After writing oneshots, I'm finally tackling my first chapter story! Right now this is slotted for about 14 chapters, but that could change as I write more.

Yet again I'm writing a Garsiv-centric story...but there are chapters that will be in a certain older brother's perspective. This is an exercise into trying to create a believable history for a character we don't know a lot about, so keep an open mind with me here! Hopefully this will show a plausible backstory for why our favorite middle brother is so ruthless.

So here's my first attempt at a multi-chapter fanfic-the Big Project, if you will. I hope you guys enjoy it! Please review, even if you hate it.

Betas: Mya Kirne and Juliette06 (who just published a companion piece to Broken Bonds)

A knock on his door forced sixteen year-old Garsiv to stop staring—or rather, glaring—out his window.

"Garsiv!"

Persia's second prince rolled his eyes at the ceiling and uncrossed his arms, turning on his heel to cross the room and open the door for his younger brother. Dastan had done some growing recently, but the grin plastered to his face still made him look very boyish. Garsiv leaned his shoulder against the threshold of his door, raising an eyebrow expectantly.

"The guards say the army just entered the city. Uncle Nizam and Tus will be here soon, and Father wants us to be there when they're welcomed back."

Of course he wanted them to be there. Garsiv rolled his eyes again and looked down at the clothes he was wearing, then decided he didn't particularly care if Father approved of his outfit. If it wasn't his clothes, he would find some other trivial matter to chide him for.

"I cannot enter the hallway while you crowd my door, Dastan." His younger brother, sensing that Garsiv was not in the mood to be trifled with, nodded and stepped out of the doorway, allowing Garsiv to brush past him and walk towards the front doors of the palace.

Dastan made his shorter legs catch up with Garsiv's long strides and looked up at him, still giving Garsiv that wide smile of his. "It will be good to have Tus back, right? The army's been at war with Greece for a long time."

Garsiv was not in the mood to hear the obvious. "Really, Dastan?" he asked rhetorically, voice absolutely dripping with sarcasm. "And here I was thinking they rode out just two days ago. Thank you for setting me straight."

The acidity in Garsiv's voice made even Dastan falter.

Garsiv snorted and kept walking. He didn't expect his adopted sibling to understand, at least not yet. Dastan was not old enough to ride out to war, after all.

But Garsiv was, and the fact that he had been kept from this campaign was a constant thorn in his side. At sixteen, Garsiv was more than ready to prove himself capable. He would one day be second-in-command of the entire damn empire, he should be out gaining experience. But no, instead Father kept him locked in the palace to sit in mind-numbing lessons, claiming he needed to learn more about strategy and politics before he was ready for actual combat.

Dastan, ever on his adoptive father's side, tried to break the silence: "You can't really blame Fath—"

"Do not even start," Garsiv hissed through his teeth, turning to glare at Dastan. The very last thing Garsiv wanted right now was to hear Dastan's voice. "Do not talk about things you don't understand."

Would he ever? Father treated Dastan like the favorite son; he would probably be out on a campaign in less than a year, and he was only fourteen. Garsiv snorted derisively and sped up. "Walk faster, or we're going to be late."

Garsiv heard Dastan sigh behind him, but he ignored it and shoved past a throng of servants to arrive at the stairs outside the palace. Father was already there to welcome his brother and his eldest son home.

When the King's eyes hit him, Garsiv gave the small, expected bow of respect. "Father," he greeted, his voice not betraying his bitterness.

Sharaman nodded to his second son and brushed past him to greet his youngest- Garsiv took the opportunity to let out a quiet sigh and step away. In a matter of minutes his uncle and brother would be riding up to the palace, and Garsiv would be subjected to war stories for weeks; that was enough to make him want to storm back to his room and become a hermit.

But before he could formulate a proper escape plan, Garsiv felt a hand land on his shoulder. Had it been anyone but his father, they would be on the floor, howling for their mother; the second prince hated being touched. He stared resolutely in front of him.

"I know you are upset with me, my son, but do try to be civil when your uncle and Tus arrive." Garsiv bit back any verbal response and merely nodded his head, still not looking at his father.

Apparently, Sharaman found his son's attitude amusing: he chuckled and shook Garsiv's shoulder lightly, then almost-teased, "Garsiv, what have I always taught you?"

"The bond between brothers is the sword that defends our empire," Garsiv quoted back mechanically. He was not interested in a lesson on family and his relationship with Tus, especially when he had heard his father's trite saying most of his life. The words no longer held any meaning for Garsiv, who was now much more interested in using a real sword to defend his empire.

The sound of horns and a roar of approval from the gathered crowd saved Garsiv from hearing the rest of his father's sermon. The King dropped his hand from his shoulder, and Garsiv stepped back some so that his father had adequate room to move in front of him. Garsiv remained at his right shoulder as the door opened, while Dastan assumed his rank in the family hierarchy and moved to stand at Garsiv's shoulder.

Dastan whispered something to him, but Garsiv couldn't hear his little brother over the sudden wave of noise that hit him. Persians had crowded every street in the city to watch the army's return, and their cheers grew only louder as Nizam and Tus rode up to the palace.

Garsiv suppressed a sigh and tuned out the proceedings, going through his part in the affair by memory.

The next thing Garsiv could clearly recognize was Tus roughly throwing his arm over his shoulders at the victory celebrations. Garsiv chuffed and tried to shove the offending arm off of him, but even with Garsiv's advantage of being taller, Tus was stronger and kept his arm there.

"You look like a man who has been forced into a life of celibacy, little brother," Tus teased. Garsiv growled and managed to shrug Tus off of him. Tus loved pushing his buttons, and tonight Garsiv was even more irritable than usual.

"Can't you go bother someone else?" Garsiv snorted, trying to move away from his brother to find food or something. But Tus was having none of that—he easily kept pace with his fuming brother.

"Why would I do that when your reactions are so entertaining," Tus laughed. He picked up an apple from a nearby table and forced it into Garsiv's hand. "Eat something, cheer up, and for pity's sake stop acting like a child and speak with me."

Just as Garsiv was about to kindly break his brother's nose with the fruit, their father started speaking above the crowd. Garsiv rolled his eyes—this could only mean the start of many speeches and toasts.

"—my honorable son and heir, Prince Tus." The guests clapped at the introduction—which Garsiv had a feeling was probably glad he had only heard half of—and Tus left his brother's side to join his father while he spoke.

Sharaman's middle son sighed and dropped the stupid apple back into the bowl it came from, sullenly watching as his father praised Tus for his efforts in the Persian victory.

He tuned out most of the speech, instead sitting at one of the small tables off to the side with Dastan. His little brother wasn't Garsiv's first choice of company, as Dastan had the annoying habit of providing a running commentary on everything their father said—as per usual, Garsiv didn't bother to react to Dastan's excited babbling.

Garsiv chose the wrong moment to listen to his father again. He'd been trying to gauge if his father was near the conclusion of his speech, but instead he heard: "I'm proud to know that one of my sons will be a great warrior for Persia." He certainly hadn't been talking about Garsiv, or even Dastan.

It was a very good thing Dastan wasn't trying to get a reaction out of Garsiv, because Garsiv knew nothing he could say right now would be kind. It was one thing to be told he wasn't ready for a real war, but it was quite another to have his potential as a Persian soldier completely dismissed.

But Garsiv knew his father never misspoke. He meant what he had just said, and no one—not even Dastan—seemed to notice the slight against Sharaman's younger sons.

He'd had enough of this.

Garsiv stood up, ignoring Dastan's protests that the party wasn't over. He didn't give a damn about this stupid 'party'. He didn't feel any urge to celebrate, and before anyone could protest his rudeness the middle prince slipped out a side door, heading away from the sickening scene and towards the royal stables.

So there's Chapter One. See you guys at the update~