Weak

--AZOUF--

The Games.

Quite fair in its unfairness.

Be smart. Be strong. Work for the people, but hoard the wealth for yourself. Blood is all that matters and family is everything, unless its for the crown, then family means war. Grow up together, but don't get too comfortable, they'll have to die so you can be next in line. Change the world, but not too much.

It's horrendous.

There's obviously no place for a scholar. Why learn how to best bring prosperity to your kingdom/queendom/country thing when you can learn how to best kill your siblings?

Don't be so open with your family, because they will exploit you. Keep your cards close to chest, don't show them everything.

Lie.

Cheat.

Kill.

But don't get caught.

Don't get caught you might wonder. Why is that? Surely the rules are clear enough?

Of course they are. But that didn't stop other people in history.

Heir Sousa? Died in an old timey tavern he loved to frequent outside the castle grounds. Heart attack they said. But the cup he drank from? Missing from the scene.

Heir Calypso. Went missing. Found her body near the river a few weeks later. Gutted like a fish. The scene of the crime? The cottage she built herself in the forests behind her Hand's apartment outside the Inner Ring. Her Hands? Vanished. A finger in an envelope was all that was left.

They never solved those murders. The history books wrote them and a few others off as tragic accidents and unforeseen.

Sure.

The technology of their time could have held back the answers they were looking for. But now their technology has advanced. It should stop these from happening correct? No. As new technology developed, new ways to avoid detection also developed.

As long as you know where to look.

I shouldn't be thinking these things.

Shouldn't be questioning them.

Its tradition. Since the Cataclysm.

No changing it.

The strong win. They have the mindset, the drive, the brute strength. These thoughts make me weak. I'm not a winner. My grandfather told me that. My mother told me that. My sister told me that.

I'm a survivor.

My grandmother, told me that. But I don't understand why.

________

We were close. Us siblings. We never expected to gain the throne. Sure, it was a given, with twelve Houses fighting for the throne, you were bound to not see it for quite some time. You probably know that we hadn't seen it in "over a century," but that's definitely not all it.

Over a century actually means three. Three centuries the House of Lycan has not placed an Heir on the throne.

Sure two and a half centuries ago we did win a spot, but the current Heir's sudden dismissal of their Lycan Hand robbed us of that chance. Then famine kept our numbers low. Then lack of candidates.

But enough about ancient history. I'm trying to tell you about present history. My personal history.

The six of us. Not the closest in years, but as close as siblings could get. We'd banter, share secrets, tease. Fight and make up. Normal sibling things.

Then Chiron Cavallo showed up and that life disappeared.

I can't blame him. The 17-year-old at the time was looked down on. The underdog. His only friend was Raff. They worked together like a house on fire. Of course he would come and ask Raff to be his Hand.

We were excited for him. Worried about how Raff would take it should Chiron lose, but excited.

But then they won. Then he won. And put us onto this miserable track of a life.

But I can't hate him for that.

I wanted to. I absolutely wanted to. He stole my family. Stole my charismatic mother and replaced her with a cold, calculated war general. Stole my kind grandfather and replaced him with a merciless drill Sargent.

They had to make us better.

Stronger, harder, unbreakable. Weapons.

Only our grandmother continued to try and teach us kindness. Empathy. Encourage us to pursue knowledge.

I was the only one that followed. Zev came for a while, but he lacked basic fighting skills and soon his time was filled with drills and footwork. Too busy or too tired to come later.

I stayed. Went to my training but always made time to learn with my grandmother. Until the day she died, I stayed.

That was my mistake.

My mother told her it made me soft. Unwilling or unable to kill my siblings when the time called.

My grandfather told her it made me weak. Physically and mentally. I'm clearly the thinnest of my siblings, not quite filled out with my height.

My grandmother told me it made me stronger than them all, but when I couldn't land the killing blow in a training session with my brother, my mother laughed. Pointing a cruel finger at me she sneered.

"How can manage to kill for real if he can't even land it to send his brother to the infirmary?"

My brother used this to slam a fist into my gut.

I was in the infirmary for 8 days.