The first time it happened, Hans was thirteen years old.

He could remember it as though it were yesterday: he'd been in the stable with Sitron at the time. The little colt had been born weak and sickly and stunted, sliding out of its dying mother in a sluice of blood and amniotic fluid, and the stablehands had been ready to put it out of its misery. The youngest prince, however, had stopped them, insisting that he would take care of the newborn horse himself. He had spent hours by Sitron's side, dipping the twisted corner of a rag into a bucket of cow's milk and letting the foal suck on it until he'd had his fill. It had been a slow, tedious task, and there were moments when Hans had feared the colt would not survive. But within a few days, when Sitron was finally able to stand up on his spindly legs and totter around the pasture, Hans had cheered aloud and kissed the little horse's velvety muzzle.

In no time at all, Sitron had graduated from milk to apples and carrots, and it was these that Hans had been feeding him when Magnus and Gunnar burst in. His seniors by five and four years respectively, they were equal parts strong and cruel, and Hans loathed them. In fact, had it not been for their sharp Westergard noses and their thick mops of coppery hair, Hans would have been unable to believe that they were his brothers at all.

"Hey, runt," Gunnar had said, by way of a greeting. His dark eyes were tiny, red-rimmed pinpricks in the flickering light of the torch Magnus was holding, and there was a strong smell of akvavit on his breath: they had obviously been drinking again.

Hans ignored him. He had long ago learned what to do on these occasions: keep his eyes down and his mouth shut. If he didn't show them that they were bothering him, they would leave him alone. Sometimes.

Occasionally.

"You been up that horse's ass again?" Magnus asked, sniggering.

Gunnar snorted. "No, it's the other way around. If he stuck his dick in a horse's ass, the horse wouldn't even feel it. That's why the horse gives it to him." He drew back his leg and delivered a mighty kick to the stool on which Hans was sitting. The younger prince went sprawling onto his back.

The fall hurt, but Hans refused to let the pain show on his face. Instead, he sat up on the ground and stared straight ahead, trying to suppress the tears that were dangerously close to surfacing.

Why did they do this to him all the time? Hans wondered, biting down hard on his lower lip. What had he ever done to them?

Magnus stepped closer to Sitron. "Why don't we check?" he said. The horse nickered and pawed the ground at the sight of the torch in Magnus's hand, but he didn't back away, and Hans was proud of him.

Magnus lifted Sitron's tail and inspected his backside. "Hmm…no signs of hanky-panky back here. I guess you were right, Gunnar. He's the bottom and the horse is the top." He laughed: a thick, slurred, nasty sound.

Gunnar stroked his chin, pretending to look as though he was deep in thought. "So you're saying this horse has been messing with our little brother? Without our permission?"

Magnus made tsk-tsk sounds with his tongue. "Nobody messes with our little brother but us," he said. "He's been a bad horse." He waved the torch in front of Sitron's face, and the colt whinnied fearfully.

The fright in Sitron's eyes made Hans finally speak up. "No, he hasn't!" he said, trying to control the quaver in his voice. "Just leave him alone. Leave us alone. Please." He stood up and began to stroke Sitron's muzzle, trying to calm him.

Gunnar shook his head. "Sorry, little brother, but we can't let him get away with this. When a colt acts up, it has to be disciplined. That's the only way to break its spirit." He nodded at Magnus. "Better show him what we do to horses who misbehave."

"Ohhh," said Magnus. "You mean this?" And before Hans could even try to stop him, he leaned over and touched the blazing tip of the torch to the end of Sitron's tail.

Immediately, the dry horsehair went up in flames. Sitron reared back on his hind legs and let out a panicked scream. He tried to bolt, but his bridle was tied to a post, and the force of the tether reaching its length caused him to jerk violently sideways, sending him slamming into Hans and knocking the youngest prince to the ground once again.

Gunnar and Magnus watched Hans fall, then burst into simultaneous peals of ugly laughter. Gunnar was bent double with his hands over his belly and Magnus was leaning up against a wall for support, shoulders shaking, still clutching the torch in one hand.

Hans didn't say anything to them. Instead, he seized a half-full bucket of water from the floor of the stable and threw it over the terrified horse's backside. There was a loud hiss and a cloud of steam, and the fire was extinguished, but Hans could see that Sitron was still in a state of panic; his eyeballs had rolled back in his head and slaver dripped from his open mouth, and his whinnies of pain continued to echo through the stable and into the rapidly darkening night.

Hans tossed the bucket to the ground and threw his arms around Sitron's neck. Hot tears of helpless rage were spilling over his cheeks, but for once, he didn't try to hold them back.

"I hate you!" he screamed at his brothers, who were still doubled over with laughter. "I hate both of you! I wish you would just. die. DIE!" He stomped his foot hard against the dirt floor with each word. He knew he looked and sounded like a silly, impotent child, but he didn't care. Thirteen years' worth of hurt and fear and anger had finally come bubbling to the surface, and now that they were there, there was no holding them back.

Magnus and Gunnar stopped laughing. They looked at each other, and then Gunnar narrowed his eyes at Hans.

"What did you just say?" he asked. His eyes were mean little slits and his voice was low.

Ordinarily, that voice and that expression would have been enough to make Hans run for cover, but not tonight. Not now, after what they had done to Sitron. Instead, he squeezed the horse's neck even harder and glared back at Gunnar and Magnus.

"I said, I wish you would just die." He was beginning to feel a peculiar sensation in the pit of his stomach: there was rage and hatred there, for sure, but there was also something else. Something that was starting to tug and throb within him; something that he had never felt before.

Something new. Something powerful.

Magnus took a step toward Hans. "I burned your goddamn horse's hair, I can burn yours," he snarled, holding the torch dangerously close to the younger prince's temple.

Hans stood his ground. The peculiar sensation was getting more intense: it had started as a squirming, tugging feeling in his gut, and it was beginning to pulse throughout the rest of his body.

"No," he said, and to his surprise, the word came out calmly and evenly. "No, you can't."

Gunnar stepped forward and grabbed the front of Hans's shirt. "We can do whatever the hell we want. Now shut your mouth, you little punk, or we'll shut it for you."

The throbbing feeling was even stronger now. Much stronger. It was surging throughout Hans's entire body, radiating from the pit of his stomach to the very tips of his fingers and toes and building up behind his eyes.

Hans drew himself up to his full height, fixed his gaze on Gunnar, and said, "Let go of me." He wasn't sure what made him do it, but as he spoke, he tried to push all that pulsating, surging energy inside him into his words, into his stare, using it to drive the command into Gunnar's brain: let go of me. Let go of me let go of me let go of me.

A brief flash of confusion flickered over Gunnar's face. He maintained his grip on Hans's shirt, but for some reason, doing so seemed to be costing him an effort. His expression melted from anger into surprise as his fingers began to loosen, apparently of their own accord.

Hans kept staring at him, kept pushing Gunnar's mind with all the pounding, rushing energy that had now flooded every fiber of his being. Let go of me. Let go of me. Let go of me.

Gunnar's hand was shaking now. If he had looked surprised before, he now looked utterly shocked. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out except for a strangled, gurgling sound. And then – to Hans's utter disbelief – he let go.

The throbbing stopped, but the energy was still there; Hans could feel it thrumming throughout his body, radiating from every nerve and vessel inside him.

Magnus looked at Gunnar in astonishment. "What are you doing? Hit him!"

Gunnar held his trembling hand in front of him and stared at it. He flexed his fingers, but nothing else happened.

"I – I can't." His chest rose and fell heavily with each breath, and Hans could tell he was terrified.

Good. Good.

Magnus snorted. "You're such a pussy sometimes," he said. "Fine. If you won't beat the shit out of him, I'll burn the shit out of him." He grabbed Hans by the wrist and raised the torch again.

The throbbing recommenced as abruptly as it had ceased. Hans reached inside himself and seized a handful of the roiling energy that was pulsing within him again – he wasn't sure how, he just did it – and put it all into his words:

"Don't touch me."

Magnus paused. Hans narrowed his eyes at his brother and pushed him as hard as he could, imagining that he was sending a bolt of that invisible force right into Magnus's brain.

With a yelp of surprise, Magnus dropped Hans's wrist and jumped backwards as though he had been burned.

He yelped. He actually yelped.

Hans grinned.

Taking a deep breath, Hans focused on Magnus again and pushed him with all his might. "Give me that torch," he ordered.

Magnus opened and closed his mouth a few times, like a fish out of water. His hand shook, and Hans could tell he was fighting the command. Hans reached out with his mind and thrust at Magnus again. "Now."

Slowly, jerkily, like a mechanical toy, Magnus handed his youngest brother the torch. His entire body was trembling from head to toe.

Hans took it and held it as far away from Sitron as possible. He fixed his gaze on Gunnar and Magnus and said in a low voice, "Now get out of here. Both of you."

He didn't even have to push them this time. With one fearful backward glance at Hans, both of them turned tail and ran, bumping into each other in their haste to get out the door.

Hans watched them go, then bent down and ground out the torch on the dirt floor of the stable.

A small smile crept over his face.

"I think things are going to be different around here from now on, Sitron," he murmured, and stroked the horse's silky neck. "Very, very different."