Intense, raucous chatter filled the cramped space, giving the already hectic scene an even more chaotic feel. Some voices barked above the rest, accompanied by the alluring jingle of large bags of coin, but it all sounded distant to him as he methodically continued to wrap his knuckles. There were no ropes, no barricades; the wall of bodies surrounding him were the only indicator of a barrier, of the confinements in which his fight would take place.


    Sweat coated his bare arms and torso as dense, heavy drops slipped from the bottom of his chin and onto the dirt. The left side of his chest ached and throbbed from where a well-calculated blow had landed in his last match, but he had run this gauntlet enough times to know that it was only bruised muscle. So far tonight he had participated in two fights, as part of the unofficial tournament that seemed to be occurring. And by unofficial, that meant everyone was fighting until they couldn’t anymore.


    The volume in the room suddenly increased as his final challenger emerged from the throng of bloodthirsty men, shouting and banging on his chest as he circled his side of the makeshift ring. He had to fight to keep his face unreadable, stoic.


    What a confident moron.


    The man was indeed quite larger than himself. A broad, thick mound of muscle hidden beneath a moderate layer of fat, it would prove difficult to wear him down with punches alone. But this particular flavor of fight was thankfully his expertise. It happened time and time again: everyone always jumped at the chance to knock a rich brat on their arse, particularly if that rich brat had been making complete fools out of your comrades all night. They always picked the biggest man, the one with the most brute force.


    To be fair, it wasn’t a horrible strategy. One lucky shot, one quick instant of his concentration slipping, and he knew he would be out cold.


    But that’s what made it fun.


    With further goading from his opponent, the crowd was insatiable now, demanding the start of the fight, demanding violence. Finally another man wormed his way out of the throng of people, the designated watchman of the brawl. Unhurriedly, he finished wrapping his knuckles, knowing that his unwillingness to be rushed would irritate his opponent. Failure always started with impatience.


    He came to stand next to the mediator, making sure his posture appeared far too relaxed for the situation. Meanwhile, his opponent couldn’t stand still. It looked as if he was foaming at the mouth, his eyes wild with bloodlust, and a hint of hatred.


    So eager to lose.


    The mediator spouted off the words he had already heard multiple times this evening. He kept his amber eyes locked on the man in front of him, allowing a glint of amusement to enter them. His lips pressed together tightly to avoid laughing as he spotted his opponent’s jaw twitch with rage.


    Finally the mediator stepped back, his hand in the air, as the crowd hushed. The room quickly filled with palpable tension, everyone’s faces brimming with feral anticipation as they waited for the violence to unfold.


    The hand dropped.


    His opponent roared and rushed forward, going for an immediate tackle. With ease, he side-stepped him and used his own momentum to shove him forward, sending him tumbling towards one side of the crowd. A group of men caught him, shouting and jeering, as they pushed him back into the ring. He noted the increasingly red appearance of the man’s face and allowed a smirk to spread across his lips.


    Rage flashed in his opponent’s eyes as he squared up with him, and he quickly spotted how they darted about his body, searching for an in. Unsurprisingly, his gaze landed on the large developing bruise beginning to encompass the left side of his chest. The man sent a heavy fist flying forward towards the spot, but Oliver twisted and instead connected his right hand to his opponent’s jaw. His head snapped to the side as he stumbled, bloodied spit flying from his mouth.


    The crowd erupted with mixed emotions, all coming down to who they had bet on no doubt. But his opponent had not fallen yet. No, the man was far too large for a single blow to take him down. Instead, he came reeling back with another lob of his fist, aiming for Oliver’s face this time. But his movement was too slow, too dazed, and the nobleman took the opportunity to duck out of the way and connect a fist to his exposed flank.


    The man grunted in pain and sidebent towards the blow, his square face contorted with furious misery. The crowd was screaming and yelling now, some excited and hopeful, others enraged at the money they were about to lose. He allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction before he reared back and sent his foot flying towards the man’s lowered head.


    But at the back of the crowd, standing against the wall with his arms crossed, was his father.


    The sheer unexpectedness of it caused his foot to stall, just enough for his opponent to spot it and snatch his ankle. Suddenly his other foot flew out from under him as the man yanked forcefully, sending him to the ground. The breath left his lungs, and he barely had time to roll out of the way as a gigantic fist came barreling towards his face.


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    A plume of dust shot up from the floor as the man’s knuckles connected with the ground instead. But now, adrenaline had taken over. His body moved faster than his brain as he shot back to his feet, using the momentum from the roll, and spun, driving with his heel towards his opponent’s now lowered head.


    He felt it connect with a dense, painful shock of force that shot up his shin and into his leg. The crowd gasped in unison as his opponent’s chin snapped to the opposite side, the impact so great that it sent him tumbling and spinning through the air for a moment before he landed on his shoulder limply. Tense silence filled the room for a long moment as everyone watched intently, waiting to see if he would move, if he would get back on his feet. But the man didn’t so much as twitch.


    The crowd erupted in celebratory cheers and furious protest as, beneath the noise, the mediator announced his win. A small group of men emerged from the throng and dragged his opponent away hurriedly, no doubt carrying him towards the makeshift medical area that had been set up. Without theatrics, he simply pushed his way into the crowd and towards the edges of the room, towards his father.


    He was leaning against the wall, dressed in dark clothing and a well-tailored coat. It amused him how much his father didn’t even try to hide his blatant distaste for the entire situation. Dripping sweat, and now with scrapes along his back from the rough dirt floor, Oliver stepped up to him expectantly, chest heaving as he set to catching his breath.


    “Is there any particular reason you decided to almost sabotage my fight?” he prompted in dry jest.


    Lord Farrington did not appear amused in the slightest.


    “Get dressed. We have things to discuss before I depart in the morning.”


    With a downward twitch of his brows, he retrieved his shirt from a nearby stool and redressed himself, donning his coat and shoes. His father turned and strode towards the exit, not bothering to see if Oliver was following. They made their way through the middle circle silently, a sense of unease taking root in his chest, before they popped into a rather seedy tavern. The establishment was extremely lively, as the workday had already ended, and Lord Farrington wasted no time before he slid into a booth at the back.


    Sorely, he took a seat as well, slouching in the booth as he crossed his arms expectantly.


    “If you’re going to drag me away from the post-brawl festivities, you could at least buy me an ale and a shot of bran–”


    “Oliver, for once in your life, shut your fucking mouth,” he snapped quietly. “Do you think everything is a game?”


    “No. But you do.”


    His father’s face darkened impatiently. “Our contacts are growing restless. Tell me you have something useful for me.”


    Don’t give him anything important.


    “Philip and the King are more at odds than they’ve ever been. The Stewart family is unstable, their foundation is cracking at the seams. The people are horribly unhappy. They yearn for change, for someone other than Aleksander to make decisions for Westgarde.”


    “We are indeed fortunate that not all of the King’s spawn are detested by their own people,” Lord Farrington grumbled. “And what do they think of your sister?”


    “Oh the people love her, noble and baseborn alike. She will do well on the throne. Many are comparing her to the late Queen already.”


    “Good, good. Although we still have Aleksander’s other brat to contend with.”


    “I assure you, I have Aryn well under control,” he declared quietly, attempting to hide the protectiveness that had snuck its way into his voice.


    “You better have. After that recent debacle, we cannot afford another failure.”


    Suddenly the world froze around him.


    “What do you mean ‘another failure’?” he interrogated, sitting up in his seat.


    “Our associates agreed that it would be best to eliminate all potential threats to the plan. The young prince is a wildcard. Not to mention that commoner. I didn’t think the people I had hired to enact the plan would be so lacking in foresight as to underestimate that blacksmith’s unnecessary amount of strength. But that Lord Poulter was a blessing in disguise. I knew that if all else failed, we could easily pin the crime on him. But now we are back to square one, so your task is more important than ever.”


    A ringing slowly crescendoed in his ears as he stared down his father. Everything else around him blurred, and his vision grew tunneled as an icy rage began to run through his veins.


    “You orchestrated it?”


    Lord Farrington shifted uncomfortably in his seat, sensing the newfound animosity radiating from him.


    “Oliver, please don’t be so naive. For this plan to work, there must be no loose ends. But unfortunately we do not have many options left. Our one saving grace is that the brat would rather die than be King. As long as Aleksander no longer sits on the throne, the situation can be mended.”


    That rage continued to seep through him, rooting into his bones. But he couldn’t show it. The moment he betrayed his true feelings, his true intentions, his father would remove him from court, and he wouldn’t be able to do anything when that day came.


    So he blinked his amber eyes and stared back at the man with an unnerving sense of apathy.


    “Philip has invited the lot of us to the Stewart estate when spring breaks. I assure you I will have Aryn and Percy under our thumb by the time the holiday ends.”


    His father sat back into the booth and folded his hands together, his shoulders visibly relaxing. “Good. Then we are done here.”


    With a heavy sigh, Lord Farrington made his way out of his seat and dusted off his coat.


    “And do look after your sister. I expect things will be getting interesting rather soon.”


    His boots thudded densely against the warped wooden floor as he strode out of the dirty tavern without another word, not looking back.