it, you fucking quim.”

  The sword thumps in the sand. “Will the prince be so kind as to remove the blade from my neck? It does make talking difficult, as you could imagine. Not the most comfortable position.”

  “The prince does not care to remove it. Tell me, and tell me truly. Did you attempt to have me killed yesterday night?”

  Bethen gives a dry laugh. The knife sinks deeper. “You fool.”

  I nearly end Bethen’s life then and there, but the faintest threads of restraint stills my hand. “Answer me.”

  “Careful now,” Bethen warns. “A little deeper and you’ll cut my spine. My lord father… well, he will not be pleased. In fact, I think he will attempt to have your head. Being such close companions of Matyx… I do wonder who your father would choose. Will he choose his life-long ally, his life-long friend, who commands a bevy of legions and vast lands to his name? Or would he choose his lastborn son?” Bethen muses over the question, mocking me. “I do wonder who he values more.”

  Disgusted, I shove Bethen hard in the back, and the Valont boy goes sprawling onto the sand. He slowly rises, composing himself, and wipes his mouth with the back of his leather gauntlet. “I suppose a shove is better than a blade wedged between the spine.”

  “Damn you and your stupid japes, did you do it?”

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  “No. Of course I did not do it.” Bethen spits the words in sudden fury. His sword is only a few meters to his left, but he makes no attempt for it. “Unlike you, I do not prefer to slide a blade through someone’s back. I do not stoop to such craven measures. It is evident you have no issue with that sentiment, however.”

  “You’re a cunt.”

  “How would you figure? You’ve never seen one.” Bethen laughs. “Yes, I did say I would kill you if you touch my sister back in that damn ballroom. And I meant it true. Listen now, my dear prince. If that day ever comes, and your name etches itself upon my blade, you will know when I arrive. I will not stab you in the back. I will allow you to draw your blade, and it will be a fair contest. I use that word sparingly. You are no match for me, all spindly limb and fake arrogance, but it would be fair in the realm of dueling. In the end, your bowels will stain the ground, and I will stand upon your neck.”

  “A pretty picture. Do you fantasize about me often?” Bethen’s smile falters for the faintest of moments. I study the slight crook in his nose, the barely noticeable chip in his front tooth; I flex my fists at the memory. “I do remember a different encounter. You crying on the ground, face smashed and bloodied, bent over like a common whore… quite unbecoming of a Valont. Tell me, why do I get the gist that Vira is more man than you?”

  “I remember that as well. But it seems my blood wasn’t the only blood spilt that day.” He grins. “And besides, I am no longer the child I was last year. You have a blade. I have a sword - a wooden one, true, but it is all I need against the likes of you. What do you say? Would you care for a dance?”

  I shift uncomfortably, palms sweating under the heat of the sun. “Would hardly be a fair contest.”

  “Now you speak of fairness.”

  “So you deny it.”

  “Are you deaf? Yes, the work was not mine. Need me to say it thrice? The work was not mine.”

  I frown as I realize Bethen speaks the truth. Doubt courses through me. I was so sure of Bethen being involved… or was that wishful thinking? Ambitious and arrogant as the Valont is, he is not stupid. I find it difficult to believe that he would risk the peace of the entire Realm over some personal quarrel. If he really did attempt to have me dead, and he was found out, Rylan Valont would surely disinherit him. And Bethen Valont would do nothing that would risk his inheritance.

  If not Bethen, then who?

  My thoughts come in troubled spurts. Someone had to be on the inside; someone with the authority to move in and out of the Citadel and the Capital’s walls without challenge. That person must be someone of high authority. My thoughts pound inside my head, hurting, hurting. My father has little enemies inside the Capital. Afar, yes, but not here. If it is not Bethen… I have no idea who wishes me dead. A cold hand encloses around my heart.

  I do not have the faintest clue who wants me dead.

  It could be anyone. It could be the guards patrolling the parapets, or the Astoma slaves working the boilers, or the kitchen workers, or the merchants of Trader’s Bay. It could be a farmer, for all I know, harboring a secret vengeance against the Kalidii. At any point, a dagger laced with plaguevenom could piece my flesh, and I would suffer a death like Kylen Ventruvian. I think of the girl’s shriveled body and imagine myself in her position. Nausea rises up within me, and my head swims with a thousand thoughts. The Capital has always been my home - my father raised me here, alongside all of my brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles. I know every inch of the Citadel, every nook and cranny, every weapon rack and conference room. Show me a scratch and I will point to what part of the Citadel it originates from. And yet a killer hides within the walls, and I am as oblivious as a suckling newborn.

  “You’re growing pale,” Bethen remarks, his pretty face curling into a smirk. “My dearest prince. My little prince. Would you like my handkerchief to ward off the tears? Maybe a wet nurse to soothe your anxieties? I would love to be of assistance. Just give me the word, and I will surely call.”

  “Fuck you, Bethen. I hope you choke on your tongue.”

  I depart the yard to the sound of Bethen’s laughter.