He was a prince.
And princes should never suffer such indignities. Princes are not meant to be scorned. Princes should not be refused.
Your Excellency.
The throne was his. From the moment of his conception, his creation, it belonged to him.
My Prince.
He wanted Norta. He deserved Norta.
Your Most Charming Highness.
And never would he let anyone take that from him.
Fire had always been at the root of it.
Who was better at controlling their powers. Who was better at burning things. Who was better at winning. As one would've guessed, little Mavey was always the one to lose.
The young prince had often taken it in stride, vowing to do better after every loss. His brother would tower over him, a glint of amusement in his eye. He never did let Maven win. After every fight, Maven would cry to his mother with bruises on his face and body. Teeth would be missing. Silver blood would be trickling from his nose or from a gash on his forehead. Elara would call for a healer and cradle her son in her arms. singing him to sleep. Once, he had woken early and had overheard her yelling at his father to punish Cal for his violence.
What Elara didn't know was that Maven had often been the one to instigate those fights.
A little burst of flame in Cal's direction, a slight push or a slap from from his little hand. Anything was enough to get his fiery brother going, and Maven did everything in his power to get Cal to fight him. He would win this time. This time. It became a mantra, swirling in his head and roaring at the slightest provocation. Every training session. This time. Every test, every essay, every history lesson. This time. Every blushing young girl that asked them to dance at balls. This time.
But every time was this time. Maven had never won. He was always pushed to the ground, defeated, conquered. Everything became a competition—who was the most powerful, who was the most handsome, who was the most talented. As the heir to the throne, Cal already had an advantage over his brother, having been born first. Having been born of a woman that the king loved. Unlike Queen Elara, who seemed to hold as much contempt for Tiberias as he held for her. Maven had never seen them kiss. Never seen them cuddle. Never seen them whisper lovingly to each other, gaze at each other from across the dinner table, or walk together, his father putting a gentle hand on her back. His fingers touching her skin in a silent promise that she was his, and that he was hers.
They didn't even share their chambers. They slept apart, in opposite ends of the palace. Maven had heard whispers of how Coriane and his father had been such wild lovers, sometimes coming out with ruffled hair and wrinkled clothes and blotchy faces, obviously up to no good. Cal had even been named after the king, another Tiberias. Tiberias Calore the seventh. And Maven was just Maven. He wasn't even sure if it was a royal name—he was Maven the first and only.
While Elara obviously hated her husband, the same could not be said about Maven. She was the most doting mother that had ever lived, lavishing every possible luxury on her only child. She paid more attention to him than to anyone else in the world; no one had ever seen the queen happier than when she was pregnant, giggling softly every time her little boy moved inside her.
But Elara could never replace the king. Maven had never been invited to hunt with his father and brother, despite being fifteen and fully capable with a gun. You're too weak, too skinny, the king had said. It would do you good to eat a little more. Maven would act indignant and shrug it off, but it always hurt. Every blow was like the first one. He hated it when his father compared him to his brother, the son of Coriane, the woman he loved. The crown prince, the handsome, intelligent Tiberias Calore the seventh, heir to the flaming crown. Maven just wasn't good enough. He would never be good enough.
In his father's eyes, he was merely the shadow to the flame.