The Prince: Princes of Toval, #2

A NineStar Press Publication

www.ninestarpress.com

The Prince

ISBN: 978-1-64890-834-7

© 2025 Mell Eight

Cover Art © 2025 Melody Pond

Published in January 2025 by NineStar Press, New Mexico, USA.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact NineStar Press at Contact@ninestarpress.com.

Also available in Print, ISBN: 978-1-64890-835-4

CONTENT WARNING:

This book contains depictions of graphic violence, mention of past sexual abuse of a minor character, attempted murder, mentions of torture.

The Prince

Princes of Toval, Book Two

Mell Eight

Prologue

PRINCE CLAMENT OF the country of Namin walked through the campsite on the shores of Lake Estaral only half listening to the mercenary captain bitching in his ear about how long they had been left to wait with dwindling supplies. He tried to keep the sneer twisting his lips in place, but all he really wanted was to roll his eyes and go back to his own campsite where he could get some sleep. He really, really didn’t want to be here.

The whole plot was a harebrained idea doomed to failure, but no one back in Namin had wanted to hear Clament’s opinion. Instead, they had assigned him to lead these sorry excuses for mercenaries. The plan was simple: the mercenaries would descend from the Spikehorn Mountains into the lush northern farmland in the foothills less than a day’s ride from here, where they would pillage the local villages into oblivion. The country of Toval, within whose borders those villages were located, would be forced to respond to protect their people by sending a large military contingent to repel the mercenaries. The military would be focused on rescuing the people and on rebuilding whatever was left of the villages. While Toval was distracted by what was happening in their north, Namin planned to invade in the south, using their forces to establish a new border where Namin could claim the land in those even lusher foothills.

There was no damned way such a moronic plan would work.

A glance around at the maybe two hundred mercenaries in the camp told Clament exactly how poorly the plan was going to go. Not a single mercenary had a properly maintained set of armor or weapons. Also, none of them would be particularly pleased with the idea of having to work together and split the spoils.

Assuming the mercenaries even agreed to participate—rather than just cutting their losses and heading out to find a better job—Clament knew what would actually happen. Should this ragtag group descend into Toval’s northern farmland, the result was very likely going to be the exact opposite of Namin’s grand, hairbrained plan: the mercenaries would attack and pillage the villages and Toval would respond. If Namin was lucky, Toval might send one full contingent of forces in response. A full contingent was probably overkill to defeat the mercenaries, if Clament was being honest. The rest of Toval’s large and extremely well-trained army would remain in full readiness, completely able to respond to an incursion in the south.

Clament would probably be killed by Toval’s forces in the battle, which, in hindsight, might explain why he was sent to lead the mercenary part of the plan. A convenient way of getting rid of him—having Toval remove his head. Clament would go from the hated bastard prince to a martyr killed by the great enemy of Toval, a dead figurehead used to unify the people of Namin under the king’s call to arms. He was much more useful to Namin dead than alive, for this part of their grand plan, at least.

Two soldiers held open the flaps of the command tent as Clament ducked the low awning and stepped inside. The complaining mercenary captain followed, his mouth still running with yet more complaints. One by one the rest of the captains entered, each of them scowling and trying to look more intimidating than the others. Clament tried to out sneer them, in hopes that acting haughty would convince them to obey his orders. Last of all came the captain wearing the red patch on his piecemeal leather armor, denoting he was in charge of the Blood Lions. He ducked into the tent and looked up, immediately catching Clament’s eyes.

Prince Fenwick of Toval, Commander of His Majesty’s Royal Forces. Clament recognized him immediately.

And then all hell broke loose.

*

CLAMENT HADN’T BOTHERED counting the days since Toval had captured him; since Fenwick’s pet chef had interfered and ruined the doomed-to-failure plot before it could even be implemented. Clament’s hands were tied to the pommel of his horse’s saddle, and his legs tied to the stirrups. One of the soldiers guarding him held the reins. Clament couldn’t go anywhere. He couldn’t even lift his hands to wipe away the deluge of rain dripping down his face.

They finally reached a fork in the road. The majority of the royal forces went left, while Clament and his cadre of guards took the righthand path. Not too much later, they arrived at a gate set into a thick wall. The momentary reprieve from the rain as they went through the long tunnel under the wall was the only good thing he could remember happening in a very long time. Unfortunately, they emerged into a courtyard soon after and the rain resumed.

The guards cut him free and hauled him down from the saddle, then they frog-marched him across the courtyard, two guards, one on each side, gripping Clament’s arms. They walked for quite a few minutes, following the outside wall of what Clament wanted to assume was the palace of Etoval, the capital city of Toval and the royal seat, until they reached a nondescript door with a very heavy-looking lock. One of the guards banged on the door. Even over the dripping, pounding rain, the heavy thunk of a bar being removed, the rattle of a thick chain, and then the thud as the lock was turned was perfectly audible. Someone pushed the door open from the inside and his guards marched Clament into the building.

Clament dripped onto the gray flagstones for a few long seconds, taking in the narrow room. A sturdy chair sat off to one side, and the room was barely big enough for it. A second door with an equally large lock was across from the chair, and the guard who had opened the first door pounded on it.

Another thunk, rattle, thud, and the second door swung open, revealing yet another guard and a long flight of stairs heading downward. A third door that must be the access route directly from within the palace was to the left, but Clament’s two guards took him down the stairs, which had two landings as it switched directions on the descent.

At the bottom was a dimly lit hallway of more gray flagstone floors. Six barred doors dotted the walls, three on each side. The guards took him to the farthest door on the right, pushing him inside and slamming the door shut behind him.

Clament was, thankfully, finally left alone. He reveled in the peace of it—of not being tied to another person when he wasn’t tied to a horse—and took stock of his surroundings. The place wasn’t cold, which was a small mercy since he left behind a puddle as he walked forward. A hard, wooden bedframe with a thin mattress and thinner blanket was set to the left, a hole in the floor in the back right corner was his latrine, and that was it. No window, no chairs, no obvious light fixtures. Nothing except the blanket and bed and pit.

Footsteps echoed down the hall. Clament turned to face the door, and a moment later, a new face appeared. Light brown hair and intense hazel eyes set in a face that would have been handsome if not for the stern scowl currently twisting his full lips—Prince Braxton of Toval, officially a captain in the palace guard, but Clament knew better. Braxton was the kingdom’s spymaster and chief of all that happened in the dark and dank corners of the world. If he was here, it meant the king thought Clament had useful information, no doubt for their endless fight with Namin.

You know who I am, Braxton began, his voice powerful but not too deep. He didn’t mince words or try to pretend to be something he wasn’t, or to be after something else. Clament respected that, even if it was in regard to the person on the other side of a barred and locked door. You know what I want. Are you ready to talk?

Clament only glared in response. He might not be liked by his family, but he wasn’t a traitor. Braxton was going to have to wait a very long time to get any answers out of him.

Very well, Braxton continued, shrugging. I’ll leave you to your thoughts for now, but I will return later. Perhaps you’ll be in a better mood for talking then.

He left and blissful silence returned, but only momentarily. Enough time had passed for Braxton to have left the dungeon when Clament heard footsteps again. Two of the guards who had been with Braxton walked into view outside the bars, both of them grinning, their eyes shining with glee.

You heard our dear prince, one of the guards said, his tone singsong with happiness. He pulled out a key ring and unlocked the cell door, pushing it open and stepping inside before relocking the door behind him. He wants you to talk. We’re here to convince you. The smile grew and the guard clenched his fingers into a fist hard enough to make the knuckles crack.

Clament closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. So much for Braxton’s veneer of civilization. Well, it wasn’t like Clament hadn’t been beaten before, and at least this guard didn’t know all his weak points like his so-called brother. Still, Clament braced himself for what was to come. The best defense was offense, so he reopened his eyes and glared, hoping this wouldn’t be too bad.

Interlude

Three Months Later

BRAXTON WALKED DOWN the last of the steps into the dungeons, stepping onto stone-flagged floors that were cheap, but easy to mop. Only political prisoners ended up in the palace dungeons; the prison complex for everyone else was about five miles north of the city, heavily fortified with specialty guards. Braxton didn’t like going there, so it was nice Prince Clament was one of their pampered guests here in the palace. Braxton visited every couple of days to ask one simple question.

He walked down the hall, which had barred doors for six cells, three on either side, and stopped outside the last door on the right, peering through the bars at the lone person lying on the bed inside. Prince Clament had the blond hair and blue eyes of his entire family, the royal family of Namin. Normally, those brilliant blue eyes were glaring at the door, fierce and powerful and wonderfully defiant even with hair disheveled from months in a cell. This time, Clament was curled into a ball, huddled underneath the thin blanket.

Are you ready to talk? Braxton asked, his usual question feeling flat today.

Clament didn’t answer, and Braxton could see he was shivering.

Braxton turned to one of the guards stationed in this wing. Summon the healer, he ordered. The man dashed off, and Braxton turned to a second one. Open this door.

The second man produced a key ring and fitted the key into the lock, which groaned as the lock was turned. The door hinges let out a screech as the guard yanked it open. And Clament didn’t twitch.

Braxton hurried inside, his two personal guards following closely, and paused at Clament’s side. He was definitely shivering, his nose curled up to his knees, and clutching at the blanket in clenched fists. Braxton slowly reached out, tentatively resting his palm against Clament’s forehead and yanked his hand back with a hiss. Clament’s skin was boiling.

Why the hell am I back here so soon? someone whined from the hallway. I just put this bastard back together last night! Can’t you wait a few days before ripping him to pieces?

Braxton sucked in a sharp breath at the healer’s words, clenching his own hands into fists to keep from lashing out. There was only one reason the healer would be familiar with this particular prisoner, a reason for which his words also implied. Braxton straightened and turned to face the door, catching both prison guards and the healer in his harsh, angry glare.

Who signed the writ approving torturing this man? Braxton asked, his voice eerily calm considering the fury churning inside, absolutely ready to explode like a volcano. Answer me! he roared.

You wanted him to talk, the guard who had fetched the healer began, his voice a whine that had Braxton clenching his teeth and taking in slow