The training hall shook with the grind of steel against steel. Tenebrarum's blade sang through the air in a clean arc, slicing straw dummies into halves that fell like broken corpses. His chest barely rose with exertion, his movements almost lazy, as if slaughter was nothing more than a ritual to pass the time.
The door slammed open.
"Because of her?" Rhazor's voice cracked against the marble like thunder. His hand gripped the doorframe, his face livid, eyes burning. "You butchered Matrona for a nobody?"
Tenebrarum did not stop. His blade sank into another target, splitting it from crown to gut, straw guts spilling across the floor. He leaned his weight on the hilt, gaze sliding lazily to his brother.
"Ah. The prodigal prince remembers his tongue." His voice was low, threaded with mockery. "Tell me, Rhazor, which part wounded you more—the loss of her hand, or the fact that I never cared what she offered me?"
Rhazor stormed forward, fists trembling at his sides. "You shame this kingdom! You set fear above loyalty—"
"—and yet they bow lower for it." Tenebrarum's laugh was cold, echoing in the cavernous hall. He pulled his sword free, the straw effigy collapsing at his feet like a corpse. He stepped closer, so close the difference in their stature was undeniable: Tenebrarum's shadow swallowed Rhazor whole.
"You mistake me for you, little brother. You beg for scraps of devotion. I demand blood. And they obey."
Rhazor's jaw tightened, every muscle straining as though he might strike him then and there. "One day, Aurelia will ruin you. That mortal will be your undoing."
At that, Tenebrarum finally smiled. It was not warm. It was the smile of a predator who had already tasted victory.
"She is already undone, Rhazor. She just hasn't realized it yet. And when she does, she will beg for me in the same breath she curses me."
He turned his back—an insult as sharp as any blade.
Rhazor's nails dug into his palms. His voice shook with rage. "You think yourself untouchable. But power has a way of rotting the man who clings to it."
Tenebrarum swung his sword into the rack with a deafening clang, metal ringing like a warning bell. Without looking back, he said simply:
"Then watch me rot—and kneel before the bones."
The words landed like a thunderclap in the chamber. The very air seemed to recoil.
Tenebrarum's voice slithered through the hall, low and deliberately slicing through the silent,
"Does it pain you," he asked, each word sinking like a blade drawn slow, "that you cannot have the throne… or Matrona?"
The silence after was thick, stifling, broken only by the distant crackle of torches.
Rhazor's grip tightened on the sword hilt until the leather groaned. His jaw clenched, rage flushing red across his skin. He lifted his eyes—bright, furious, unflinching.
"You speak of thrones as if they belong to you," he said, spitting the words. "But you don't deserve it. You never did."
Tenebrarum's head tilted, that faint, merciless smile still playing across his mouth.
Rhazor stepped forward, his voice dropping, heavy with venom.
"Mortifer never married your mother. You are no rightful heir—you're nothing but an illegitimate shadow wearing a crown that doesn't belong to you."
Rhazor's words still hung in the air like smoke when Tenebrarum finally moved. His hand drifted lazily to the table beside him, fingers curling around the hilt of a throwing blade.
"Really?" he murmured, almost amused. "And yet the illegitimate child takes the throne."
The knife turned between his fingers with an idle grace, catching the torchlight in flashes of steel. His eyes never left Rhazor.
"How bad, then," he continued softly, "must the true sons be?"
The blade left his hand with a sudden flick—swift, precise, merciless.
It hissed past Rhazor's face, close enough to lift a strand of hair, the wind of it brushing hot against his ear.
THUD.
The knife buried itself deep into the wooden dummy behind him, quivering from the force.
Silence pressed down like a storm.
Tenebrarum's smile returned, slow and cutting. "Careful what you say, brother. Even shadows can bleed."
---------------------
Aurelia pressed her palms hard against her temples, as if she could cage the pain inside her skull and crush it before it tore her apart. But it only grew sharper, heavier—like nails being driven deeper, hammered one after the other. Her breath grew ragged, chest heaving as though each inhale scraped against her ribs. She bent forward on the bed, strands of hair falling wild around her damp face, sticking to her skin with sweat.
The air itself seemed to thicken, cold and weighty. The torches guttered low, shadows stretching long across the walls, as though the chamber conspired against her. From beyond the high windows, the sky had turned a bruised gray, clouds massing with the slow promise of rain. Each gust of wind rattled faintly against the shutters, carrying with it the damp smell of earth before a storm.
The door creaked.
Fira slipped inside, her movements quick but careful, as though she feared what she might find. Her steps faltered for only a moment before she rushed forward, skirts whispering across the marble floor.
"My lady," she breathed, her voice thin with alarm. She reached Aurelia's side and crouched low, her hand hovering near her shoulder before daring to touch. The heat rising from Aurelia's skin startled her—unnatural, fevered, consuming. "You're burning… your face is pale as death."
Aurelia tried to form words but only a strangled sound left her lips. The pain splintered through her head again, forcing her to clutch at the bedding as if it could anchor her to herself.
Fira swallowed hard, eyes flicking to the dark window where the storm gathered like an omen. She lowered her voice to a hurried whisper, as if even the walls might listen:
"This pain is no small thing. You must not endure it here." Her grip on Aurelia's arm tightened. "We must take you to the valetudinarium—the palace sick bed. At once, before this fever consumes you."
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To be continued...