Chapter Sixty-Five.
Eight Months Earlier.
Sweat clung to the back of Edvard Bedarow’s top, as he twisted and turned on the hard floor of the training hall. Growls filled the air, with such ferocity the array of fighting implements rattled against their holdings. A large hand held his neck, as he clawed against it in a bid to be free.
“Yield,” the voice of his best friend, Prince Fitz bellowed.
However, yielding before he passed out was not in Edvard’s vocabulary. One day, he was determined to bester his closest friend, the man he loved not only as his future king, but as a brother.
The pallor of Edvards skin began to pale, as the dark spots which peppered his vision, expanded. White lights flashed in the darkness, and Edvard knew, that once more he had lost his fight, with the
