Chapter 87 The Disgusted Older Brother
Didier wouldn't shut up. His voice bounced off the stone walls of the training hall, making Claus's ears ring. His brother paced, swinging that wooden sword with such a smug, arrogant style. Like the world was his private theater.
"It's decided," he said again. His eyes, not the look of a leader. It was an obsession. Sick. "Lysandra. My choice. When I face Father later, that's what I'll announce. Screw the rumors. Screw what people think. They're all just sheep. Clueless."
Claus stayed quiet. Back turned. Focused only on the iron sword in his hand. He dragged the rough cloth back and forth over the blade. Sret. Sret. That was all he heard. The grating metal. The only thing keeping him from exploding right there.
But Didier's words? Noise. In one ear, out the other. His head was filled with Ilse Varannes. Her face, glaring. Her nagging voice about efficiency. That damn perfume was still clinging to his coat. A distraction. A mess. Everything was a mess.
"And if Mother pushes?" Didier continued, his voice turning cunning. "If she insists on Gisella, fine. I'll agree. But on paper only. An empty formality. Gisella can keep the title; she can sit there as Queen, but Lysandra? Lysandra holds the real control here."
Didier patted his own chest, proud of that moronic plan he thought was genius. He thought he was playing chess? A joke. He was just a kid digging his own grave with a blunt shovel.
Claus stopped. Dropped the cloth. Didn't turn around yet. Silent. Letting the quiet kill the room. It felt stifling. His shoulders locked. His breath uneven.
He turned. Slowly. Glared at Didier. Sharp. A look that would make anyone bow their head. No words needed. One look was enough to crush someone's nerve.
"Is Gisella Mercer a commodity to you?"
Claus's voice, low. Heavy. The disgust he'd been hiding? Not worth it anymore.
"You think you can just put her in a closet? Take her out when you need a prop, toss her aside when you're bored playing with someone else?"
Didier laughed. But his eyes? Empty.
"You don't get it, Brother. This is imperial stability. You're too rigid."
"Don't be a coward, Didier."
Claus's voice grew harder. He stepped forward. Invading his brother's space.
"If you don't love her, end it. Be a man. Don't turn her into a puppet queen just to stroke Mother's ego or hide your own pathetic taste. It's not politics, Didier. It's garbage. It's weak."
Didier went quiet. Face flushed red, veins popping in his neck. But he covered his shame with a scoff. Dismissive.
"Too moralistic," he said coolly. "The world doesn't run on morals. It runs on the people with the guts to take what they want."
Claus looked at him. Empty. Seriously exhausted. Debating right and wrong with someone who couldn't tell duty from ego? Waste of time. Useless.
He threw the wooden sword onto the rack. Clatter. Rough. Any energy left to teach his brother? Gone.
No goodbye. No pleasantries. Claus turned. Left. Just walked out of the room.
Claus stormed off. Didn't care about Didier yelling behind him. The palace hall was quiet. Just his footsteps, getting faster. His chest tight. Not from training, from his own chaotic head. Filthy. Weird.
Ilse de Varannes. She'd broken into his mind. Wouldn't leave. Claus hated this. Hated the uncertainty. Hated that he was losing his cool over some girl's nagging. And he hated that her face kept popping up at the worst times.
Room. He slammed the door till the walls shook. Locked it. Stood before the mirror. His reflection looked tired. Not muscle fatigue. Mental exhaustion.
"Tomorrow," he whispered to his reflection. "Tomorrow, the temple. Maybe that'll clear this madness."
He had to do something. Find a priest to scrub his mind. Maybe it was magic. Maybe a curse. Or maybe he just needed to pray for the memory of that woman to be wiped. He had to get rid of Ilse's shadow before he actually lost it.
If he didn't act now, he was afraid he'd do something even stupider that would wreck everything.