Chapter 20
Kieran
The war room smelled of old leather and even older blood—iron ground into the wood from centuries of royal councils held over maps, stained with the evidence of past campaigns.
Morning light filtered through the tall windows in sharp angles, illuminating dust motes that danced like restless spirits.
Solis stood at the far end of the table, arms crossed, jaw tight enough to crack teeth. He stared at the map of Morathen spread out before us, as though he could burn holes through it with his gaze alone.
Something was wrong.
Solis joked. Always. Even in the worst situations—hell, especially in the worst situations—he had some quip or dark humor ready to ease the tension.
We'd fought side by side for centuries—through wars, betrayals, the kind of bloodshed that bound men together or broke them apart.
But today? Nothing. Just that rigid posture with shoulders bunched so tight I could see the strain through his shirt.
"The southern gate," I said, tapping the location on the map. "Elias said the attacker wore my sigil. A forgery."
"A good one," Solis muttered, not looking up. "Good enough to fool the guards until they got close."
"Which means it’s someone with access. Someone who's seen the real thing enough times to try to replicate it." I traced the path from the gate to the castle proper. "They're getting bolder. More brazen."
"Or more desperate." Solis' hands flexed against his biceps, the only tell that he was holding something back.
The door opened, and Merrit slipped inside. She'd insisted on being present for these meetings, and I'd agreed—she needed to understand what we were up against. Her eyes found mine immediately, and the bond carried her determination threaded with uncertainty.
“You don't have to be here,” I projected.
“Yes, I do,” she replied, moving to stand beside me.
Solis' attention jerked toward her, and for a heartbeat, something raw flickered across his face. Not attraction—nothing like that. It seemed almost like... grief. Guilt. His shoulders went rigid, and he looked away quickly, but not before I caught it.
Strange. In all our centuries together, I'd never seen Solis look at anyone like that. Professional respect, yes. Camaraderie with fellow soldiers. But this seemed different. Personal.
Merrit's confusion echoed through our connection, mirroring my own. She'd noticed it, too.
"The attackers are dead," Solis said, pulling my attention back. "Both took poison before we could question them. Fast-acting, probably carried in a false tooth."
"Professional, then." I studied the map, looking for patterns. "Not random malcontents."
"No." He pushed off the table, pacing to the window. "This is organized. Funded. Someone's been planning this for months, maybe longer."
His hand went to the back of his neck, rubbing at tension that wouldn't ease. When he returned his focus to Merrit, there was another flash of that same haunted expression before he shuttered it.
"We need to tighten security," he said. "Double the watch rotations. Search everyone entering the castle grounds, no exceptions."
"Agreed. And I don’t give a fuck what the barons say. They’ll be searched, too." I moved around the table to pour wine from the decanter, needing something to do with my hands. "But that's defensive. We need to draw them out."
"The Exhibition," Solis said quietly.
I nodded. "It's in three days. Perfect opportunity. Everyone who matters will be there."
“How many events do you all have here? And what's the Exhibition?”
Merrit's thought brushed mine, curious and irritated at the pomp and circumstance of royal life. I couldn’t say I blamed her.
“A display of power,” I explained. “Combat demonstrations, trials of strength and magic. The nobility showing off for each other.”
I felt her understanding, then her resolve hardening like steel. “I'm reading that crowd.”
“If you're willing.”
Her spine straightened, chin lifting. “I didn't survive the Divide by being delicate. I can handle this.”
"She shouldn't be there," Solis said, voice tight. His attention stayed on Merrit, that guilt-grief expression back and stronger. "It's too dangerous. Too many weapons, too much chaos. If someone wanted to strike—"
"Then they'll find out what happens when they try." I set my glass down harder than necessary. "She's not some courtier who faints at the sight of blood. She killed a man with a fucking paring knife to save my life. She can handle the Exhibition."
Merrit's grim satisfaction at the reminder trickled through me, pulling at the corner of my mouth.
Solis' lips compressed into a thin line, and for a moment, I thought he'd argue. But he just nodded once and looked away. Whatever was eating at him, he wasn't ready to share it.
Merrit's unease spiked. “What's wrong with him?”
“I don't know,” I admitted. “But I intend to find out.”
A knock at the door interrupted us before I could press the issue. One of my pages entered, bowing low. "Your Highness. Your brothers have answered your summons."
"Already?" Solis’ eyebrows rose. "That was fast."
"Bring in the mirror," I ordered.
The page nodded and backed out. Moments later, two guards carried in an ornate full-length mirror, its frame carved with runes that pulsed faintly with magic.
They set it against the far wall, and I moved toward it, pulling the small crystal from my pocket—identical to the ones each of my brothers carried.
I pressed it to the mirror's surface, and the glass rippled like water.
The first face that appeared made my teeth grind together.
Lorenzo.
My eldest brother stared out from the mirror, his expression carved from the same stone as his province's mountains.
Everything about him was sharp—his cheekbones, his jaw, his eyes that missed nothing.
His dark hair was pulled back severely, revealing the rigid line of his mouth and the golden, hazel eyes he shared with our mother when she was still alive.
"Kieran." My name wasn't a greeting. It was an accusation.
"Lorenzo." I matched his tone, ice for ice. "Thank you for responding so quickly."
"You summoned. I answered." His gaze flicked past me, taking in the room, cataloging Solis and Merrit in a single sweep. "Though I see you've acquired some new... additions to your household."
Merrit stiffened at the dismissive tone. Her hands moved, precise and deliberate. "Merrit Locke. A pleasure."
Lorenzo's eyebrows rose fractionally—the only sign of surprise that she'd signed rather than remained silent. "You know the hand language. How... quaint."
"Most of the Court does," Merrit signed, her movements precise. "Evara's temples demand it. Though I suppose military provinces have less use for subtlety. Or manners."
A ghost of emotion—Respect? Amusement?—flickered across Lorenzo's face before it hardened again. "Indeed."
Every conversation with Lorenzo felt like walking through a field of knives—one wrong step and you'd bleed. And now Merrit was dancing through them—with him.
"There have been attempts on my life," I said, steering us back to the point. "Coordinated attacks. I'm calling in resources."
"Resources." His lip curled. "Is that what we are now? Not brothers. Resources."
Here we fucking go. "You swore fealty to the Crown," I said, voice flat. "That makes you exactly that."
The mirror flickered with Lorenzo's barely contained rage. Even through the magical interface, the temperature in the room seemed to drop.
"The crown you were handed."
There it was. The wound that never healed, the resentment that colored every interaction between us.
He was the eldest. By every tradition, every law of succession, the Crown Province should have been his.
But Father had chosen me instead—the second son, the one who could smile while sliding a knife between your ribs.
The one who could play the political games Father excelled at.
I hadn't wanted it. Still didn't. The Crown Province was a gilded cage, beautiful and suffocating in equal measure. But refusing would have been seen as weakness, and weakness in our family was death.
At least now, with Merrit at my side, the weight felt... lighter. Like maybe I could actually build a province worth keeping instead of just maintaining what Father had created.
"We've had this conversation," I said quietly. "A thousand times. Father made his choice. I didn't ask for it, and you've made your feelings abundantly clear. Can we move past it long enough to address the actual threat?"
Lorenzo's expression didn't change, but something in his gaze shifted. "Fine. What do you need?"
"Eyes on your province. Any unusual activity, strangers asking questions, anything that feels wrong. Someone is funding these attacks, and the money has to be coming from somewhere."
"You think I'm harboring traitors in Tharros?" His voice went dangerously soft.
"I think someone with resources is moving against me, and I need to know if any of those resources are flowing through your territory." I held his stare. "Unless you'd prefer I ask Father to investigate instead?"
The threat landed. Lorenzo's jaw flexed, but he nodded once. "I'll send word if anything occurs in Tharros. But don't mistake this for approval of how you've chosen to rule, Kieran."
Before I could respond, another face appeared in the mirror, shoving Lorenzo aside with casual grace.
Nikolai.
My brother grinned, all white teeth and golden charm. His hair fell in artful waves around a face that belonged on sculptures, and even through the mirror, I could see the glint of jeweled rings on his fingers.
"Oh, good, family drama before noon. My favorite." He winked at me. "Hello, darling brother. Lovely to be summoned like a common servant. Really makes one feel valued."
"Nikolai—"