Everything hurt.

Micah had been slaving away at the carving utensils for hours upon hours and once he had taken notice to the pain in his fingers, his arms, his chest and his eyes, it had become increasingly difficult to ignore.

But he wouldn't stop until dusk; or until he had carved enough pieces of wood into the tiny intricate animals.

There were only so many household skills he had and if this one could assist Jules in any way then the earth would freeze over before he gave up.

This had been the routine for so long. Take the wagon to the market every morning and sit at the carving station every afternoon. It was repetitive but Micah could take it. He would sell his wooden figurines until Jules had enough money to buy proper medical supplies.

His brother had injured himself getting Micah out of the cages and that was perhaps why Micah felt so guilty. The fighting cages had been a secret of his until Julius had found out and stormed right in to yank him out, earning himself a deep cut from Micah's opponent. It had been a way to earn fast money because Micah was a good craftsman but he was an amazing fighter. Right now, Micah just wished he had the nerve to go back. Jules wouldn't suspect him now, thinking he wouldn't return out of guilt. But money was low and Micah was getting desperate.

The two brothers owned a small property on the very edge of a country village, almost on the boundary of Creatia's kingdom. They had started with enough money to live comfortably but it had been a lot longer than Julius had prepared for now and their days as the King's sons were now three years behind them. Micah would become of age this year and Julius was now well into his twenties.

Micah was convinced that he hadn't changed much. His chestnut hair had lengthened to the point where the long strands now dripped over into his eyes, but it was still the same colour, a couple of shades lighter than his rich cocoa skin. He was tall and built, more so than Julius who, although even taller, was on the lanky side of things. And Jules had a tuft of neatly styled hair that he had long since dyed white.

Jules had of course, been offered a shot at the throne, being the King's eldest, but it was something that Jules had never wanted. Micah still remembered the day that his brother had found him in the stables, a foreign, solemn expression on his face. Julius had asked if Micah would take the throne instead. He had asked. He hadn't needed to do that. Jules could have turned down the throne and Micah would have gone into the contest for it whether he liked it or not, all responsibility falling onto him. But Jules had been prepared to run for the one thing in the world that he loathed so desperately just to protect Micah.

In Creatian tradition, the rule of the Kingdom wasn't passed down through family. It was given to the worthiest warrior; someone who would be a considerable force against invasion. So every time a child of the King came of the age fifteen, a contest would be held to find Creatia an heir to its throne. It was widely expected that the King's child be a favourite for the position since they were of blood of a former winner. The King's children were also taught to fight from birth. Many people preferred an heir that already held royal blood.

But that guaranteed nothing.

Micah had of course accepted. The crown had been something he had wanted and so had the removal of the pain on Jules's face every time someone mentioned the contest he was expected to run in. And so he had become a candidate for the crown.

In Creatian history, there had only been three times that an heir who was picked, was unrelated to the existing King or Queen. The first had been King Lucian Parris who had been a young farm hand in the castle only to enter the contest for an heir and win. The second had been Queen Marilyn Courtney. Her reign had ended badly with Creatia losing the war at the time and so for the next three rulers, girls were not permitted to enter in the contest. And the most recent of heirs to be of a new family was Micah's own father; King Adolphus Baudille. His reign had been the most successful of the three given that it ended right before Creatia was taken over.

Terra Barder had always been an aggressive nation to the north of Creatia's borders. They were a nation ruled by a vicious old King named Gregorovich but he stayed put safely in his own castle in Terra Barder. His Godson, a man who had grown to become even more despicable, was the one that had led the invasion of Creatia and was the villain now living in Micah's castle. His name was Conrad Allist.

Terra Barder had always been known as hostile by their surrounding nations but when they took Creatia, a kingdom they saw as their lone opponent, all the others fell at their feet. El-Kana, Delajenca...Quel-yania. Micah had heard about that one in particular. In fact, he had listened for it, without ever wanting to know. Quel-yania's castle had fallen just four days after Creatia had been taken. Bardern soldiers had scared the entire court inside and then locked all the doors and set the place on fire. There had been no survivors.

Micah had refused to believe that first. He had known someone who would have fled there if she survived Creatia's downfall. She would have perished along with her family because there was not one whisper of a princess having survived. In fact, a headstone that read her name stood over an empty grave alongside another for an heir that might have been. These two twin graves were the only empty ones in that particular cemetery and they stood surrounded on all sides by other dead royals.

Micah himself had never seen the graves, only heard word of them in the early days after Creatia fell. People had whispered that fresh flowers were placed on them daily by people who were sure to be found and hanged. None of these people knew if Micah Baudille lay under his headstone, or whether the princess that was to be his future was under hers either. But Micah knew that if she had died, someone would have found her and taken her back to Quel-yanian soil. Dead or alive, he was sure she wasn't in that grave.

Micah had refused to let himself even think of her name, for all the guilt and grief it caused him.

"Mic!" Jules called from the front door. Micah's head snapped up and away from his thoughts, the wooden stag he had been carving fell to the table.

"Yeah?" He yelled out of the open door.

"Get your arse in here! It's an hour passed dusk!"

Micah stepped away from the door and went over to his work desk, clearing away the tools until he was left with only the figures he had carved. Three horses, a doe and a stag, two bears, and a dog. He pushed them all carefully into a basket and grabbed the tiny brown metal bird from the edge of the desk, slipping it into the pocket of his trousers. He never went anywhere without that stupid bird.

As he walked over and closed the door to the shed, locking the bolt in place, Micah could feel the weight of the thing against his thigh. But despite what it represented, the bird brought comfort in times of grief. It had been the only thing apart from the ruby dagger that he had grabbed from the castle before he had left. Both items hurt to think about too much.

The lights in the cottage glowed through the curtains as Micah made his way up the back path and through the back door. Jules was slumped on the couch reading a paper.

"We're down to our last thousand," he said, not looking up. The sentence was passive but it ignited anger in Micah. One thousand Crete. That would buy them a loaf of bread and a pitcher of wine if they were incredibly lucky.

"How much did you pick up today?" Jules asked as Micah washed his hands at the sink.

"A few hundred." He muttered through his teeth.

"That's okay," Jules was encouraging, picking up on Micah's mood quickly, "We'll just go without the extra blanket on my bed. We'll accumulate what you get from tomorrow to buy those extra scraps of fine wood from Tiberius at the market."

"If you let me go to the cages, I could double what Tiberius makes."

"Micah." Jules said warningly.

"I'm serious," Micah turned away from the basin, "You can't stop me."

"I have before."

"We need the money! And I can earn it!"

Jules sighed and put down the paper, "I'm not selling your safety for a blanket."

"Oh yeah? How about for that medicine you need? The cut isn't getting any better, Jules. I've seen you washing it. It's infected."

Julius's eyes floated down to his thigh where his trousers bulged with the bandages he had tied around it.

"I know you're getting sicker. And wood carvings aren't going to bring in the money we need for that," Micah felt himself getting somewhere as Jules stayed silent, "You know I can't do this without you. And no doctor in town will treat you without money."

"Mic, stop." Jules sat up straighter, covering his wince well, "You don't understand—"

"I understand enough. You will die of infection before we starve and that will be all too soon judging by the contents of our pantry."

"You need to go back."

All Micah's anger dissolved with that phrase, "Excuse me?"

Slowly, Jules pushed himself up off the couch, his white hair falling into his eyes before he swept it away behind his ear, "You haven't stopped being the heir to the Creatian throne."

"Creatia no longer exists," Micah spat, "I am nothing. Much less that title."

"So you hold no beliefs of change. No hope?"

"Nothing," Micah didn't hesitate.

"Not even for Cataleyah?"

Micah stiffened, "Do not say her name!"

"Oh for the High King's sake, Micah! Not saying her name does nothing. You carry around that carving she made for you everywhere and that blasted dagger has been under your pillow since we arrived here! You harbour more hope than I do."

"I harbour nothing but regret, brother," Micah's voice was low and dangerous and his fatigued muscles shook with electricity.

"Oh really?" Jules's eyebrows shot up, "Then what is in your pocket?"

The bird was suddenly very heavy. Micah said nothing.

"I keep you safe so that you may go back and take our throne. I keep you safe and away from the cages because this is the only way I am able to help our nation. So that you might go back to the capital and find a way to kick out Conrad Allist and his army."

"And how do you propose I do that?"

"There are folks in the city that will help you. If you can gather enough supporters, make yourself known—,"

"You can be in charge of that then. I'll focus on keeping us alive right now. I'll go down to the cages—,"

"You just missed my entire point."

"Well you aren't quite grasping mine either."

"Leave tomorrow then."

Micah tipped his head back in aspiration, "Julius, you can not travel!"

"Then I won't. Go alone. Alone, there is enough money for me to buy that medicine. Then I shall follow."

"One thousand Crete is not enough to buy the medicine!"

"Then I shall raise it myself."

Micah felt like he could scream, "You've spent an awful lot of time thinking this over, haven't you! But you are too injured to make money."

"I will sit on the corner of the market and beg then. Or I will find some other way. I am not important. You are."

Micah rushed up close to his brother, index finger pointed at his chest, "Stop telling me that the people I care for most are unimportant. Because they are. You are. To me."

"That's awfully touching, brother, but you should go pack your things. You'll leave at dawn."

Furious, Micah spun on his heel and left the room, slamming the door to his room so hard that the flames of the candles on his windowsill shivered with the vibrations. He slumped down on his bed, so fatigued that he couldn't even think up ways around what Jules had said. He fell asleep with the fire of his anger still alight in his chest.

Micah woke to darkness. It was still very early morning, hours before the sun would even think of rising. He tried and failed to fall back to sleep, telling himself he needed the rest, but sleep was gone and refused to come back.

Micah sat up, feeling the outline of the ruby dagger beneath his pillow. The dagger triggered an idea.

Micah would leave today, for the capital. Jules would be asleep and he would still need that medicine. This early, Jules wouldn't wake up for hours yet.

But the cages didn't sleep.

Micah stripped himself of his dirty work clothes and pulled on his only other shirt, a baggy brown one that had been Jules's, and trousers that were getting tighter on him. Good for fighting. He picked up the dagger and sheathed it at his hip.

Micah picked up the solid metal bird that had been sitting on his bedside. This was the only occasion that bringing it would mean losing it. So he left it there.

Sneaking out was easier than it should have been because Micah knew all the creaks in the cottage so his shoes fell silent against the floorboards. Jules was a light sleeper, but with the pain of the gash in his thigh, he would be out cold.

Micah made his way off the property and along the tracked dirt road that led to the village. He passed the neighbouring houses, the church, wandered down through the empty market place and drew closer to the side of town that came alight in the darkness. Dirty bars, clubs, and brothels stood on either side of him, the noise of music and people yelling kept this part of town wide awake. Drunks and prostitutes hung around on the street, usually accompanied by bare scraps of clothing and pitchers of wine.

Micah kept his head down as he walked, trying to ignore how the cool air nipped at his skin through his thin clothes. Most other people wore cloaks but Jules had never had the money for one so Micah walked bare.

He turned down an alley and through a door barred by a man so big that he was more for show than for action. Micah thought smugly that if he had wanted to, that man could have been on his knees and keeling over in a matter of seconds.

But one thing Micah did do was choose his battles.

He walked into the building that had been completely hollowed out, only to be filled with people, coin, and three massive domed steel cages. Only one was ever used at a time, two opponents being shoved together in a fight that only ended once someone was no longer conscious. Although it frequently went beyond that. The second cage held the losing competitor of the previous match so that spectators might be able to throw things at them for the loser's own prolonged embarrassment. And the third cage was being prepped by the cleaners of this fowl place for the match that would come next. And so it went around in a rotation as each cage held a match then the loser and then was cleaned in preparation again. This system meant that there were no delays and the rotation was everlasting.

Micah made his way down to the pit and handed over the ruby-hilted dagger to an official. Every contestant had to go in without a weapon or risk being evicted. Being evicted was worse than losing down here. Instead of being locked in the cage for onlookers to throw things at you, the officials would open the cage door and spectators were encouraged to go in and beat you up. The official took the dagger and Micah closed his eyes as a slash of red paint was whipped across his eyes, marking him as a contestant and not as a bidder.

Micah walked into the crowd surrounding the raised platform of the first cage, blinking red paint from his eyelashes. Jules was going to skin him alive when he found out. The fight he was watching was over in a couple of minutes as a hulk of a man snapped his opponent's arm, making all the bidders around yell with triumph. Many of them had betted on him.

A bell rang to signal the end of the fight and the cage door was opened so that the winner could stride out and fall into the screaming crowd. Micah made way for him, pushing himself closer to the next cage. The move was strategic but also foolish. He would be picked for the next fight by some cocky brute who had won too many matches to know any better. It was foolish because Micah couldn't be sure just which brute that would be.

All it really did was ensure that he was picked next.

And picked, he was.

A large hand grasped the collar of Micah's shirt with strength that saw his toes skimming the air above the dusty concrete floor.

"I'll fight you!" The voice boomed around and suddenly Micah's nose was filled with the smell of wine. In front of him stood a man with biceps the size of small tree trunks and a head so out of proportion to them that he looked like a child had switched the heads of two different sized dolls.

"We have a match!" Some official's voice was made louder by a hollowed cup held to his mouth, "State your names and we will open betting!"

"Benny 'Big-Arms' of Beyten!" the man was still holding Micah's collar. Beyten was the second largest city in Terra Barder, and the most brutal. It was rumoured that in Beyten, children did not play on the streets, women did not venture out past dusk, and only brave men thought to linger near the alleyways. All of this out of fear of being beaten or kidnapped or even worse. Beyten was not a place civilised folk went for holiday.

"And you?" The announcer asked, his question pressing on Micah.

"I am Michael of Delajenca!" Micah answered, the neckline of his shirt pressing so hard on his throat that his voice came out a squeak. The crowd laughed, gawking at Micah who appeared all too skinny next to Benny Big-Arms. Micah was slim from the shortage of food, but he was muscled from his work in the wood shed. In all of the three years that Julius and Micah had lived in Cennt, the tiny village to the west of Creatia's former capital, no one had ever recognised them for who they were. This was understandable, however, because royalty was not seen by everyone in this country. If Micah travelled to the capital, he would be more likely to run into someone who might recognise him, nobility perhaps, or serving staff from the castle.

But the chance of that was equally low now. Most of the castle's residents had been slaughtered by Terra Bardern soldiers, or recruited into their army.

Benny released his grip on Micah's collar, surprising him. But Micah's instinct kicked in and he landed flat on his feet, sliding out of reach in case Benny wanted another go at it. He knew how the cages operated; knew that this place, despite how it might seem, was not boxing ring. It was a stage.

And by the High King, Micah hadn't had to watch long to figure out how to entertain.

"Enter the ring!" the announcer's voice boomed through the room and both Micah and Benny were pushed forward and up into the cage. Micah kept his distance, knowing not ever to underestimate an opponent without being able to tell their skill.

An official pushed his way through the crowd and pulled the steel barred door of the cage shut, locking it in place with a thick metal bolt.

With the click of the lock, the crowd started their chant, counting down from ten.

By nine, Micah had scoped out Benny.

By six, he knew that the man expected an easy win.

By four, he knew Benny would come at him with his right fist first.

And by two, Micah knew that he would do it as soon as possible.

The chanting sounded zero and Benny lunged forward and Micah stayed completely still. The blow connected on his jaw and Micah spun with the force of it, landing sprawled up against the wall of the cage. The audience cheered, taunting him and already the clinking of coins was being passed as people placed more bets on Micah's opponent.

Up against the cold metal bars, Micah focused on getting his vision to stop swimming. He made use of the short seconds it took for Benny to stride over to him. The faces behind the bars were grinning, mostly male, and all laughing at him. At his weakness and at his arrogance. Because how could he think that he could take on a man like Benny 'Big-Arms' of Beyton who probably hadn't even realised that the alliteration in his name made him sound less terrifying and incredibly more stupid. Especially when Micah was malnourished and probably weighed half of what Benny did. How could he ever assume that getting into the cage would be an advantage to him?

Micah's vision settled and between all the faces, his eyes fell on a girl. She was hooded and up the back, obviously wanting to be left to her own accord. But Micah saw her and for a split second, the corners of his mouth twitched upwards into a smile. The girl was pretty with creamy skin that made her stand out against the dark colour of her cloak, with bright green eyes and stands of dark coloured hair that framed her face under the hood. She squinted her eyes at him but Micah couldn't wait to see what she did next as he was grabbed and thrown again by Benny, his shoulder crunching as he hit the cold concrete floor again.

The crowd cheered again, but this time, Micah wasted no time getting to his feet. This wasn't a fight, no confrontation in these cages ever was. No, this was a show; a dance, and Benny didn't even know the rules.

On his feet now, Micah swung a loose punch which Benny deflected before throwing his own fist into Micah's stomach, exhausting it of air. Micah gasped as he hit the floor again. The injuries to his body were ones he could sustain. A bruised jaw, a grazed shoulder, and now just a sore midriff. Benny wasn't doing any serious damage.

So Micah played the game for a while, earning bruises but avoiding breaks. He had learned how to take a punch. Once he sensed the egging disinterest of the crowd, he knew the game was about to change.

Micah was back on his feet, hearing the silence of the coins and the heavy breath coming from his own mouth. Benny was walking towards him, taking his time, his right thumb rubbing over his fingers as his potato-sized brain fired of the command to punch.

Benny swung and Micah dodged. Thick, caterpillar eyebrows knotted together above Benny's nose as he struggled to comprehend what had just happened. So he tried again, driving his right fist towards Micah's head. But the only thing the fist hit was air.

The crowd was interested now and Micah could sense the crawling energy. Benny tried for a third time, the hit fuelled by confusion and anger.

A loud slap echoed in the quiet of the crowd as Micah's hand clamped around Benny's incoming fist, stopping it from hitting him with such strength that all of Benny's had fallen to it. There was an audible gasp from the spectators as Benny froze, unable to comprehend what had just happened. They stood there for the briefest of moments before Micah made his first blow. Benny recoiled from the hit but couldn't regain himself before Micah hit again, and then again from the other side. Micah moved so fast that Benny barely had time to feel a blow before the overwhelming pain of another hit him. He cried out in anger, screaming at this fighter that was barely a man.

Micah swiped his feet across the floor, catching Benny and flipping him onto the floor before he pounced again and in one quick hit to the temple, Benny's body went limp as his consciousness left him.

It had been that quick. That simple. The spectators had found their voices and as Micah stood up there were screams from angry bidders as they handed over their coins. An official came and unlocked the gate for Micah as he waltzed out, not even trying to hide the plainly smug smile on his face. He glanced up to the back corner of the room, but the hooded girl was gone.

His attention was snapped back as the beady-eyed official pushed a bag of coins into his hand.

"Congratulations, winner. Will you be fighting again tonight?" he asked.

"Yes," Micah said simply, "But I want to watch for a while. In the meantime, I had a dagger?"

The official scurried off and returned grasping the handle of Micah's dagger which he seemed almost reluctant to hand over.

"You know," the official said, this time quieter, "This is a fine piece of weaponry. It would fetch more Crete than you hold in your hand."

Micah snatched the dagger out of the man's hand, "It's not for sale," he snapped and turned away from the official, pushing his way up to the seats at the back of the stands.