VIKTOR LANTSOV
TWENTY-FOUR ā HUMAN PRINCE OF RAVKA
The third-born son of one of the bloodiest kings Ravka had ever known arrived into the world in much the same way as his father had before him: with a snarl that would someday damn nations, a war cry hanging on his very first breath. Anything less would have been an embarrassment, a disgrace, for Lantsov men were not soft, nor were they gentle, nor were they quiet; they were hard, they were cruel, their voices alone stirred long-dead hearts into the fervor that prepares a man to die for his cause, and Viktor, strong even before he took his first steps, was no exception. He was a harsh boy, a terrible boy, a prince of the very worst sort: bred for war and taught to kill, with teeth dripping blood and a jaw like a bladeāapt to cut, and cut deepāand though the throne would never be his, the people loved him and feared him for it all the same, for there can never be the former without the latter where matters of savagery are concerned, and he exemplified everything the Lantsov name stood for. Ivan was a king in the making, steel-spined and silver-tongued and cold, and Anton was a general-to-be, a man whom even the sun would follow to its death, yet Viktor possessed the best and worst parts of them both: the heirās bloodthirst and ruthlessness, the spareās arrogance and wit. Even as a boy, he seemed poised to bring the world to its knees, and on some ominous days, when he felled men twice his size and spoke of mercy like a myth, some feared he might.
Their fears could have built kingdoms, and he wouldāve toppled them all. He took to the training rooms like a wolf to its prey, wild-eyed and vicious and hungryāwielded a sword like an extension of himself and struck with the grace of a dancer, and it was beautiful, the way he moved, the way he fought: like heād been born for the sole purpose of swallowing the art of war whole. He was a war dog, a conqueror, a man before all things quiveredāand rightfully so. He earned his seat in the war room at the green age of fourteenāyounger, even, than his brothersāand won his first battle a mere two years later, a feat accomplished by few before him and apt to be repeated by even fewer after him. He became the kind of man men followed headfirst into a firefight if only to save themselves from his wrath, the kind of colonel that inspired surrender in even the most formidable enemies. If his brothers and sisters had been born to be revered, to be adored, heād been born for the sole purpose of being feared, of being brutal, of reviving a love of country and the violence such love often demands, and he did so well. People would remember Ivan for his birthright, for the things he was able to do simply because fate had favored him first, but they would remember his youngest brother for accomplishments entirely his own: for the crunch of bone, the slaughter of foreign kings, the blare of golden trumpets and the gleam of medals abound.
Yet he would never be satisfied with the shadows, the scraps of greatness that fell from the table of his brothers; he was born greedy, as all purple-blooded men are, and no number of victories could sate his longing for true greatness, for a glory that would prevail as eternally as the sun, and perhaps even longer. His hunger led him into battle after battle, bloodbath after bloodbath, but at the end of it all, when the sun sank so low as to hide itself from view and he fell into bed for rest heād earned but didnāt want, he coveted. He starved. He dreamed with eyes wide open of the day heānot his brotherāwas seated on that dais, and when Ravkaās future king fell to an enemy unseen, he let himself lust after it even more, ravenous now that it was closer to his grasp than it had ever been before. It wasnāt that he hadnāt a heart, that he hadnāt loved his elder brother in his own cold, cruel way; it was that he bled for Ravka in ways his siblings never would, and Viktorāthe little prince, and before Anastasia, the babyāhad spent the better half of his life getting everything his gunpowder heart couldāve possibly desired, and what he desired was this: a Ravka that did not break or bend, that took with reckless abandon and slaughtered those who dared to cry out. He dreamt of a kingdom as ruthless and savage as he, with a true Lantsov man on the throne, and what he wanted, he got.
He returned from war a stiff-limbed soldier, a proud-eyed colonel; he returned from war the Prince of Ravka, brother to its next King and his successorāshould tragedy be cruel enough to strike againāand it was in that moment, when he laid eyes on his brother, half-bastard and half-king, wearing the crown meant for his own head, that his soul grew as black as the darkness that had claimed its last wearer, terrible and utterly beyond redemption. It might consume him; it might be the death of him, this jealousy, this envy, red-hot and blistering, but not before itās the death of any who stand in his way first, not before he carves his name into the Ravkan countryside for the world to behold. Let it be known that when the victory bells toll, their sorry excuse for a king is not to blame; let it be known that in matters of war and sacrifice, the youngest Lantsov boy always has been. For if war is desolation, he is devastation, and the crown bears heavy on the weak and unworthy; only the strong prevail.
CONNECTIONS
ANTON & ANASTASIA LANTSOV: The same blood that burns through his veins pulses through their own, though he swears, at times, that in the case of his brother, there mustāve been some mistake. Itās the only logical conclusion he cares to draw, though certainly not the only one thatās presented itself, and heāll defend it until the day he dies, provided he hasnāt been given his due prior: he has only one brother, and he lies six feet buried; the man before him is a thief, an impostor, and heāll bleed for it, just like he did on the training room floor all those years ago. He may wear the crown, but he will never be his king. Anastasia, however, is one of the few things in his life that he lovesāperhaps even more than his wars, than his bloodshed and his swords, though heās never been sentimental enough to tell her. Heās closest to her, be it out of necessity or choice, and itās for their mutual benefit that he keeps his watchful gaze discreet; love is weakness, and freedom is fleeting.
DMITRI ALEKSEEV:Ā Itās a secretātheirs, though heās loath to call it that, and if a soul should consider himself brave enough to ask, the prince would sharply deny it; saints know Viktor Lantsov wouldnāt be caught dead with a bloodletter in his bed. Yet he lets the other man come crawling if he pleasesāwhen he pleases, with barbed tongue and rough hands at the ready. This is not soft, this is not romantic; this is blood sacrifice, the taking of another until thereās nothing left. This is an abomination, a disgrace. If he could feel shame, he might put a stop to itāmight give the heartrender a black eye the next time he slips in uninvited, but he lost his shame years ago, amid rubble of his own creation. Perhaps it was inevitable.
VALERIYA VASNEV:Ā He knows he should feel proudāsmug, even, that heās been offered the hand of one of the most eligible bachelorettes at court without the slightest bit of courting on his part, but he feels little in that regard, seeing her merely as another prize offered to him by his parents to be toyed with and tossed aside later. Though sharp in her own spoiled, cunning ways, sheās much too soft for him to love her like he does his battles, to see her as a warzone to be conquered. Yet she seems to feel differently, and has had no qualms about making sure he knows it, stealing touches and offering some of her own, when heāll entertain her. Let her write her love letters and plan her perfect wedding; sheāll marry a fighter, but never a lover.
VIKTOR IS PORTRAYED BY DUDLEY OāSHAUGHNESSYĀ & IS TAKEN BY ADMIN BREE.
