The Dark Prince's Prize

Prologue-2

Several hours later, Adalard sat outside one of the station’s many drinking establishments. He moodily took a sip of his drink. He knew Ben’qumain, his half-brother, was behind the attempts to assassinate the rest of his family. The attacks began when Ben’qumain murdered their father.

Ben’qumain was hungry for power, but he was stupid and weak. Adalard grimaced in disgust when he thought of their cousin Aria. Under Ben’qumain’s orders, the b***h had captured his older brother, Ha’ven, and tortured him. Adalard was still worried about the lasting effects of Ha’ven’s time on Hell, the asteroid mine where he had been imprisoned.

The faint beep of an incoming communication broke through his dark musings. He placed his drink on the table and tapped the communicator near his ear. A server hurried toward him. Adalard shook his head and covered his drink with his hand. He didn’t want to be distracted while being served. Poison was not as easy to heal as the wound to his face.

“Adalard,” he announced.

“Did you find anything?” Ha’ven asked.

“Not yet, although a Bovdean assassin added to my good looks. The Tiliqua who might have had information is dead. Tiruss is searching for the two men who were seen with the assassin,” Adalard replied.

He touched the faint line of his new scar. The appreciative glances from some of the women walking by amused him. He might keep the scar as a memento.

“Zoran Reykill has disappeared,” Ha’ven abruptly announced.

Adalard stilled—The King of the Valdier missing. “Tilkmos,” he cursed, softly muttering the Curizan word for damn. “Do they have any leads?”

“Not yet. Keep searching,” Ha’ven growled. “Once these bastards go to ground, it will be difficult to get them to surface.”

“Keep me informed,” he said.

“I will. Oh, and you might want to check in with Arrow. He was attacked,” Ha’ven added.

“How bad?” Adalard urgently asked.

“He said he was in better shape than the assassin who attacked him,” Ha’ven responded with pride and amusement.

“I’ll contact him,” Adalard replied before disconnecting the link.

He detached the vidcom from his belt and cradled it between his hands as he rested his elbows on the small, circular table. Worry for his twin caused his brow to furrow. Arrow had the heart of a warrior, but he was better suited for a lab than out in the field.

“Open communications to Arrow Ha’darra, secure line 183,” he requested in a terse tone.

He studied the crowd passing by as he waited for the link to connect. It was impossible to miss the speculative looks sent his way by some of the transient residents. He lowered his hand to the personal defense shield at his waist and switched it on. It was a prototype designed by Arrow to absorb laser blasts and give a nasty shock to anyone who came too close.

“I’m fine, Adalard,” Arrow growled in greeting.

“You don’t sound it,” he replied, picking up on the strained tone in his twin’s voice. “What happened?”

“Do you want me to start with the ambush or the explosion that followed? Dragon’s balls! That hurts! Aren’t you supposed to numb the area first? I could do surgery on myself with less pain,” Arrow snapped at the unseen healer.

Adalard frowned. “Ha’ven didn’t tell me what your injuries were, he only said the assassin who attacked you was in worse shape.”

Arrow’s low groan filtered through the communicator. “Yeah, well, being dead is worse, though at the moment I’m tempted to think otherwise. I’ll be fine once this savage who calls himself a healer finishes torturing me,” he retorted.

“Who is with you?” Adalard demanded.

“First Medical Officer Jaron d’Camp, sir,” the healer replied.

“How bad is my brother?” Adalard demanded.

Arrow’s curse-filled orders telling Jaron not to say anything came through the communicator. Adalard listened with a mixture of amusement and concern until the vidcom Arrow had forgotten in his tirade slipped far enough for him to see the scorched material covering Arrow’s right side and leg.

“I’m fine. Once Jaron is finished with me, I’ll send you a report—not that I found out very much,” Arrow finally replied.

“Tilkmos, Arrow! You should have stayed in the lab. You look like you’ve been roasted by a dragon,” he growled with a shake of his head. “Jaron, make sure you take good care of my brother,” he ordered.

“I will, sir. But, to do that, he needs to cooperate,” Jaron said with a stern expression.

Arrow lifted the vidcom to block out Jaron and scowled at Adalard. “I hate healers. I’ll send my report in a few hours. This wound might take longer to heal,” he ruefully admitted.

“Take your time. I have a feeling I will be here for a while,” Adalard said before disconnecting the communication.

He sat back in his chair, lifted his drink, and swallowed the remaining contents. Who would be brazen enough to capture the King of the Valdier and attack the Ha’darra family at the same time? Ben’qumain might attempt one, but both? It wouldn’t be entirely out of character for his half-brother, but he would need a massive amount of help—which meant the network of traitors was much larger, more organized, and better funded than Adalard and his brothers had originally thought.

Not to mention that successfully capturing Zoran was no small feat. The dragon-shifters were dangerous. Adalard should know; having fought against them in the Great War.

He moodily thought about the war that had ravaged Heron Prime for over a century. The Curizan, Valdier, and Sarafin warriors were some of the most lethal beings in the universe thanks to the unique abilities given to each of their three species by the Goddess Aikaterina. They would still be at war if not for Vox d’Rojah, King of the Sarafin, and Creon Reykill, Prince of the Valdier, becoming trapped together as they tried to kill each other. Eventually, they discovered that the war had been started and perpetuated by a traitorous alliance determined to eliminate the ruling Houses on all three worlds.

In the end, a strong friendship developed between Vox, Creon, and Ha’ven that became unbreakable. Since then, Adalard and his brothers had been working tirelessly to uncover everyone involved in this subversion and bring peace back to their peoples. With Zoran Reykill’s disappearance, the fires of war were sure to be fanned again.

“I hope to Goddess that it doesn’t,” Adalard murmured to himself. “I really hate fighting those armored, dragon-shifting bastards.” He sighed, placing his empty glass on the table. He turned off his shield and motioned to the server for a refill.