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View and download Captive Prince_ Volume One - S.U. pixia-club.info on DocDroid. Saga Captive Prince. Introduce aquí el subtítular. PDF. Captive Prince · Prince's Gambit · Kings Rising. Historias Cortas. Green but for a Season · The Summer. Editorial Reviews. Review. Praise for C. S. Pacat and the Captive Prince Trilogy “ You will be completely enthralled and on edge.”—USA Today “Have you read.

Captive Prince Pdf

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He tossed it from the bed. Laurent had put his own white shirt back on, though nothing else. The shirt reached the top of his thighs. The fine white fabric suited him. There was something splendid about seeing him like this, loosely laced, only part dressed. Damen propped his head on one hand, and watched him approach. Damen had caught his hand, entwined long fingers into his own. Laurent looked along their arms. Damen was surprised at how it felt: new, each heartbeat his first, and Laurent reshaped before him.

Laurent had restored both his shirt and a flickering version of his usual standoffishness. But he had not laced himself back into his clothes, had not reappeared in his high-necked jacket and shiny boots, as he might have done.

He was here, hesitating, on the edge of uncertainty. Damen gazed up at him, at the gold of his hair, the fall of his shirt away from his body. He had the manner of a proper young man who has been coaxed for the first time into boyish wrestling and finds himself pulled atop his opponent in the sawdust. Looking at the bowed head of his friend, Damen realised it for the first time.

He was no longer the young prince who had roamed the palace halls with Nikandros after a day spent wrestling together on the sawdust. There was no Prince Damianos. The self that he had been striving to return to was gone.

To gain everything and lose everything in the space of a moment. That is the fate of all princes destined for the throne. Laurent had said that. As children, they had run barefoot together through the palace. Instead, Nikandros knelt in an enemy fort, his sparse Akielon armour incongruous in the Veretian setting, and Damen felt the gulf of distance that separated them.

He felt it welling up inside him, a hundred moments when he had forced back the doubt that he would ever see Akielos, the high cliffs, the opaline sea, and the faces, like this one, of those that he called friend. I lit the ekthanos and made the long walk at dawn when I thought you gone. He thought of being confined, his face painted, his body drugged and displayed. He thought of opening his eyes in the Veretian palace, and what had happened to him there.

It was all he said. His eyes were dark. It sounded like Jokaste. Damen thought of how it would have been in Akielos, the kyroi gathered among the ancient stones of the Kingsmeet, Kastor enthroned with Jokaste. He heard all of it. He heard of his own body, wrapped and taken in the processional through the acropolis, then interred beside his father. He heard of his guard, killed in turn, like his childhood trainer Haemon, like his squires, like his slaves.

He remembered the sound of bells at dusk. Theomedes is dead. All hail Kastor. Then he pulled a letter from his leather breastplate. It was battered, and by far the worse for its method of conveyance, but when Damen took it and unfolded it, he saw why Nikandros had kept it close. Damen felt the hairs rise over his body. The letter was old.

The writing was old. Laurent must have sent the letter from Arles. Damen thought of him, alone, politically cornered, sitting at his desk to begin writing. It made tactical sense, in a horrifying way, for Laurent to have made an alliance with Nikandros.

Kings Rising (Captive Prince, 3) - C.S. Pacat.pdf

Laurent had always been capable of a kind of ruthless pragmatism. He was able to put emotion aside and do what he had to do to win, with a perfect and nauseating ability to ignore all human feeling. In return for aid from Nikandros, the letter said, Laurent would offer proof that Kastor had colluded with the Regent to kill King Theomedes of Akielos.

It was the same information that Laurent had flung at him last night. You poor dumb brute. And you were dead. He had forgotten what home felt like. He had forgotten trust, loyalty, kinship. I have kept it. A foolish token. I knew it was treason.

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I wanted to remember you by it. The curl of mane, the arc of a tail—Nikandros had given him the golden lion pin worn by the King. Theomedes had passed it on to Damen on his seventeenth birthday to mark him as heir. Damen remembered his father fixing it to his shoulder. Nikandros must have risked execution to find it, to take it and to carry it with him. He felt it, in the different way Nikandros behaved towards him. The pin was his now, and soon the bannermen would come and pledge to him as King, and nothing would be the way it was before.

And then he went still. Damen looked down.

And saw. His sleeve had slipped, revealing a cuff of heavy gold. Nikandros tried to move back, as though burned or stung, but Damen clasped his arm, preventing the retreat.

His heart pounding, he tried to stop it, to salvage it. Laurent freed me. He gave me command of his fort and his troops, an act of trust for an Akielon he had no reason to elevate. There was a shocked sound from the doorway. Damen whirled towards it, releasing his grip on Nikandros. Damen stood, exposed, before them all. He flushed, hard. A golden wrist cuff had only one meaning: He knew what they saw—a hundred images of slaves, submitting, bending at the hip, parting their thighs, the casual ease with which these men would have taken slaves in their own households.

He remembered himself saying, Leave it on. His chest felt tight. He forced himself to keep untying laces, pushing his sleeve up further. I was a personal gift to the Prince of Vere. Nikandros turned to Makedon, his voice harsh. The two secondary officers had their eyes on the floor, too low-ranked to do anything else in the presence of the King, especially in the face of what they were seeing. This is an insult to Akielos that cannot be borne.

Or do you think yourself above your King? Makedon certainly had slaves in his own household, and made use of them. What he imagined between Prince and slave stripped it of all the subtleties of surrender. Having been done to his King, it had in some sense been done to him, and his pride revolted at it.

He watched the words impact on Nikandros, who could not quite swallow them. Charcy was not a field like Hellay, with a single, clear vantage. Charcy was a pocketed, hilly trap, half backed by forest, where a well-positioned force could quickly manufacture a surround on an approaching troop. It was the reason the Regent had chosen Charcy as the place where he would challenge his nephew. Inviting Laurent to a fair fight at Charcy was like smiling and inviting him to take a stroll across quicksand.

So they had split their forces. He looked for a long time at the wrist cuff before he walked out onto the dais. It was bright gold, visible at some distance against the skin of his wrist. He had discarded his wrist gauntlets. He wore the Akielon breastplate, the short leather skirt, the high Akielon sandals strapped to his knee.

His arms were bare, as were his legs from knee to mid-thigh. The short red cape was pinned to his shoulder by the golden lion.

Armoured and battle-ready, he stepped out onto the dais and looked out at the army that was gathered below, the immaculate lines and shining spears, all of it waiting for him.

He let them see the cuff on his wrist, as he let them see him. He knew by now the ever-present whisper: Damianos, risen from the dead. He watched the army fall silent before him.

He let the Prince he had been drop away, let himself feel the new role, the new self settle about him. He looked out at the rows of red cloaks, and it felt as it felt to take up a sword or fit a gauntlet to his hand. He saw arms raised, soldiers cheering, and caught a flash of the impassive, helmed face of Makedon.

Damen swung up into the saddle. He had taken the same horse he had ridden at Hellay, a big bay gelding that could take his weight. It struck its front hoof on the cobbles, as though seeking to overturn a stone, arching its neck, perhaps sensing, in the manner of all great beasts, that they were on the cusp of war.

The horns sounded. The standards went up.

There was a sudden clatter, like a handful of marbles cast down steps, and a small group of Veretians in battered blue rode into the courtyard on horseback. Not Guymar. But Jord and Huet. Scanning their faces, Damen saw who they were. And there was only one reason why they had been released from confinement.

Damen held up a hand, and Jord was allowed through, so that for a moment their horses circled each other. Damen looked at the small clump of blue now gathered before the rows of red in the courtyard. The Regent was approaching from the north and the north-west; their own forces, acting as bait, were downslope and in an inferior position.

Damen would never bring men into this kind of disadvantage without a counter plan. As it was, it would be a close fight. The closer they came to Charcy, the more obvious it was to the Akielon generals how bad the ground was. If you wanted to kill your worst enemy you would lure him to a place like this. Trust me, was the last thing Laurent had said. He envisaged the plan as they had constructed it in Ravenel, the Regent overcommitting, and Laurent at the perfect moment sweeping down from the north.

He wanted it, wanted a hard fight, wanted to seek out the Regent on the field, find him and take him down, to end his reign in a single fight. If he just did that, just kept to his promise, then after— Damen gave the order to form up. There would be the danger of arrows soon.

They would take their first volley from the north. The uncertain terrain was a valley of doubt, fringed by trees and dangerous slopes. The air was laden with tense expectation, and the high-strung, raw mood that came before battle.

Distantly, the sound of horns. Instead he saw the western flank begin to move, too soon, under the shouted order of Makedon. He reined in around Makedon, a small, tight circle.

Makedon looked back at him, dismissive as a general of a child. From the north, the sound of horns. The Regent was too close, too early, with no word yet from their scouts. Something was wrong. Action exploded to his left, movement bursting from the trees. The attack came from the north, charging from the slope and the tree line. Ahead of it was a solitary rider, a scout, racing flat outover the grass.

Laurent had never planned to come.

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That was what the scout was screaming, right before an arrow took him in the back. Damen had no time to think before the situation was on him. He shouted orders, trying to take hold of the initial chaos, as the first rain of arrows hit, his mind taking in the new situation, recalculating numbers and position.

There was a dark logic to it. Have your slave convince the Akielons to fight. Let your enemies do your fighting for you, the casualties taken by the people you despise, the Regent defeated or weakened, and the armies of Nikandros wiped out. Damen found himself alongside Jord. Throbbing at the base of his skull let him know he had been hit over the head.

Something was also inconveniently and intrusively wrong with his shoulder. It was dislocated. As his lashes fluttered and his body stirred, he became hazily aware of a stale odour, and a chilled temperature that suggested that he was underground. His intellect made increasing sense of this: Very carefully, he made himself do nothing.

The cell itself was about twelve feet square, and had an entrance of bars but no windows. Beyond the door there was a flickering stone passageway. The flickering came from a torch on that side of the bars, not from the fact that he had been hit over the head.

There was nothing inside the cell except the chair he was tied to. The chair, made of heavy oak, appeared to have been dragged in for his benefit, which was civilised or sinister, depending on how one looked at it. The torchlight revealed the accumulated filth on the floor.

He was hit by the memory of what had happened to his men, and put that, with effort, out of his mind. He knew where he was. These were the prison cells of Fortaine.

He understood that he faced his death, before which would come a long, painful interval.

A ludicrous boyish hope flared that someone would come to help him, and, carefully, he extinguished it. Since the age of thirteen, there had been no rescuer, for his brother was dead. He wondered if it was going to be possible to salvage some dignity in this situation, and cancelled that thought as soon as it came. This was not going to be dignified. He thought that if things got very bad, it was within his capabilities to precipitate the end.

Govart would not be difficult to provoke into lethal violence. At all. He thought that Auguste would not be afraid, being alone and vulnerable to a man who planned to kill him; it should not trouble his younger brother. It was harder to let go of the battle, to leave his plans at their midway point, to accept that the deadline had come and gone, and that whatever now happened on the border, he would not be a part of it.

The Akielon slave would of course assume treachery on the part of the Veretian forces, after which he would launch some sort of noble and suicidal attack at Charcy that he would probably win, against ridiculous odds. One on one: On his best day, he could not take on Govart in a wrestling match and win. And his shoulder was dislocated. Fighting free of his.

captive prince chapter 19 1/2

He told himself that: Look around. Take a good look. Not even I have a key.

What do you have to say to that? The blow rocked him back. He had to strap down the impulse of hysteria, or this was going to be over very quickly. He forced himself to keep his voice steady. His voice was heavy with satisfaction. Because I asked him for you. He gives me what I want. He gives me whatever I want. Even his untouchable nephew. At some point one of us will dispatch the other.

He could feel the distracting beat of his heart. He said you had a mouth like a whore. The room around Laurent greyed; his whole attention narrowed, his thoughts attenuating. Every last broken syllable. His shirt was now unlaced to the waist and hung open, and his right sleeve was red. His hair was a tangled mess ribboned with sweat. His tongue was intact, because the knife was in his shoulder. He had accounted that a victory, when it had happened.

You had to take pleasure in small victories. The hilt of the knife protruded at an odd angle.He held the men around him together, and killed, his body pushed beyond the physical, beyond thought.

The ghost of his father seemed to prickle over his skin. Map illustration by Guy Holt Design.

Nate Braden Love in Bloom: He let them see the cuff on his wrist, as he let them see him. A Thriller. And you were dead. As, with his ruined right arm, Laurent swung the chair.

Jun 20, - I read Captive Prince: Volume One, the first part of that online original slavefic turned traditionally published original slavefic that a lot of people are raving about it and I was…less than impressed, let us say.

He heard of his guard, killed in turn, like his childhood trainer Haemon, like his squires, like his slaves.

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I fancy reading comics questioningly. Look through my other articles. I have always been a very creative person and find it relaxing to indulge in xiangqi.