"I told him one wing is broken.
I didn't tell him to break one."
The woman's laugh scraped the dungeon's stone like bone against iron. Harsh, unrelenting, cruel. It clawed at the walls, leaving invisible scratches across every corner.
Chains rattled, absurdly gilded, and the sound was sharp, metallic, like a hundred small knives colliding.
Shadows flinched from her teeth, from the promise in the curve of her smile, as if the darkness itself feared her.
The air was thick, damp, and heavy with rust and sweat, clinging to every corner, saturating every stone.
The smell of iron was pungent, and the faint tang of blood lingered in the air.
---
They found the king bleeding.
They found the count armed.
They found the chamber screaming.
Awesome.
Hands dragged Althar back across the stone floor. His feet scraped, slipping, resisting, and the sound was loud, dragging itself into the echo of the hall.
Boots hammered, thundering like drums of war. Voices spat commands like fire, sharp and urgent.
"Seize him!"
The dagger trembled in the count's jeweled fist, glinting under the flickering candlelight like a small, dangerous heartbeat of intent.
The boy-king collapsed. Gold drank red. His sob split the hall like glass shattering against stone.
Every echo bounced off the walls, swallowed by the vast emptiness of the chamber.
"Help me!" he screamed. "Please—he tried to kill me!"
Guards surged like waves breaking against cliffs, pressing against each other, shoving, tripping, catching on corners and belts.
Shouts swallowed Althar whole.
Morthen's eyes—sharp, hungry—caught too much, flicking between chaos and calm, reading movements as if the room were a map and he was plotting every step.
And Ryven, wrapped in tears, blood, and the sound of his own voice, smiled. A slow, calculated smile.
His pulse was a clock counting down, steady, relentless, echoing through his veins like a drum beneath his skin, a rhythm only he could hear.
Ryven woke choking on it.
His throat burned. Bandages clung to his skin like false oaths, stiff with dried blood that cracked under each movement.
The chamber smelled of smoke, iron, and the faint sweetness of blood that hadn't yet dried, mingling with the lingering scent of herbs and medicines.
Candlelight flickered and guttered, casting trembling shadows that danced across the stone walls like ghosts. Every corner seemed alive, waiting.
Across the room, Morthen stood at the window, arms folded, silhouette cut sharp as a blade. His shadow stretched long across the floor, slicing the dim light in two.
He didn't turn when he spoke, the silence between them stretching and thickening, pressing against Ryven's chest like a stone.
"Althar's in chains. Attempted regicide," Morthen said, voice low, cold, precise. "The words are already polished. Tomorrow, they'll be gospel."
Ryven's lips twisted, bitter enough to corrode steel.
"Attempted regicide? Hm. Interesting," he murmured, almost to himself. The words tasted like smoke and iron.
Morthen finally turned, slow, deliberate, dangerous. His eyes gleamed like glass that refused to crack, each reflection of the candlelight sharp and cutting.
"The slice across his throat looks like your signature, Ryven. You didn't just stop him—you marked him. Now they'll say you staged it."
Ryven leaned back in the chair, ignoring the sting in his bandaged neck.
"Fine. Yes. I carved him. Would you prefer I let him finish the story?"
"Don't be clever," Morthen hissed. "The Wings aren't fools. They'll see the blood, the bruises, and they'll see you. What will you say when they ask why you sent me to search his chamber that night?"
Silence. Then, a flicker of memory:
The corridor.
Morthen's hand reaching for the latch.
Ryven's voice—low, certain:
"You want your answer? Go to Althar's room. You'll find it waiting."
Ryven's gaze slid to the wardrobe. The faint edge of a handkerchief peeked out, stained with droplets of red. Hidden. Not forgotten.
"I wanted to catch the snake," he murmured, almost to himself. "But nets tear too easily. So I used my own hand."
Morthen's voice sharpened, each word slicing the air:
"Idiot. Althar is the suspect, yes—but a Wing doesn't fall so easily. You think the council will simply nod and cut him down? No. They'll drag you with him. They'd sooner kill a crown than kill one of their own feathers."
Ryven laughed softly, dangerous and amused. The sound curled around the walls like smoke.
"Then let them try. By the time they weave their noose, I'll be gone. South. Morbrak. They can choke on my shadow for all I care."
Morthen stiffened. His tone flat, but his eyes betrayed a tremor of unease.
"You found proof, then. The Child of Darkness—"
"—breathes," Ryven finished. His smile was cold enough to freeze flame. "And every minute I waste here makes it stronger."
The silence between them stretched, heavy as chains. The air seemed to shiver, carrying the scent of blood and fear, of things unspoken, unclaimed.
A horn blared again, closer now, shaking glass in its frame. Soldiers' voices roared outside, shouting Ryann's name.
The sound carried through stone and steel, bouncing, folding into itself, a chorus of triumph and expectation.
Inside, Ryven smiled—not with joy. With promise.
The night had not ended. It only changed masks.
A horn split the air. Three blasts. The old signal. The palace trembled as voices rose beyond the walls in a triumphant chorus.
Morthen stiffened. "The gates are opening."
A soldier's shout, raw and victorious, pierced the silence:
— "Commander Ryther returns! The eastern banners march home!"
Ryven's lips curved, half amusement, half venom.
"Good. Another witness. Another audience."
Morthen narrowed his eyes.
"You'll use your brother's return as cover. You always were the better liar."
Ryven pressed his palm to the cold steel at his side. His blood hummed against the bandages.
"Not liar. Player. Every wing thinks it writes the game.
But games burn faster than parchment when you bleed on them."
He looked at the map sprawled across the desk—the red wound of Morbrak pulsing like an open mouth, as if it had its own life, hungry and aware. His voice dropped, dark, certain:
"South waits. And if the Child of Darkness breathes, then chains, verdicts, brothers—
let them all choke.
I'll break what's left before they break me."
The horn sounded again. Louder. Nearer. Outside, soldiers roared Ryther's name.
Inside, Ryven only smiled. Not with joy. With promise.
The hall shivered with the news, voices cutting sharp through the air:
"Prince Ryther is here—alive."
Gasps scattered. Panic hissed, and whispers crawled along the walls like serpents.
Ryven only laughed, low and rough, the sound curling at the edge of silence. Of course.
"After all," he murmured to himself, lips pulling into a crooked smile,
"I wasn't the only one carrying a countdown in my veins."