Nausea swelled inside him as he remembered the weeks where the doctors had tortured him for his uncle, trying to make him docile and weak.

Trying to break him.

I can’t do this again.

I can’t.

Raw, unmitigated panic tore him apart. Another confinement like that would make him insane. It would.

Determined to the core of his soul, he strained to move. To fight back. To do anything other than lay here as their victim.

It was useless.

He was completely at their “mercy.” Goddamn me for being so fucking stupid…

They dumped him in the cargo hold. Clarion and one of the others went to launch the small ship while the rest stayed in the back with him.

Three more joined their group.

A rebel on his right jerked his chin toward Darling. “Hey, Timmon, how much you think those boots are worth?”

“About a year’s pay from the looks of them.” Timmon moved forward to snatch one off. “Oh yeah, that ain’t silver on them. It’s pladin and they’re custom made. Anyone wear his size?” When he went to snatch the other one off, he hit the blade release in the heel and sliced open his hand.

Cursing, he kicked Darling repeatedly in the ribs and face. “Bastard! What are you doing with an assassin’s trick?”

If Darling could move, he’d show him a lot more tricks than that. Including the one Nykyrian had taught him of snatching a human heart out of his target’s chest before his target died.

Another rebel came forward from the front of the ship to investigate him. He pulled his helmet off and Darling wished he could curse.

It was Pip. A man whose life he’d saved just a few months back. Pip had been pinned down by Caronese troops after they’d made a medical drop to the free clinics his uncle had wanted closed because they’d refused to pay the exorbitant taxes he’d imposed on them.

Darling still had the red mark on his side where he’d been shot while protecting Pip.

Pip leaned down to jerk at the neck of his clothes. “Man, look at this. A fortune for his battlesuit, too.” He backhanded Darling. “You rotten faggot. How many people starved to buy you that, huh?”

None. He’d bought the battlesuit with the money he’d made through the Sentella. An organization dedicated to protecting the very people who were now attacking him for no reason other than a birthright he couldn’t help. A birthright that had been filled with lessons from his father about protecting his people.

“Remember, son, you are a servant of the Caronese. Your job isn’t to rule them so much as it is to protect and provide for their well-being. The strength of your reign will be judged by the strength of our people. Their happiness is your happiness. Love flows both ways. Never abuse your power or your people. There is no glory in cruelty. Only shame.” His father’s words haunted him now.