The Lost Prince

Anger

The digital clock on his nightstand still reads 4:40 AM when Alex looks back at it.

The cursed thing seemed to be mocking him, not even showing the seconds that passed since the last time he checked. And on top of all that, the bloody thing was gold – because of course it was.

A growl escaped him before he could do anything about it and for what seemed like the millionth time that night, he froze and listened.

A room over (a stadium of a room, but a room nonetheless) Ben was still making the same half-snore half-growl noise he made for the past five hours.

Another gigantic room over, the King was making the same noise and the Queen was still sound asleep.

He could hear the two guards posted five stories under his window, one of them yawning (yawning – while he was supposed to be working – if Alex had done that on the job, he would have been executed).

Ridiculous.

This was just ridiculous. And he wanted to rage and scream and roar and break something at the very least.

He was wearing the dark blue pajamas Evie made for him a while ago – before this whole mess started. If anyone came in while he was distracted, he could dive under the covers and fake sleep in three seconds.

He still had most of his weapons on him. The essentials at least: the knives, two daggers, four ninja stars, the metal wire.

But by the fires.

He wanted his normal clothes – scratch that – he wanted his best clothes.

The ones that hid a few of his weapons and showed off most of them. The dark double layered leather with specks of dried blood on it. The stolen tacky rings. The boots with spikes on, that were perfect when you were in a brawl, but that were still two sizes too big for him, and he couldn't risk his landing or his fighting for something as pathetic as style, so they were stashed and waiting for him with Dizzy.

He wanted the clothes that made even the people from the Isle scramble to run away from him. He wanted to go back to feeling powerful, dangerous, deadly, in control.

He wanted to lean over his window and spit on the helmets of the bucketheads that were yawning down below.

But every single time he made one step towards the window he stopped, paralyzed at the thought of getting spotted.

4:45

Stupid.

Stupid.

No one is catching him if he doesn't want to be caught.

He could go out the window, climb down to the room below him and sneak into his friends' room without anyone being the wiser.

Or at least he could if he could just get his useless feet to move.

Forward preferably, instead of the circles he's been running around the entire night, again and again, like a lion in a cage.

Why?

Because he was an idiot.

Because that bubbling fool just had to go on with his training lessons, like Alex wouldn't eat any Auradonian trainer alive if they so much as looked his way.

Alex got angry. Like an amateur.

He knew how powerful anger was. How it can make and break depending on its usage.