The Hunchback's Reluctant Bride ✔

2 | Persuasion

The sun was high when Wyrn tied Bluebell to a tree and turned to look at the tournament. He couldn't get far with jousting. And though he could hold a sword, any number of these ones would be too heavy.

His father'd made him one thing, and one thing only, a large dagger. But not a sword. Wyrn hated it.

For while he had a dagger as his safeguard, his brothers had a variety of weapons. Strong weapons. Weapons of respect.

The idiot prince to impose his will on him was named Orm. And Prince Orm wanted him to do something strange.

"Yield all your fights to me," he said, fixing his armor. "Once we've won and she's in your care, you deliver her to me and I'll pay you handsomely."

It was a sound plan perhaps. Wyrn had his misgivings about this man but the way the princess stared in their direction unabashed was enough. She wasn't pining for Wyrn.

Whatever these two morons had in mind, Wyrn wanted nothing of it. Any princess a prince could not win fairly despite his skill, meant politics—strict politics were involved.

Archery would be first. Several top scorers stood comfortably in a line.

Orm hurried along beside him. "Go on and make the request."

Wyrn ignored him. He lined up with the other men, Orm at his side.

"You are supposed to call upon me to aid you," the prince said, seething.

The sound of Wyrn's arrow whizzing to its target to gasp and cheers cut the man off.

At first glance, Wyrn did not look it, but he had training. Most of that training ended with his father watching on with a heavy sigh and a shake of the head but he was trained.

The next targets, placed even farther away, were equally as easy.

Orm completed his shot but waited.

A flock of birds took flight and Wyrn balked; he, unfortunately, was no good in chaotic situations.

That hesitation was his downfall because Orm coughed loudly at Wyrn's next attempt. And the next after that.

Unable to properly concentrate, Wyrn lowered the bow and arrow and stared at the man.

In time, the targets, carried by two guards, faded from the field.

Orm looked smug but Wyrn, hardly casting the fleeting bullseye a glance, brought his bow up and let loose.

When it hit its mark, there was silence then a cheer.

"The hunchback is beating even a prince," someone shouted, and the crowd erupted in laughter.

After that, the day progressed in a strange way. Orm no longer begged to be Wyrn's champion. Instead, he eyed Wryn with a dangerous glint in his eye.

His mounting rage was no farce; it was no lie, and it certainly was no exaggeration.

Wyrn didn't care. Should he die in combat, his father might finally summon up some respect for him.

Although Wyrn bested most opponents in fair marksmanship, some, insulted at being challenged by the likes of him, bowed out.

No matter. Wyrn soldiered on. But at the jousting event, all fell deathly silent as Wyrn, riding Bluebell, struggled with the lance. He was going up against horses, bigger, stronger horses, and riders with proper armor.

But all Wyrn had was what he wore.

Across from him, Orm, sweltering in his own battle-tested armor, grinned before pulling on his helmet.