Prince Kaelen was no longer clad in his knightly armor.
He now wore a dark, finely tailored tunic that hugged his broad frame, the deep hue making his already intense features seem sharper—more imposing. The dim light from the tall windows caught the glint of silver embroidery on his cuffs, but it was the coldness in his eyes that commanded the room.
There was no mistaking it—he carried the weight of authority like a second skin.
His gaze briefly flicked to Evelyne, who stood frozen in place, heart slamming against her ribs as though it might leap out. Then his focus moved to his older brother.
"Damien, your presence is required in the courtroom."
The crown prince, still simmering with unspoken rage, let out a slow breath. "I will be there shortly."
But even after his words, prince kael did not leave. He stood there waiting for him to get dressed.
"I said I'm coming Kael. You don't have to wait for me to come along with you."
The annoyance in his voice was yet to fade away. But with prince Kael knowing how much of a womaniser his brother was turned to the scared maid and dismissed her.
Evelyn did not linger and instead, she turned around and moved quickly as she could and once the door clicked shut behind the maid, the chill that remained had little to do with the breeze seeping in from the balcony.
Damien turned slowly, his jaw taut, eyes narrowed on his younger brother.
"You could have just sent a servants to give me the message. Next time it would be best if you do that."
"With the number of times you have been summoned and didn't show up, I decided to fetch you myself." Kaelen responded.
Damien's lips curled into a sneer. " Always the responsible one, the golden son of Virelia— as if you already wear the crown."
There was venom in his words, but it barely scratched Kael's composure.
"I don't need a crown to know what duty looks like," Kael said calmly, "And maybe if you spent half as much time thinking of the kingdom as you do chasing women and drink, I wouldn't have to remind you where you're needed."
Damien's face darkened.
Since their boyhood, Kaelen had been the one whose swordsmanship the guards whispered about, whose judgment the council secretly sought—even when Damien was sitting at the head of the table. He had always followed the rules, had always been exactly what Virelia expected of a prince.
And Damien? Damien was what bloodline made him, not what effort built.
He hated Kael for that.
"I am the crown prince," Damien said lowly, stepping closer. "Whether you like it or not. And no matter how well you play the part of the perfect son, it's my name that history will remember."
Kael's gaze was steady, voice cold. "History only remembers those who act. Not those who warm their beds while the kingdom breathes uncertainty."
The silence that followed was sharp as a blade.
Damien stared at him—something bitter flickering in his eyes. For a moment, the resentment was raw, stretching back to years of overshadowed accomplishments, stolen praise, and the ever-haunting comparison to a younger brother who had never even needed to try to be adored.
Then, Kael turned to leave.
"We're summoned within the ten minutes," he said over his shoulder. "I suggest you be ready... brother."
And with that, he exited, leaving Damien alone in his quiet rage, the air around him charged with resentment that had been decades in the making.
Left alone in the chamber, Prince Damien stood in the thick silence, his breathing shallow but sharp, the weight of his brother's words clinging to the air like a stormcloud refusing to pass.
"Fuck!" he spat, voice low and venom-laced.
His eyes flicked toward the nearby table where a half-filled glass of blood sat—deep crimson, nearly black in the low light. He snatched it with a clenched hand, the veins on his wrist straining beneath pale skin.
With a single, furious motion, he drained the glass in one gulp
And with uncontrolled rage, he slammed the empty glass across the wall, scattering shards across the marble wall.
He ran his fingers roughly through his hair, gripping the roots for a moment like he could claw out the fury building in his skull. His eyes, still glowing faintly from the heat of his emotions, caught sight of his reflection in the mirror—bare chest rising and falling, a prince unmade by resentment.
The same resentment that had haunted him since their youth.
Grinding his jaw, he stormed across the room and opened the wardrobe where he reached for the nearest dark shirt and pulled it on with haste, fastening only the necessary buttons with stiff, clipped movements.
Without a backward glance, he pushed open the chamber doors and stalked out.