Matthew fidgeted under the table, fingers twisting over each other, head bowed as if the grain of the wood were the most fascinating thing in the world. He couldn't bring himself to meet his brother's gaze. Across from him, Even leaned forward, one palm propped against his cheek as his other hand tapped idly, rhythmically against the tabletop—tap, tap, tap.
The sound echoed in the silence.
Around them, the other fighters and patrons had quietly backed away, leaving the two alone at their table. No one interrupted. But everyone watched.
Xain, arms crossed, observed quietly. In the back of his mind, a cautious hope lingered—*Maybe this is the first step… maybe this could pull him back from planning to kill Samwell.*
Quincy, perched on a stool nearby, looked on with worry painted clearly across her face. She only wanted what was best for Even.
Dirk leaned forward, arms braced on his knees, eyes locked not on Even—but on Matthew. He didn't know what he wanted out of this, but he sure as hell didn't trust the boy yet.
Lia sat in the corner with a soft smile, legs crossed, chin resting on her palm. Goddess only knew what she was thinking. She was enjoying the moment like it was a play.
"So," Even finally said, breaking the silence. "Are you just gonna sit there all quiet, or are you actually going to talk? Tell me why you're here."
His voice wasn't cold. But it wasn't warm, either. Polite in the same way a blade is clean.
Matthew flinched, shoulders tightening. He'd imagined this conversation dozens of times—rehearsed lines in his head, tried out openings, even tested different tones. But now, sitting across from Even… none of that came out.
"I… wanted to talk to you," he managed. The words trembled at the edges, nearly a stammer, but not quite.
"I don't really know anything about you. Not outside of what Father told me. But… you're my older brother. I just felt like… like I should."
Even's expression didn't change. But something in the corner of his mouth tightened. He exhaled, not quite a sigh—more like something bitter he didn't bother swallowing.
"Oh yeah?" he said, tilting his head slightly. "And what does Father say about me?"
Matthew opened his mouth, but Even cut him off with a dry wave of his fingers.
"Never mind. Let me guess. 'Failure.' 'Disgrace.' Maybe he upgraded to 'abomination' by now. That used to be his favorite before he settled on 'shame.'" He looked away briefly, scoffing under his breath. "At least the old bastard's consistent."
Matthew didn't say anything. He didn't need to. His silence was answer enough.
Even turned back to him, eyes narrowed. "Alright. You're here. You want to know me? Fine. Ask."
Matthew blinked, visibly startled. He hadn't expected that. Part of him had been bracing for rejection, dismissal, or worse. But instead…
He had a chance.
And so he asked the question that had gnawed at him since the first day of the tournament. The one that wouldn't leave.
"…Why did you hate my name being Matthew?"
At the question, Even froze.
His shoulders stiffened. His fingers, mid-tap, went still. Across the tavern, Dirk turned his head away and shut his eyes with a quiet sigh. Lia, ever expressive, winced and mouthed a silent oof.
"That old bastard didn't even tell you?" Even asked, voice low and razor-edged.
Matthew slowly shook his head. "No. When I asked, he just said it was something I'd understand later. Not now."
Even's hand slammed into the table with a sudden crack, making Matthew flinch in his seat. The entire room tensed.
"That fucking old bastard!" Even snapped. "Of course he didn't! Why would he?! Goddess—I'm going to put his head on the damn head seat myself!"
He was breathing hard now, chest rising and falling as fury clawed up his throat. But then his gaze cut back to Matthew, sharp and narrowed.
"He named you Matthew," Even said slowly, "because that was the name of my younger brother."
Matthew blinked. "What?"
"My real little brother. They called him a failure too. Said he was even worse than me." Even scoffed bitterly. "So they threw him out. Right alongside me."
He leaned forward, eyes hard. "But you know what they found out later? He wasn't a failure. He was a prodigy. Stronger than even Father. And by the time they realized it…"
Even paused. His voice dropped.
"…He was already dead."
The words struck like iron. Matthew sat frozen, his face pale. The blood drained from it, the breath caught in his throat. The weight of what he'd just been told crashed over him like a wave. Shock, pain—betrayal, even.
"You were named after him," Even said quietly. "Maybe they thought they could keep you this time. Get it right. Raise another Matthew, train him up like they wanted—like he wanted."
He let out a small, bitter laugh. It was dry and broken at the edges.
"What a great fucking family we are, huh? Magical brilliance in bulk. But when it comes to actually being a family? Loving each other? Protecting each other?" He leaned back, shaking his head. "We trade all that for power. Every time."
The silence in the tavern was heavy. Fighters looked away, unsure where to place their eyes. The patrons kept quiet, uncomfortable. It felt like eavesdropping on a moment they had no right to witness.
Matthew lowered his gaze, clutching his hands tightly in his lap. "I see…"
His voice was small.
"That's why you hate my name. Why you hate Father. Why you hate… everything tied to our family."
Even let out a sharp huff. "Yeah," he muttered. "Now you know."
Matthew nodded weakly, then stood up from his chair, movements quiet and restrained. "I'll be going now. The spell I used to slip away is probably wearing off, and Father's going to notice I'm gone soon."
Even looked like he might rise to follow him, but Matthew shook his head quickly. "Don't. If anyone comes with me, he'll notice. I'll be fine. I can take care of myself."
Even hesitated, then gave a slow nod. "…Alright."
Matthew pulled his hood up and turned toward the door. He walked briskly, without looking back. But those who were watching closely—those who really looked—would've seen his hand rise just once.
Wiping at his eyes.
The tavern door closed behind him, and the room was left in silence once more.
Even slumped forward, arms bracing against the table. Then he let himself collapse onto it with a dull thud, face buried in his crossed arms.
"…I need a drink."