THE QUEEN WAS GOING to kill him. His own mother. Prince Migo Rikaydian squeezed his eyes tight. He didn’t want to be afraid, but the feeling seeped into his soul.
“Migo!”
The voice was distant. Muted. The whirling roar of the storm drowned it out. Thunder echoed with every heartbeat. He huddled deeper into the corner of the room, thick arms wrapped about himself. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t escape the storm. The voice always haunted him. How childish he seemed. Seventeen years old, but still he cowered.
“Migo!” The voice was closer now.
A sharp pain stung his face. The familiar bite of his mother’s nails nipped his cheek. He deserved it.
“Coward! What would your soldiers think if they saw you cowering like a child in the corner? Look at me!”
Migo cracked his eyes open. He needed to be brave. His mother stood over him menacingly, a fierce queen, her fine black hair, glittering apparel, and flawless, light brown skin gave her a regal appearance, marred only by the angry sneer that curled back her lips. The Maedari, a powerful storm tainted with dark magic, sprung up so suddenly that Migo hadn’t had time to close a window. Torrents of sand and ice shot through the opening with unnatural force and formed a swirling maelstrom that churned the contents of the room.
“You’re pathetic.” They locked eyes. “The shamans could take you without trouble, and you’re supposed to fight them.”
Her words stung harder than her nails. Migo struggled to his feet, cheeks burning with shame. His eyes strayed to the window where the storm thrashed its way into the room. The queen clicked her tongue and covered her face with a veil. She strode through the elements to the window, forcing it shut with a quick jerk. A painful stillness settled with the dust. She dropped the lock in place then shook her head at him as she pulled her veil down.
“Make yourselfpresentable.” She exited the room, leaving it empty. Broken.
Migo let out a shuddering breath and wiped his face where a tear managed to sneak by his defenses. He trembled. Rage and shame boiled beneath his skin. The room was in shambles. Everything smelled of wet sand. His mother was right. What would the soldiers think if they saw their captain like that—deathly afraid of the storms? Coward. He clenched his fists. I deserve to be a captain. I deserve to be the prince. Even in his mind, the words felt fickle. They made him angrier. He clenched his fists tighter, resisting the urge to punch the stone wall. He brushed his arms and face, sand scraping off his skin.
The storm raged outside, and he barely suppressed a shudder as he walked by the window, boots crunching. Though it had been eight years, every storm brought with it the same nightmare about his mistake. He would never be forgiven. He saw the spite in his mother’s eyes every time she looked at him. I will make up for it, mother. But what would it take to please her?
