The Blood of Kings

"Even shadows have heirs, but some are born only to burn."

The clash of steel and the echo of screams filled the room once more. Nicholas stood between me and Isabella. His sword was drawn, his stance steady though his breath trembled. The firelight carved gold and crimson across his face, and for a fleeting second, I saw myself in him, not the man I had become, but the man I once was, before the sea and the curse hollowed me out. He was too young for this. Too righteous. Too bright.

“Move aside, boy,” I growled, my voice low and venomous. “You’ve no idea what kind of man you stand against.”
Nicholas didn’t flinch. His eyes, the same storm-gray as my own, locked on me. “You’re Captain Blackthorn. The pirate my mother told me about.” He took a step forward, blade catching the glow of the torches. “You’re the reason my father is dead.”
A cruel smile tugged at my mouth. “Your father made his choices. So did I. If you’re here to avenge him, you’ll find I’m not as easy to kill as your stories say.”

Behind him, Isabella clutched the little girl to her chest, her face pale, her lips trembling. She looked older now, the years of peace etched into her skin, years she’d stolen from me. Years she’d spent raising the son of the man who betrayed me. My ship. My kingdom. My bride. All of it taken.

Nicholas raised his sword. “Then I’ll write the ending myself.”

Our blades met in a flash of steel. The sound was deafening in the high-vaulted chamber, iron on iron, the ring of destiny and ruin colliding. He was quick, faster than I expected, his footwork refined, his strikes clean. The swordsmanship of royalty, no doubt taught by James himself. Speed meant nothing against experience. Against fury. Against me. I drove him backward, my strikes heavy and precise, fueled by years of festering rage. He parried, stumbled, recovered, but his breaths came too fast. His arms trembled. He was strong, yes, but his heart was still learning the cost of blood. He lunged for my side; I twisted, his blade grazing my coat. The scent of singed fabric met the smell of sweat and steel. I countered, slashing low, forcing him to leap back or lose a leg.

“Is this what you learned in your golden halls?” I snarled. “Swordplay without blood? War without consequence?”

Nicholas ducked a swing and came up hard, his sword cutting across my shoulder. The pain was sharp, electric. For the first time, my smile faltered.

“You talk too much,” he spat.
I laughed, a low, feral sound that scraped the edges of sanity. “There’s fire in you. Good. You’ll need it where you’re going.”

The fight grew vicious. The walls echoed with our battle, each strike sending dust raining from the rafters. Torches flickered, shadows writhed. Isabella called his name once, her voice breaking, but neither of us looked her way. He drove forward again, fueled by desperation and grief. Every blow he landed was for vengeance. Every breath he took, for the mother he swore to protect. Vengeance is a storm, and I was its master. I caught his next strike, twisting our blades until his guard broke. I slammed the hilt of my cutlass into his chest, sending him sprawling. His crown hit the floor with a sharp metallic ring. I stalked toward him, boots echoing across the marble. He struggled to rise, one hand pressed to the fresh wound at his ribs. Still, he faced me. Still, he refused to yield.

“You’ve got your father’s foolishness,” I said, raising my blade. “He should’ve stayed dead the first time I spared him.”
Nicholas coughed, blood on his lips. “You’ve got no mercy left to spare.”

He lunged one last time, raw and reckless. Our swords met again, and I twisted hard, feeling his strength give beneath mine. I brought the blade across his chest, not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to make him scream. He dropped to his knees, gasping.

“Enough!”

Isabella’s voice cut through the chamber. She stood at the edge of the room, trembling, her hands wrapped protectively around her daughter. The child whimpered, clutching at her mother’s gown.

Nicholas staggered to his feet again, using the throne for balance. “Run,” he rasped to Isabella. “Take her. Now.”
“No,” Isabella pleaded. “Nicholas.”
“Go!”

The little girl began to cry as Isabella hesitated, torn between her son and her child. Nicholas turned toward one of the guards who had lingered near the door, paralyzed by fear.

“Take her,” Nicholas ordered. “Get her to safety!”

The guard obeyed without question. He ran forward, scooping the child into his arms. Isabella’s cry followed them as they disappeared down the corridor, the sound of a mother being torn in two. Nicholas turned back to me, his breath ragged, his sword trembling in his hand.

“This ends now,” he said.
I tilted my head, watching him bleed, watching his resolve harden despite the pain. “You’ve got his courage,” I said softly. “Your mother’s heart. Shame it’ll be wasted.”

He lunged. For a moment, his blade nearly found my throat. Nearly. Nearly means nothing in war. I twisted aside, slashing downward in a single, brutal motion. My sword caught him across the side, tearing through silk and skin. He choked, stumbled backward, and crashed to the floor. His sword clattered from his grasp. Blood spread beneath him, bright and terrible against the white marble. I stepped closer, the shadow of my coat falling over him. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused yet burning with defiance.

“You won’t touch her,” he gasped.
A cruel smile crept across my lips. “We’ll see about that.”

He tried to rise again, but the wound had drained him. His strength faltered, his head dipped, and he collapsed in a pool of his own blood. Unconscious, but alive.
I turned. Isabella stood near the shattered doors, her face pale as moonlight, hands shaking. Between us lay her fallen son.
Behind her, the echo of her daughter’s cries faded down the corridor. I stepped forward, my boots slick with blood.

“Did you think you could escape me forever?” I asked, my voice low, almost tender. “Did you think your new life, your crown, your children, would wash away what we were?”

Her lips parted, but no sound came. I stopped only a few paces away, the torchlight flickering between us like the dying heartbeat of something long gone. Behind me, Nicholas stirred faintly, a groan escaping him as he slipped deeper into darkness. My vengeance would not end with kings. It would end with legacy. As Isabella stepped backward, pressing herself against the wall in silent dread, I smiled, slow and merciless. The storm had only begun.