text: “So!” Kiernan’s shoulder rocked hard into Imryn as he threw himself down on the bench. “What are the odds that Cyneric actually shoots at the target this year?” Imryn’s retaliatory shove sent his much slighter brother tumbling down to catch himself on his forearm. Not one to take that lying down, Kiernan kicked Imryn’s shin. Imryn pinched his little brother’s ticklish side and barely dodged a fist to his own ribs. A cough from Esme made them both look up at their sister seated a row above them, and her disapproving glower put an end to their wrestling. Such childish play was unbefitting for two grown princes who were third and fourth in line for the throne. At least, as long as they were in public. Everything was fair game in the privacy of their house, and Kiernan’s mischievous grin told Imryn that this wasn’t over. Offering his hand to pull his brother back up, Imryn answered as though there had been no interruption, “I don’t think they would let our brother compete again if he threw the game this year. Even with Aurelia and Lady Isolde vouching for him, they barely let him shoot today.” Kiernan snorted, soothing his elaborately embroidered tunic back into place. “These are games in honor of Lady Isolde,” he said. “Do you really think the Mistress of the Hunt would allow her favorite Hunter to be banned?” “Isolde is not the only immortal present,” Esme murmured. Her dark eyes were fixed on the darker form of Lord Cassander lounging next to his bright brother, Lord Declan. This was the immortal’s first appearance in public since King Eamon’s youth. Most of the people had no memory of him and knew him only from hushed stories around the hearth that warned children not to wander far or the Lord of the Night may snatch them away. The immortal's imprisonment for his crimes against their people would not last forever, the elders warned. Lord Declan favored his brother and would not see him punished long. They had been correct. Lord Cassander watched the proceedings curiously as the archers stepped up to their starting lines. An amused, bemused little smile tugged at his lips. He leaned in, as Imryn watched, to whisper something in his brother’s ear, drawing out a laugh that rang like windchimes across the stadium. It was the perfect picture of a benevolent god indulging his silly little devotees in their efforts to please him as they ran around beneath him. Imryn might even have believed it, if it wasn’t for the shade of grief and fear that darkened his grandfather’s eyes every time Lord Cassander was mentioned. King Eamon had lived his childhood under the unchecked reign of the Dark Emperor. As much as he strove to put on a welcoming show, Imryn sat close enough to the throne to see his trembling hands. “Cyneric will shoot straight for sure, this time,” Kiernan predicted. He, too, had followed Esme’s gaze to Lord Cassander. Turning his head sharply away from the lordly pair, Imryn grinned at his own little brother. “Oh, he always shoots straight,” he said. “It just depends on what he’s aiming for!” Kiernan threw his head back with a golden, tinkling laugh of his own. Esme shook her head in disgust at the both of them and sat up straight as the starting bell rang. In the first few rounds, targets were set close, and the rings of the bullseye were wide. Cyneric had passed these levels before he even reached Imryn’s shoulder; there was no chance he would miss them now. Neither, for that matter, would their cousins Aurelia and Evander. The three of them stood next to each other in the center of the line, commanding all attention as scions of the royal house. Imryn watched the spectators while he waited for the more difficult rounds. The two day Festival of the Hunt was one of their people’s most treasured holidays, and the capital always swelled almost beyond capacity for the celebration. Every venue was filled to maximum capacity. Yet there were empty spaces on the benches. Kiernan sat close enough that the shoulders brushed not because he was shoved against Imryn by other people, but because he wanted to (because he felt safer when he was closer to his big brother). The crowd should be boisterous and rowdy. Last year, Imryn had been called halfway through the contest to try to help contain their enthusiasm as they jostled against one another to point out particularly impressive shots, hooted their approval or hissed jeering boos, and surged to their feet to stomp and pound their fists against their chests. A polite smattering of applause graced the first whistle of arrows through the air. People whispered their delight or discontent into each other’s ears rather than allowing it to burst forth. The reason why was no mystery: even the most chary of the audience couldn’t help but dart discreet glances towards Lord Cassander. Often, their eyes would then drift over to their own king, sat just a row below the immortal. King Eamon’s expression was as serene and jovial, as keen for sport and entertainment, as it was every year. Their people instinctively relaxed at his easy affability. Imryn saw the crow’s-feet at the edges of his grandfather’s eyes deepen, and his foot tap in stress. Eamon may not want to alarm their people, but his apprehension couldn’t be hidden from his closest family. It was so obvious, in fact, that Crown Prince Bellamy, Imryn's father, had insisted upon claiming a spot just a few seats away from both his father and the immortals in the box reserved for royalty. Free-spirited and impatient with court protocol, Bellamy usually preferred to join the crowd and leave his father and siblings to deal with visiting dignitaries alone. The fact that he had stationed himself so close to King Eamon had not gone unnoticed by their people. Many did a double take on catching sight of his resplendent crimson robes among the other, more demurely dressed lords, and they murmured to their neighbors. Bellamy’s sharp eyes followed the same path as Imryn’s across the crowd. Their gazes met briefly, and Imryn saw his own grim understanding of the situation reflected in his father. The bell for the fifth round startled Imryn into glancing back towards the field, surprised at the quick progression of the contest. The first rounds always dragged on to accommodate the children and beginners who wished to participate. The rows of archers had looked full earlier, but clearly fewer people had volunteered than Imryn thought. The real contest started at this point, and the rules of play slightly changed so that each marksman was now allowed only thirty seconds to take their shot. Fast paced and high stakes, the last few rounds were the most anticipated event of the entire festival. The marksmen had waited all year for this chance to prove their prowess, and the crowd always delighted in their feats. Imryn frowned as he noticed a small trickle of people vacating the benches to meet the archers that had failed out of the earlier rounds. Two rows down from where he sat, the parents of one of the few child participants were coaxing their little girl towards the exit even as they praised her performance. “But I don’t want to go!” the child whined as her mother took her hand. “You let me stay and watch last year!” Her father answered in a tone too low for Imryn to hear, relieving her of the small bow and glancing surreptitiously around as he did. His eyes flashed from his little girl to Prince Bellamy, Lord Cassander, and then even up to Imryn. A small, apologetic grimace twisted his face when he caught Imryn’s eyes on him, but he only dipped a shallow bow in Imryn’s direction and set his free hand on his daughter’s back to urge her out faster. Kiernan’s fingers caught the sleeve of Imryn’s robe, hidden from view by the fall of the voluminous fabric. His little brother’s expression was perfectly placid when Imryn glanced at him, but the gesture betrayed his shock. So quickly had the fear that pervaded their grandfather’s childhood returned with the pardon of Lord Cassander. Esme leaned forward to grip Kiernan’s shoulder and, more covertly, to grab the wrist of the hand that was tangled in Imryn’s sleeve. “Cyneric will shoot soon; pay attention,” she said as a cover for the skinship. Tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, Kiernan nodded. His grip on Imryn went slack as Esme sat back again. The sun glinted off of Cyneric’s hair as he lifted his bow confidently. Imryn had braided it this morning, twining a diamond-studded silver chain into his brother’s long blond hair. The Hunter had complained good-naturedly about the extravagance, but he had preened as well, so Imryn assumed Cyneric didn’t truly mind. Watching Lord Cassander shift in the box, he wished he hadn’t added the trinket. Cassander, Imryn had been told, had an appetite for luxury. Cyneric’s shot hit dead center, and he stepped back with a satisfied smirk. Lord Cassander’s attention shifted to the gold circlet on Evander’s head as the other prince took his place. Imryn liked that no better. Two more rounds passed quickly, eliminating most of the remaining competitors. The last archer of the seventh round left the field shaking his head with a chagrined expression as his arrow missed its mark by only a few centimeters. As the contest attendants ran out to adjust the targets again, an impatient tsk cut through the buzz of the audience’s chatter. “Does this little game get no more difficult?” Lord Cassander asked, his voice carrying due to the acoustic design of the box in which he sat. The attendants stopped in their tracks. King Eamon’s hands tightened on the arm of his throne, and Lord Declan frowned as he turned towards the other immortal. “Brother, it takes no little skill to strike a target so far away with any level of accuracy,” Lord Declan protested. The crowd, which had gone silent at Lord Cassander’s interruption, began to rustle with shifting robes and soft murmurs. Lord Cassander waved an impatient hand as he said, “Yes, yes, but have you not grown bored watching repetitions of the same trick? Surely there are better ways to entertain.” The archers remaining on the field looked toward the Mistress of the Hunt for instruction, but Isolde only stared up at Lord Cassander with a clenched jaw. “What’s he doing ?” Kiernan hissed under his breath. “Nothing good,” Esme replied, too loud in the sea of whispers. Those sitting closest to her leaned away as though worried that they would be blamed for the disrespect. “This contest is meant to display skill, not entertain,” Lord Declan said. “Ah, but a true master would be able to adapt their skill to the situation, and this contest only shows competency in one technique,” Lord Cassander argued. A few more of those seated on the ends of the benches slinked out of the arena. “This is a time honored competition, brother,” Lord Declan rebuked, although he cocked his head to the side as though intrigued. “But perhaps there is some truth to your words. What say you, King Eamon?” Gripping his chair with white knuckles, Eamon kept his tone admirably level as he asked, “What do you suggest, Lord Cassander?” A slow smirk curled the immortal’s lips. “What about... moving targets? In my experience, it is significantly more difficult to strike beings that actively attempt to flee.” Eamon’s face went white, Kiernan gasped quietly, and Imryn’s heart missed a beat. Such blatant reference to Lord Cassander’s past deeds surely could not pass without rebuke. Except Lord Declan didn’t seem to catch the insinuation. “The beast hunt is tomorrow, and we have no prey to shoot at,” he objected casually. “Surely there is something that could be used.” Cassander’s gaze flickered down to the attendants, still frozen in the act of moving the targets. Several of them had paused mid-motion with the heavy stand tucked up in their arms so that the bullseye sat in the middle of their chests. “Father--” Bellamy gasped, aware that both his children and his niblings had volunteered to help stage the contest. Whatever his relationship with his brothers, Prince Bellamy would protect their children, to say nothing of his own or his subjects. “Thrushes!” King Eamon exclaimed with only the smallest note of panic in his tone. “Some were netted for the feast tonight. If we are quick, we may yet find a few alive with the cooks.” A flick of his hand sent his personal attendant running even before Lord Cassander’s delighted, “Perfect!” On the field, Lady Isolde called the volunteers back out of the range. Most of them disappeared immediately into the forest that edged the field. Many of the people huddling together on the benches eyed their escape enviously. If the crowd had been subdued and uncertain earlier, they were downright fearful at this twist. Beast hunts for public entertainment were simply not done. Many of their people hunted, but there was something different about a stadium full of people cheering on the slaughter of an animal. Something unsettling. Although Imryn knew it was not uncommon in other kingdoms, it had never been their people’s way. Time stretched as the dumbstruck audience waited for the return of the runner. A vain hope (or was it a dread?) wandered across Imryn’s mind that perhaps all the thrushes would already have been killed. Preparing them took time, and dinner was only a few hours away. The cooks should already have butchered those they were planning to serve. Yet the runner returned, panting and red-faced, with a cage full of flapping birds. A knot loosened in Imryn’s chest, even as a lady a few benches down from Imryn gasped in dismay. Her husband grabbed her hand and hissed a distressed plea for silence. “Give them here.” Lady Isolde took the cage even as she spoke, and shooed the runner away. Raising her voice to be heard through the crowd, the Mistress of the Hunt explained, “We will take this by turns. On the mark of the bell, I will release a bird, and you will have only one chance to shoot at it. Whoever kills their bird wins, even if there are multiple victors.” The five archers left on the field nodded solemnly and then broke ranks. Patting Evander on the back, they encouraged him out first. Evander’s mouth was drawn into a thin, displeased line, but he took his place and raised his bow with steady hands. Lady Isolde reached into the cage and snatched out one of the birds. Assuming that the bird would fly first for the safety of the trees, she had positioned herself across the field from the forest. When the bell rang, she threw the thrush up into the air. The crowd held their breath as the small black dot flapped desperately to get its bearings, darted across the sky, and dove towards the trees. Evander’s arrow flashed towards it just as it started to dip into the forest and went wide. Very wide. The crowd collectively deflated, slumping back from where they had been quite literally on the edge of their seats. A few nervous laughs, born more from relief than from meanness, trembled in the air. Watching his cousin shrug as though abashed, Imryn knew that Evander had not intended to strike the bird. The contest didn’t mean enough to him to outweigh his distaste for the concept of killing for sport. The Huntress who stepped up to take the next shot had no such qualms, and came so close to striking her bird that it squawked in outrage and chittered angrily as it streaked away. The next Hunter missed more spectacularly than Evander, though less purposefully. Each time the whistle blew, the crowd shifted forward with bated breath, and each time the arrow missed, they momentarily relaxed. Even this routine had begun to wane by the time Aurelia stepped up. Three already had missed their mark. Surely no one would be able to meet this challenge. That was until the princess aimed her bow, released her arrow, and clipped the bird’s wing. The collective gasp was deafening. With a terrible screech, the bird dropped from the sky. Its tiny body writhed in the middle of the field until Lady Isolde stalked forward to take it in her hands and snap its neck. Imryn could’ve sworn the crack was audible from where he sat. Kiernan’s face went pale. The lady who had gasped when the birds were brought in burst into silent tears. “Not quite a clean kill, but perhaps a winning shot,” the Lady of the Hunt announced. Dipping her chin in acknowledgement, Aurelia swept across the field to the equipment room. No one stopped her from leaving before the contest was technically over. Cyneric’s turn had come at last, but his attention had strayed. Running his fingers down the silver wood of the bow he had carved with his own hands, the prince stared at Lord Cassander. The immortal met that fiery gaze with amusement and curiosity. His eyes flashed every few moments to the sparkle of the diamonds in Cyneric’s braid with an avaricious gleam, but the young prince had definitely caught the Lord’s notice for his own audacity. A cold stone sank in Imryn’s stomach as he realized that his little brother now had a target drawn on his own back. Stepping up to the mark and nocking his arrow, Cyneric glared into Lord Cassander’s eyes. Only when the bell rang and the bird shot into the air did his gaze finally snap onto his prey. Cyneric’s arrow flew, straight and true, directly into the heart of his target.