9. 8 #3
Their eyes locked on each other.
“Tell me, brother. Must I remind you what happens when you underestimate me?” His free hand ripped at Theodore’s loose collar, eyeing the pink scar across his chest. The proof of his power. Proof of the danger he held in his veins. Lance’s smile split through the bruises, bloody and cruel.
“Enough!” Branley barked. “Both of you—leave. Now.”
A voice rang out from above—sharp, urgent. “Guards!”
Branley’s head snapped up. “Shit,” he hissed.
Chairs scraped. Drinks spilled. The tavern erupted—patrons scattering like startled birds, some slipping into shadowed rooms, others vanishing through the rear exit. But Theodore and Lance didn’t move. They stood locked in place, daring the other to move first.
Then came the boots. Heavy, thunderous, descending the staircase like judgment. The guards halted just short of the bloodied brothers, confusion flickering across their faces as they registered the scene.
Lance released his brother with a shove. Theodore gasped, clutching his arm to his chest as he stumbled back. The burning red handprint along his arm was unmistakable.
One of the guards hesitated. “Prince Theodore?”
Branley scoffed, pushing forward. “These thugs started a fight. And I was finally getting another taste—”
“Branley,” Lance growled, a warning.
“I want them gone,” Branley snapped.
A guard stepped forward, older, face carved by years of war. Lance recognized him immediately, jaw tightening. Treager, the head of the city guard.
“We received news of a brawl,” he said, voice steady. “How disappointing it is to find the young princes are the culprits.”
Theodore’s gaze narrowed. “Watch your tongue.”
Treager didn’t flinch. His eyes quietly sized up Theodore before planting his feet.
Theodore scoffed and stepped past him. “Clearly, your services are no longer needed. As you were.”
“I take my orders from the king.” Treager cocked his head, eyes flicking between the two. “I see no kings.”
Lance barked out a laugh.
Theodore’s glare hardened. “You dare speak to your prince in such a way?”
“Enough. Your pride has bested you tonight, brother. Let’s not further your shame, shall we?” Lance stepped past the guards, hands tucking neatly behind his back, reflecting the calm he rehearsed every morning.
Theodore’s fists clenched, stepping toward Lance with a fire still burning in his veins.
Treager pressed a stiff hand to his chest. “Auren demands peace.”
Theodore stilled, fists clenching and unclenching as though he could will the rage away. “Fine. If you’ll excuse me, I was trying to enjoy my evening.”
“You are mistaken, my prince.” Treager shook his head. “I will be personally escorting you home.”
No one spoke after that.
Theodore was escorted out, bloodied and silent. Their footsteps echoed up the stairs, trailing behind the weight of royal consequence.
Branley called after them, arms raised in frustration. “And you’re both paying for that fucking table!”
The cold hit like a fist as they stepped outside. A carriage waited at the edge of the lamplight, its door already held open by a stone-faced guard.
“I’d rather walk,” Lance muttered, halting at the step.
Theodore shoved past him, movements harsh, uncaring. “Then walk,” he snapped, climbing inside without a backward glance.
Treager, worn but resolute, shifted his stance. “My prince,” he said gently, “you’ll ride up front. Let’s not tempt another brawl.”
Lance exhaled through his nose, a stiff nod given before he moved toward the bench and settled in. The guard took his place beside him, fingers steady as he snapped the reins.
The horses lurched forward, hooves striking against packed snow, the carriage wheels groaning beneath their weight. No one spoke. Only the sound of movement—the grind of wood, the whisper of wind—filled the silence between them.
Lance’s leg bounced, fingers curling against his knee as the castle came into view, towering and grim. Dread coiled in his chest. Thalen’s wrath awaited. And tonight, Lance had no shield against it.
The carriage rolled to a stop at the base of the stone steps. Lance descended slowly, eyes lifted to the shadowed heights of the castle.
A guard opened the door. Theodore stepped down, his expression carved from stone.
Palace guards stood outside the towering gates, their breath misting in the cold. At the sight of the approaching carriage, two broke formation and hurried down the stairs, cloaks flaring behind them.
Treager climbed down from the bench and stepped forward. “I need to speak with King Thalen,” he said firmly, voice echoing up the stone steps.
Theodore scoffed, brushing past him. “Yes, go on then—report us like we’re misbehaving children.”
Treager didn’t flinch. “You are misbehaving children,” he retorted, gaze sharp beneath his helm.
Lance stepped beside them, silent but seething, blood still fresh across his jaw.
The other guards exchanged glances. One of the guards turned sharply and strode down the corridor, boots echoing as he went to fetch the king.
The remaining trio stepped inside, the heavy doors groaning shut behind them.
They lingered in the grand hall, where firelight flickered against marbled columns and tapestries. The air held its breath.
Lance paced subtly near the base of the stairs, fingers twitching against his thigh. His jaw clenched, blood crusting the edge of his lip. Anxiety crawled up his spine, a familiar phantom he refused to acknowledge.
Theodore stood stiffly to one side, arms crossed. But his mask wasn’t perfect—his fingers lifted as he bit at the edge of his nails, slow and compulsive, betraying what simmered beneath the cool veneer.
Treager said nothing, posted near the entrance like a statue, though his eyes flicked between the brothers, uncertain which one might explode first.
“This is your fault,” Theodore hissed, his glare sharp. “If you knew how to keep your nose out of other people’s lives, none of this would’ve happened.”
Lance snapped back without hesitation, “If you weren’t such a piece of shit, I wouldn’t have to.”
“Enough—both of you,” Treager barked, his tone cracking like a whip.