The weight of Kaelor's presence hit me before I saw him, a pressure drop in the corridor's already heavy air. I froze, my back instinctively pressing against the cold stone wall as his shadow fell over me. Torchlight flickered, painting shifting patterns across his sharp features and deepening the obsidian black of his eyes. He didn't need to sneer; his mere stillness was accusation enough.

"You seem to be lingering where you don't belong, *brother*," he said, his voice a low monotone that stripped the familial title of all warmth. He folded his arms, the rich fabric of his tunic pulling taut over his shoulders.

The air grew colder.

I kept my gaze lowered, focusing on the intricate pattern of the rug beneath our feet. "I just simply come to drink tea with Kailey."

His expression darkened, a subtle tightening around his mouth that I had learned to read as danger. He took a single step forward, and the space between us shrunk, charged with silent threat. "Kailey does not take tea with *schemes*," he murmured, the words smooth and sharp as a honed blade. "Leave her be, or you'll find my patience thinner than your excuses."

"I'm just going to drink tea." The words felt brittle in my mouth.

He exhaled, a sound that was almost a sigh of supreme annoyance. For a long moment, his gaze bored into me, seeing past the forced calm to the frantic pulse I could feel hammering in my throat. Then, finally, he stepped aside, creating a path that felt more like a trap than a permission. "See that you do *only* that," he muttered as I hurried past.

"Or the next tea you taste will be laced with more than leaves."

***

Later, walking the corridor with my mother, I saw him again. He was striding toward us, his expression a storm cloud of focused anger, probably wrestling with some matter of state. My body reacted before my mind could, a conditioned flinch that made me step back abruptly. The movement was too sharp. I stumbled, my elbow knocking into my mother, who let out a sharp gasp as she lost her balance and fell to the floor in a rustle of expensive silk.

Kaelor's steps didn't falter. He strode past as if we were mere statues, his cloak billowing behind him. Only the faintest tightening of his jaw, a minute ripple in his otherwise impassive mask, betrayed that he had registered the disruption at all.

He always ignored us, as if we were nothing

Clumsy," my mother hissed through gritted teeth, her voice venomous as she pulled herself up. Her nails dug into my wrist like talons, promising later retribution. "Just like your worthless father." I didn't flinch. I was used to worse.

Kaelor paused, his back still to us, his shoulders stiffening almost imperceptibly. Without turning, his voice cut through the tense silence. "Disgraceful." The word hung in the air, ambiguous. Was it aimed at her cruelty, or at my silent, unresisting acceptance of it? He didn't clarify, simply continued his march down the hall, leaving the air thick with his unspoken judgment.

***

The retribution came in her chambers, with one of her lovers—a courtier whose face I never bothered

to remember_smirking from a plush

The retribution came in her chambers, with one of her lovers-a courtier whose face I never bothered to remember-smirking from a plush chair. The scent of spiced wine filled the room, cloying and sickly sweet. "Such a *useless* boy," my mother purred, drawing a dagger from her belt. She traced the cold edge along my cheek, a lover's caress that held the promise of pain. I stared at the tapestry on the far wall, a hunting scene of triumphant hounds tearing into a stag. She pressed the tip just hard enough to draw a thin, hot line of blood. "Perhaps I should carve the truth into your skin-remind you what happens to bastards who reach too high."

She grabbed my wrist, her grip iron-strong, and forced my hand flat upon the polished surface of her table. The wood was cool and smooth. I made my face a blank slate,the expressionless mask she had beaten into me since I could walk. The blade bit deep, a searing flash of pain as it peeled back a strip of flesh from my palm. Blood welled up instantly, a dark, vibrant red that dripped onto the gleaming wood. She flicked the severed skin aside like a piece of rubbish.

"Let that remind you," she said, her voice sickeningly sweet, "that pain is the only language our kind understands." Her lover chuckled, swirling the wine in his glass.

Her fist slammed into my stomach next, a brutal, efficient blow that drove the air from my lungs. I crumpled forward, my vision spotting, but made no sound. No cry, no gasp. She grabbed a handful of my hair, yanking my head back up to meet her furious gaze. My silence seemed to infuriate her more than any protest ever could.

"Pathetic," she spat, her breath hot against my face. "Even your silence *disappoints* me." The dagger still glinted in her other hand, hungry for another lesson.

In the doorway, a shadow lingered.

Kaelor. His coal-black eyes flickered over the scene-my mother's raised hand, my silent submission, the blood on the table. For a fraction of a heartbeat, his gaze met mine. There was no sympathy there, nothing so warm. Just an utter, chilling blankness. Then, as if dismissing a tedious report, he turned away without a word. The click of his boots echoed down the hall, a final punctuation to the violence, leaving only the sound of my mother's ragged breathing and the metallic tang of my own blood in the air.

***

The next morning, the king summoned us. The bandage on my palm was stark white against the dark fabric of my tunic. Walking beside Kaelor to the throne room, the silence between us was a physical weight. His gaze, cold and assessing, flicked to my injured hand.

"Bleed quietly, brother," he murmured, his voice so low it was almost swallowed by the echo of our footsteps. "The throne room has no patience for weakness." The tone was ice, but there was something else woven through it-not quite concern, but a dark, simmering recognition.

"I got that while sparring," I said, the lie falling automatically from my lips.

His lips curled into a humorless smile, his eyes glinting with cold amusement. "How *convenient*," he breathed. He quickened his pace, leaving me a half-step behind, a constant reminder of my place.

The king's study was dim, smelling of old parchment and dust. We knelt. "Long live the king," I recited by rote. The king, a gnarled man drowning in his robes, barely glanced up from his scrolls. Kaelor knelt with a fluid, effortless grace, his head bowed in a perfect display of respect that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Rise," the king grunted, his gaze flicking over my bandaged hand with vague disinterest. "We have *real* matters to discuss." Kaelor's smirk, as we stood, was a blade hidden in shadow.

***

After the audience, I found myself in the palace gardens, drawn by a need for air that didn't smell of blood or was shivering by a rose bush, one ear flopping comically. I knelt, ignoring the twinge from my stomach, and reached out with my good hand. The puppy sniffed my fingers, then licked them, its tongue warm and rough.

"Life is cruel, isn't it?" I whispered, the words meant for no one, not even myself. I scooped the little creature up, its fragile warmth a stark contrast to the cold stone of the palace.

Hugging it gently, I felt a crack in the numb shell around my heart. "Not everyone can be saved."

A voice sliced through the garden's fragile peace. "Save your pity for creatures who can afford it." Kaelor stood at the edge of the courtyard, half-hidden by twisting ivy, his face impassive. "That mutt will starve by winter. Just like the rest of us." He didn't wait for a reply. His footsteps faded, leaving only the puppy's soft whimper and the chill of his prophecy in the air.

I stroked the puppy's head, my bandaged palm throbbing dully. "Maybe not," I murmured into its fur. "But at least *you* won't be alone tonight."

***

Back in my room, I tried to lose myself in the familiar rhythm of sword practice. The weight of the practice blade was a grim comfort. I swung, my form clumsy, my injured hand making the grip awkward and weak.

The metallic clang was interrupted by a voice from the archway. Kaelor leaned against the stone, arms crossed, watching me with detached scrutiny. "Your grip is weak," he remarked, his tone flat. "No wonder you bleed so easily." He didn't offer correction or advice. It was merely an observation of failure.

I stopped and looked at the sword in my hand, the simple truth of his words settling heavily on me. He paused, glancing back over his shoulder with a flicker of something that might have been irritation. His gaze lingered on my trembling grip, the way my knuckles were white against the leather hilt.

"Pathetic," he muttered, though the word lacked its usual cutting edge. "Even steel rejects you." He began to turn away.

The words left my mouth before I could stop them, fueled by a sudden, reckless surge of frustration. "Not everyone gets high class teachers to taught them."

Kaelor froze. His entire body went rigid. Slowly, deliberately, he turned back to face me. The air crackled. His coal-black eyes, usually so cold and controlled, burned with something raw and dangerously close to fury. He stepped closer, each step measured, until his shadow swallowed me whole, his presence an overwhelming force.

"Excuses," he hissed, the word a venomous whisper. "A *true* prince doesn't *need* teachers." He was close enough that I could see the faint pulse in his temple, smell the cold scent of night air that clung to him. His hand twitched toward the hilt of his own sword, a movement of pure instinct, but he stopped himself, his fingers curling into a fist.

"He takes what he wants-with blood or steel." His eyes dropped to the bandage on my hand, then back to my face, his expression unreadable once more, but far from calm. "Or perhaps you'd rather stay *useless*."