Needing to be alone, Bradshaw picked up one of the last available bows and began to scan the sparring grounds for an open range. There was none in view, so he wandered toward the prince’s tower in search of a place to practice his archery.

There was not much privacy to be had in the sparring grounds that morning. Prince Ethan’s nameday tourney was a little more than two weeks away and the able-bodied men of every major house were out practicing their technique in preparation. Bradshaw knew there would soon be more competing men arriving from outside      Monarch’s Hold in the coming days to overflow the already overcrowded grounds.

Bradshaw noticed a tall brick wall behind the prince’s tower. He was walking alongside the wall when he heard the dry twang of a bow on the other side.

“Curses,” he heard muffled through the wall.

Bradshaw wondered if there was a range separated from the rest of the sparring grounds. Looking around, the only people close enough to see him were too engrossed in their own training to notice anything. He thought about the sentries mocking him earlier and decided to toss his bow over the brick wall and start climbing.

Landing down on the other side, Bradshaw froze, not even moving to pick up his bow. 

Since he had been young, Bradshaw had played and grown up alongside the children of the major families. However, for as long as he could remember, he had never exchanged words with Ethan Lancaster. Bradshaw could not even recall the last time he had laid eyes on the reclusive prince. Of course, he had heard all the rumors.

Whenever he had seen the prince in passing, it had always been at a great distance, never this close. Standing a few feet away from each other, Bradshaw could clearly see the difference between Ethan’s eyes. The right iris was a dark cobalt with black spots, and the left iris a bright, luminous gold.

Bradshaw had certainly never seen the prince without anything covering his neck. The scar across his jugular indeed resembled a second, sneering mouth.

“Bradshaw Webber?”

“For- F- Forgive me. I-”

“No, no, I am glad you are here. I have seen you practicing from my tower in recent weeks. You are a fine archer. But not too good, which suits me. Would you mind showing me some of your technique?”

“Oh…”

The prince’s voice was different from other boys his age that Bradshaw knew. Everything about the prince seemed bizarre, like he was some being from an alien world.

Bradshaw noticed a lone target at the other end of the prince’s private archery range.  The target itself appeared brand new, while the area around and behind it was peppered with errant arrow shafts.

Picking his bow up off the ground, Bradshaw approached the prince. Aware that he was being observed closely, he took an arrow from the half-empty bundle.

“First, I pay attention to stance,” Bradshaw began. “Where are my feet pointing?”

Ethan grabbed his own arrow and positioned his feet parallel to Bradshaw’s.

“Next,” Bradshaw notched and drew his bow, taking aim. Ethan tried to do the same.

“Hold on,” Bradshaw told him, easing his bow down and placing it on the ground. Ethan eased his own stance.

“When you draw your bow- May I?” Bradshaw stood right next to Ethan as he drew his bow again and took aim, staring down the length of the arrow shaft.

“Your elbow is rotated,” Bradshaw told him gently. “Keep your arm in a straight-line through the entire shot. Good, try it now.”

Ethan took aim, fighting the urge to let his elbow twist. When he loosed the arrow, it flew and bounced off the side of the target.

Ethan’s eyes lit up. “That’s the closest I’ve gotten!”

He stepped back and let Bradshaw go. The second arrow struck the target somewhat off-center, but Ethan applauded nonetheless.

They traded shots for a while, Bradshaw giving Ethan the best advice he could. On Ethan’s eleventh shot, his arrow joined Bradshaw’s cluster, a slight outlier.  They both cheered. Bradshaw shook Ethan’s shoulder and patted him on the back. He noticed the prince’s cheek turn red.

“You have my condolences for your father, Bradshaw. What tragic circumstances you must find yourself in.”

“Thank you…”

“May I ask you one thing more?”

“By all means,” Bradshaw replied, nodding.

Ethan hesitated, biting down on his lip and gazing at his crooked arrow separated from Bradshaw’s tight cluster. “Never mind…”

Ethan twirled a lock of his curly blonde hair around his index finger. Bradshaw couldn’t shake the feeling that Ethan wanted to say something else but didn’t have the courage.

“Should I cut my hair?”

Ethan laughed, finally looking up at Bradshaw again.

“My sister says I look like a girl,” Bradshaw continued. “I don’t know. She’s always asking to style it for me.”

“I think- you look- you look- good. I’ve always wanted to dye my hair black. I love black hair. My mother would kill me though. She’s always on about how short hair is for the common folk... Shall I see you again at the feast tonight?”

“I had not heard of a feast tonight.”

“In the royal hall?”

“We received no invitations. Ever since father took ill, the other families have treated us much differently. I suspect the Webber’s shall soon be cast out from the royal court.”   

“Rubbish. I hope to see you and your sister at the feast tonight. I will be sure you have a seat at the table close to the royal dais, on my side.”

For the first time, Bradshaw noticed how even in the shade of the prince’s tower, Ethan’s left eye glimmered.

“I thank you.”