I'm not sure how long I stood staring out the open door, pressing my back against the glass. I wonder what it would feel like to crash my elbow through the window and fall from this height. What would it feel like to fly through the air, and would I know when I hit the ground, or would I simply die?

 My toes tingle as I envision it, thinking about lying on the ground as I die and knowing there would be nobody to protect my people. No. I'm not done yet. I have to do this. The easy way out could no longer be an option for me.

Baring the brunt of my family's atrocities was nothing out of the norm; it was practically a birthright. 

My red hair set me apart from my siblings, who were darker in complexion and had heavy black hair. I held considerably less height among the male members of my family. More than my birth order had prevented me from wearing the crown; my complexion discounted it entirely. It was rumored when I was a child that my mother had had an affair with a Duke to the south of us, a man who came from a similar magical affliction. 

Much as it had not been told to me or my siblings, it had been decided at my birth who and what I was to be—a Solomonari, gifted to control the weather and the element of water and wind. My life had been promised to my country before I'd even had a chance to inhale my first breath, a fate I would have no say in.

I had known I was different from my siblings before anyone had pointed out the complete lack of resemblance. The bred in bravado of my brothers and the cat-like, mysterious nature of my sisters never touched my animated, stubborn personality. 

My father liked to remind me that I was not fit to wear the crown, though my mother often recanted that I was made for much more important matters. A sacrificial lamb raised in the house of wolves, treated like a token brother, only to be told when I was eighteen what my true destiny was. 

I had no way of knowing they were grooming me, preparing me for the day when I would be sent to do the task that very few returned from. Stripped of my title as Prince Nicolas and turned into, for better words, a monk. If I were to return, it would be as a beacon of all that was light and sound, reborn in a vision of prosperity.

They expected a man, well versed in magic, ready to assist my bustling hometown with creating a new era of abundance. As a farming nation, I was to be much more important than a future king.

I had never dreamed of becoming King or wanted such a title. With my two older brothers so adamant in the war room, coveting my father's every word and his complete disinterest in my person, I had nestled myself with my mother and the servants. Yet, even there, I didn't seem to quite fit in. 

Too awkward, blunt, disinterested, or curious, I was never enough in the right ways. My presence in court was never requested, not even to observe, for fear that I might insult the Chaplin or shame us in front of some dignitary. 

Never having seen the point in gossip and idle chat around wine glasses, I had thrown myself into the academics our vast libraries offered. Befriending the staff suited for the perfect cover story to my continuous tardiness in mundane tasks and fine art schooling.

I didn't wish to paint; I had wanted to read to escape my father's ever-dismissive rhetoric. There was a time when I'm sure he, too, questioned whether I had any natural ability at all. My magic struggled to present itself; by nature, Solomonari were late bloomers. But investing time in me looked poorly politically, and it was a waste of the King's effort; he must have genuinely thought I would die in that school. 

Add in my disinterest in women, and I was a walking disappointment siphoning valuable air from the heirs. 

When I saw Lord Darius facing his own deserved end on those hard tiles, I was unable to keep the smug look off of my face—a fitting end to a man who counted me out before sending me to slaughter. Yet, even in my moment of victory, I feel the tremendous loss of knowing I'm the last one left of my family. 

Now, I'd give anything to attend another boring history lecture. I would walk through hot coals to entertain at dinner or sit in on Court. If I'd known that my family would find my survival suspicious more than heroic, I might not have tried so damned hard to come home. 

Three years I suffered, for three years I-

Pushing off the window sill, I stormed to the kitchen before fetching the first pail of water and snagging some bread to soothe the ache in my stomach. There was little fear of the dictator 'Alpha' finding me. I doubted the mongrel even fathomed someone could disobey him, and if he did happen to come here, there were a plethora of hiding places. 

The rounded male chef offers me a plated sandwich, a simple slab of meat between two slices of bread. While it wasn't my norm, I wouldn't turn it down; these weren't times to be picky. The flavor is different than I was expecting. Maybe the lycans had dragged in a deer? 

I thank him quietly, not wishing to draw any more attention in case a wandering ear were to pass. 

"Thank you, Your Highness. We were told that your sacrifice allowed us to remain alive." The man speaks in our native tongue. I glance up to see if any of the lycans drifting in and out of the halls are paused as if they understood. 

"I'll do what I can. Let's not get our hopes up just yet." I mutter quietly, taking another bite. 

My aversion to meat suited me fine as we were a heavily farmed community, rich with various vegetables, nuts, bread, and even sweets when my parents imported the chefs for our special events when dignitaries would visit. 

Departing from the kitchen, not wanting to raise suspicion, I drudge towards the indoor spicket with my bucket and grumble about the atrocities of forcing royalty to handle buckets of water. I'd had more dignity than this in school as dragon fodder.

"Would you like some help, M'lord?" A small voice echoes as I carry the next bucket. 

Her frail hands circle the other side of the handle, and I sigh in relief; though I want to refuse her help, I can't say I'm not grateful. Physical labor wasn't exactly something I was suitable for now that I'd been honing my skill. 

My body had not been in top physical form regardless, but the longer the magic user practiced their craft, the more using the physical body became a barrier. It was the curse of my nation, doomed to wither away with magical advancement.  

"If he catches you, he'll have you killed," I warn her, not entirely turning her away. 

Fair-skinned, her brown eyes watch me gently from under the heavy cover of crudely cut bangs. Her thick black hair is pulled back into a tangled bun stuffed under a bonnet. 

"It's a risk I'm willing to take, M'lord. I hate to see you suffer so. It's not right to force one of your blood to do such a task. Is it true? Are the royal family..." her voice trails off.

 Was she saddened that only I remained? Would she have much preferred one of my brothers?

I push out the resentment clouding my mind.

"Dead," I conclude. "I'm the last one." 

My admittance and the cold tone of my voice ended the conversation, and I cursed quietly at myself for being so abrupt with a servant. It was unknown to me how much she'd seen, and yet she still had a naive air about her; I wondered if she'd hidden in the cupboard until the massacre ended. 

Exhaling roughly, I try to focus on the task at hand, avoiding the now vacant images of my home's halls. My mother's absence was notable, and the more I allowed myself to look around, the more I wished to see her. 

It does go by quicker with help; without her, I don't know how I would have managed. My body protests already. I had been home for nearly a month, and I had, admittedly, been partaking in the comforts that the crown had to offer. Mutilated beyond recognition, I had no desire to lift a finger for the foreseeable future. 

It would seem that dream had been cut short.

Her lips purse as she considers my current state, pulling her eyebrows down in a way that I might even admire if I could find it in my heart to look at a woman in such a way. The crease causes the most quizzical look to form in those chocolate eyes. Her lower lip curls to capture between her admirably straight teeth. Her freckled cheeks round with the grimace of deep thought. She was acceptable as a servant; someone might make a nice wife out of her one day if she lived through this.

 Gena was a personal servant, more so a maid than something so grand as a lady to one of my sisters. She had desired me for longer than I care to think, a silly thought beyond my sexuality, my mother had kept the female staff firmly away from my brothers with their promiscuous nature.

 I remember her presence in my boyhood as often as I have fond memories, and yet, I don't recall anything particularly remarkable about her person.

 She'd been a ward of my family most of her life, a constant admirer from afar, as I was the only of my male siblings to never have been courted. Perhaps it was her wishful thinking that I had other things in mind, that I'd not yet met the right woman.

 Wouldn't she shudder to find out my lack of suitable mates had been my mother's doing, for she knew well as I did where my tastes lie?

 "Have you not learned much from school? I thought..." Her words scald me; I place my hands on the edge of the tub, and my knuckles turn white as I fight back the urge to lash out. 

Gena had shared the hope of our civilization, that I would return some great sorcerer, not a downtrodden prince who hid away in his room to hide his shame. 

It was an almost guaranteed death sentence due to the trials a 'Solomonari' must go through to unlock their full potential. 

From the ability to control water and, more importantly, the weather, I had been deemed one of the rare few worthy of the approval of the dragons. My stressor tests had been strenuous and fruitful; I would be capable of crafting ice, summoning small dragons, and even a bit of healing; a Solomonari was as powerful as his surroundings called him to be. 

After such brutal testing, I was made aware of why it'd never come as easily for me as it had for others, and truthfully, I had not believed I would return either.

A shudder rolls through me at her question. "Not enough to fight them off on my own." 

I lie.

 I had been taught plenty, and when it came to combat, I was at the top of my class, but calling magic from my depths continued to allude me. The ways in which I learned were disgraceful, and my body and mind bore the scars of depravity. 

 Where my companions had left as masters of our craft, I was failing at every other turn. In the written lessons and technical aspects, I had only passed due to unsavory measures, defaulting to my only survival method; the one thing I had to give was myself.

My teachers were brutal, and our testing was strenuous. Many did not survive the trials, with most eaten by the dragons that they summoned. Every day, we prayed to survive; in a twisted sense of humor, they encouraged us, as hope allowed us to last longer. 

We prayed to our gods that they would see us through, but every day, fewer and fewer of those pleas were answered. I remember my mother writing to me the few times I'd managed to steal her letters from the headmaster, and she'd asked me if I was keeping up with my prayers. 

It was almost as crushing as not being written to at all. 

 For three long years, I watched as my classmates were killed off one by one until only a few of us remained. 

Using now felt foreign to me, the disconnect of the higher element of my magic wrought with the agony of the trials and shame of the beds I shared to find worth in my meager existence. I wasn't meant to live; this was revenge for cheating death; this was my hell on earth. 

It was my job to end this, perhaps that would allow me to atone for giving myself to willingly in exchange for my survival. To lay with men was perverted, but to surrender to demi-beings, half-dragons? 

It was torturous. There were days when it ravaged my every thought, so much so that sitting here amid my family's murder was, at times, a better alternative. 

"M'Lord, the tub is almost full. Is there anything else I could bring you? Perhaps something more to eat...? If I could be so bold... I'm... I'm so sorry that this has occurred." 

If she'd seen my face, if she had known I was pleased to watch the King's death, she would not be so apologetic. I was not much more to my people than a Prince frolicking through their town whenever my parents grew bored of me. 

My sense of duty was all I had left, a default, not a call to action as my training might have prepared me for. I owed it to them to try.

These people were unlucky enough to be stuck with me for a savior, and I couldn't even save myself. 

"Were any of your lycan friends a part of the resistance?" I ask, changing the subject as I release the edge of the tub.

Gena blinks at me, clearing her throat. The royal family had kept a few of their slaves, it wouldn't surprise me if this were crucial to entering this domain.

"No, M'lord. Well, obviously they have joined now, but they surrendered with the rest of us."

Her words play on a loop in my head.

 Surrendered, that's exactly what my people had done.

 Given themselves over because my mother strode into Lord Darrius's life, there was little to be done for the people of Dezna. We were estranged, a commodity; they weren't any more our people than we were their hosts. We had abandoned them, handing them me in exchange for decades of neglect had been a failed exchange. 

Even the King himself didn't want the bastard Prince.

Perhaps this spurred me to do something right, to do whatever I could to change this. 

It was an opportunity to be more than the lesser Prince.

I'm most likely not strong enough to choke or drown this man, though I could probably knock him out. I glimpse my reflection in the water.

My dark eyes have shadowy circles beneath them from exhaustion; I can't say this comes solely from my current situation. As I run my fingers over my cheekbones, haunted by the faint echo of my mother's voice, she scolds me that I've allowed myself to get too thin. It makes me smile, and I feel tears threaten to spill over.

My hands travel up to tangle in my thick, blood-red hair, and I sink to my knees and rest my elbows on the basin as I find myself feeling overwhelmed by the loss once more. I would do it for my mother so that she would not die in vain.

"You may leave me now, Gena," I command her, short, harsh.

Shuddering, I take a few deep, ragged breaths as I compose myself upon hearing him approaching. I cannot allow him to see me like this; I can not show weakness. 

Her eyes widen with panic, and she curtsies as she rushes out of the room. I pray she made it before he saw her in here with me. I feared not for my own life but for hers, the only one still willing to help me. 

Alpha's boots echo off the stone floor, and I fight to compose myself. There was no time for me to wallow in my self-pity. I adjust my robes firmly, glad I'd seen it fit to swap the top half for a fresh set, trying to rid my breath of the tremble. 

"You're a prince; get a grip." I hiss at myself, glowering at the man staring back at me in the clear water.

The tall man enters the room, and once more, I'm caught off guard by how filthy he is. I place my hand on the basin, mumbling a few quick words as the water steams. "There. It's warmed up for you. Now, if you'll excuse me-" 

Alpha lifts his hand, unimpressed. "Not so fast."