Erevan stood tall beside Carlos—or as tall as a recently half-dead king could. His pale face was stern with purpose, but his hands trembled ever so slightly as they tightened on the handle of his cloak. The scent hit first—iron, rot, and the unmistakable stench of old, soaked blood.
The prison beneath the palace was ancient, left behind from the days of their father—the tyrant who believed cruelty was discipline. Carlos had been here before. At fourteen, he had already been titled a duke and trained to oversee the laws and the darker places of the realm. He knew the layout, the guards, even the ones that looked away when pain echoed too loudly.
But Erevan? He had never descended these stairs. His world had been roses and lilies, not blood and chains.
"Carlos," Erevan said, swallowing hard. "You always said I was the stubborn one."
Carlos, still pale from his recovery, raised a brow. "You are. You're in a prison with a poisoned heart."
Erevan ignored the quip. "No. You are. You made me believe I was stronger than this—than the poison, the throne. But you fought for me. You burned for me."
He paused as they neared a rusted cell. Inside, a captured alchemist noble with burned fingertips muttered in a haze. The man stank of spoiled wine, sweat, and desperation. His eyes were bloodshot, and his tongue twisted strange words—fragments of dreams and poisons.
Erevan gagged.
Carlos glanced back. "Told you not to come."
"I had to see," Erevan managed, wiping his mouth with a silken sleeve. "Kave said this is where the truth smells worst. He wasn't wrong."
"You're too pretty for this place," Carlos muttered, tugging his brother by the elbow to steady him. Lumira, the royal healer, was already at Erevan's side, her eyes dark with worry.
"Your Majesty, please, this isn't where you should be," she whispered.
"I should know what kind of world tried to kill me," Erevan said through clenched teeth. "And who."
They moved deeper in. Carlos led them to a small interrogation chamber, blood dried at the edges of the drain. The prisoner tied to the chair spat curses when he saw Erevan.
"You shouldn't be alive!" the man screamed. "The lilies should've done it!"
Erevan's face drained of color.
Carlos stepped in front of his brother, slow and deliberate. "Try another word, and I'll show you what a boy who returned from a god's dream can do."
The prisoner went silent. The silence was heavier than the chains.
And then Erevan collapsed.
Lumira caught him just before his head hit the floor. "He's fainted. He should never have come down here." Her voice was a whisper of frustration and fear.
Carlos looked down at his brother—his king—and clenched his jaw. "He is still stubborn."
One of the guards tried to help. "Shall I carry—?"
Carlos waved him off. "I'll do it."
And he did. Like he had ten days ago. But this time, Erevan's heart was beating strong.
As Carlos carried his brother out of the prison, he paused once more before the cell where the noble had spat curses. He turned to Lumira and said quietly, "Make sure that man lives. I want every drop of his knowledge before he dies. And I want him to see that Erevan rules with more than poison and steel. He rules because someone would burn the world to keep him breathing."
Then he walked away, not as a prince, not even as a duke—but as the boy who had been a commander once, who carried kings and killed for them, and would do it again.