declared a traitor.
Edward met Reynard’s eyes in the rearview mirror. There was no doubt the captain knew all of this as well. It was common knowledge that Elysian stopped engaging in the slave trade, and that no sales or trading of genetically modified humans with Cassia was allowed. It was taught in primary school as part of world history classes.
Reynard’s eyes darted to Percy, where the young breeder was cuddled along Edward’s side, almost asleep, eyes heavy and breathing slow and relaxed. Reynard looked back to him, and Edward nodded.
“Head east, Abe. Elysian and freedom.” Edward said, and the car took the ramp, aimed for the eastern horizon.
Chapter Two
Mason
Pain was an ever-present reminder that just because he was royal, that didn’t mean he was impervious to harm. And yet, as each blow fell, each twist to resisting joints and every searing touch of hot metal to tender flesh, Mason was reminded of not all the times his father beat him as a child, but of the missions gone awry in the army, in years long past.
Missions where he ended up held prisoner by the enemies of the Crown, tortured, beaten, assaulted, and eventually rescued, but not after days and weeks held in cells and dungeons infested with rats and roaches, mud and swampy water. Yet it was those days of misery that he yearned for, because it was in those distant times he had hope…hope of rescue, reprieve.
There was no rescue for this prince of Cassia, not from this enemy. Not when the pain came from the hands of his own father.
King Henry the Third, Monarch and Supreme Ruler of the Kingdom of Cassia had a mean left hook. He wielded that red-hot poker like he stoked fires all day long, and the silk ties he utilized to twist Mason into unbearable positions would have done a non-consensual practicing sadist proud.
Mason was jolted from his memories of one particularly bad mission in the jungle of a southern shithole of a country when he hit the floor with a meaty slap. Stars clouded his eyes when his head hit the stone floor, but he still found relief as the silk ties around his wrists and ankles loosened and fell away. Blood returned to his extremities in a painful rush, but he lacked the strength to massage his arms and legs to ease the sensation.
“Shall I send for the physician, my king?” a bland, even voice asked somewhere out of view of Mason’s bleary vision.
“I doubt I injured anything vital. Leave him there, he can drag himself to bed once he comes around,” his father replied, and Mason could see his booted feet pass in front of his line of sight, heading for the door. “If he wishes to cooperate after this lesson, do let me know.”
“Yes, Sire,” the servant replied, following King Henry from the room, leaving Mason alone on the cold stone floor in the cell passing for his new room in the palace. The door shut and the lock turned over with a final snick, and silence descended in the small room.
He was in the petitioner’s quarters inside the Old Palace, the structure once called home by the great King Airric at the birth of the Cassian Dynasty two thousand years ago. The modern palace seen by the world surrounded and protected the ancient castle at its core, keeping the original seat of their power safe from the erosions of time and prying eyes.
Mason and his brothers used to play in the vaulted halls and stone walled rooms as children, imagining they were stalwart knights battling scores of savages and monsters, saving their kingdom over and over again, returning conquering heroes. It was a weird twist to Fate that Mason now found himself locked away in a room he used to retreat to as a young man, seeking asylum from the increasing demands of his duties as a blood prince and the second born son of the king.
Here, in the Old Palace, no one would hear him scream when the pain got too much too bear.
Mason cautiously pushed himself upright, the room spinning before his brain settled, and he spit out grit
Edward met Reynard’s eyes in the rearview mirror. There was no doubt the captain knew all of this as well. It was common knowledge that Elysian stopped engaging in the slave trade, and that no sales or trading of genetically modified humans with Cassia was allowed. It was taught in primary school as part of world history classes.
Reynard’s eyes darted to Percy, where the young breeder was cuddled along Edward’s side, almost asleep, eyes heavy and breathing slow and relaxed. Reynard looked back to him, and Edward nodded.
“Head east, Abe. Elysian and freedom.” Edward said, and the car took the ramp, aimed for the eastern horizon.
Chapter Two
Mason
Pain was an ever-present reminder that just because he was royal, that didn’t mean he was impervious to harm. And yet, as each blow fell, each twist to resisting joints and every searing touch of hot metal to tender flesh, Mason was reminded of not all the times his father beat him as a child, but of the missions gone awry in the army, in years long past.
Missions where he ended up held prisoner by the enemies of the Crown, tortured, beaten, assaulted, and eventually rescued, but not after days and weeks held in cells and dungeons infested with rats and roaches, mud and swampy water. Yet it was those days of misery that he yearned for, because it was in those distant times he had hope…hope of rescue, reprieve.
There was no rescue for this prince of Cassia, not from this enemy. Not when the pain came from the hands of his own father.
King Henry the Third, Monarch and Supreme Ruler of the Kingdom of Cassia had a mean left hook. He wielded that red-hot poker like he stoked fires all day long, and the silk ties he utilized to twist Mason into unbearable positions would have done a non-consensual practicing sadist proud.
Mason was jolted from his memories of one particularly bad mission in the jungle of a southern shithole of a country when he hit the floor with a meaty slap. Stars clouded his eyes when his head hit the stone floor, but he still found relief as the silk ties around his wrists and ankles loosened and fell away. Blood returned to his extremities in a painful rush, but he lacked the strength to massage his arms and legs to ease the sensation.
“Shall I send for the physician, my king?” a bland, even voice asked somewhere out of view of Mason’s bleary vision.
“I doubt I injured anything vital. Leave him there, he can drag himself to bed once he comes around,” his father replied, and Mason could see his booted feet pass in front of his line of sight, heading for the door. “If he wishes to cooperate after this lesson, do let me know.”
“Yes, Sire,” the servant replied, following King Henry from the room, leaving Mason alone on the cold stone floor in the cell passing for his new room in the palace. The door shut and the lock turned over with a final snick, and silence descended in the small room.
He was in the petitioner’s quarters inside the Old Palace, the structure once called home by the great King Airric at the birth of the Cassian Dynasty two thousand years ago. The modern palace seen by the world surrounded and protected the ancient castle at its core, keeping the original seat of their power safe from the erosions of time and prying eyes.
Mason and his brothers used to play in the vaulted halls and stone walled rooms as children, imagining they were stalwart knights battling scores of savages and monsters, saving their kingdom over and over again, returning conquering heroes. It was a weird twist to Fate that Mason now found himself locked away in a room he used to retreat to as a young man, seeking asylum from the increasing demands of his duties as a blood prince and the second born son of the king.
Here, in the Old Palace, no one would hear him scream when the pain got too much too bear.
Mason cautiously pushed himself upright, the room spinning before his brain settled, and he spit out grit