They called it a curse.
But curses don't crawl under skin by accident.
They are made. Measured. Passed down like heirlooms no one dares polish.
The curse was not born.
It was bargained.
And every heir carries the clock.
It carved in bones not his own.
Each circle closed tighter than the last.
Until breath itself was counted—
not in years, not in crowns,
but in minutes.
And those minutes lived inside him.
Ticking. Waiting. Starving.
—
Ryven sat beneath the thick velvet of his prison-room curtains.
A page between his hands.
Morthen's ink—sharp, fast, loyal.
Not loyal enough to hide the questions bleeding through the words.
He read slowly, because speed was for fools.
Every name, every tally, every note about the guards' shifting faces—
a ledger of suspicion wrapped as intelligence.
"You enjoy your homework?" Morthen asked.
He leaned on the edge of the desk, arms folded, dark eyes cutting corners before Ryven could.
Ryven let the paper drop just far enough to show his smile.
"Better than your handwriting."
Morthen snorted. "You're welcome for the hours I bled into that."
"Noted," Ryven said. Then softer:
"I need more."
Morthen tilted his head. "More names?"
"No," Ryven said. "One name. Bring me Ryther."
Morthen froze. The word landed like a knife flipped wrong.
"You don't mean that."
"I do."
"You hate him."
"Correct."
"Then why—"
"Because hate is a luxury," Ryven cut in. His voice stayed calm, sharp as cold water.
"I'm out of luxuries. He's the last hand left to play."
Morthen shook his head, mouth twisting. "You don't even trust him."
Ryven looked down at the page again, though he wasn't reading.
"I don't trust him. I need him."
The silence stretched. Morthen's jaw worked, stubborn and young.
Then he swore under his breath and shoved off the desk.
"Fine. But when he bites, don't tell me you didn't know he had teeth."
Ryven did not answer.
He only waited until the door closed.
Until the lock exhaled.
Then he moved.
Slow. Careful. Exact.
The hidden panel beneath the floorboards drank dust when he pried it open.
Inside: two letters.
One—the first.
Edges cracked, voice cruel.
This family's blood isn't finished. The one who killed them still breathes. Go to the dungeon. The madwoman knows more than priests ever did.
The other—thin, ash-soft, laid on his desk the night of his arrest.
Words that bled upward under his fingers:
You went below.Didn't you?
You saw her.
We are not all blind, First Wing.
See you in Morbrak.Broken things bite hardest.
Same sender.
Same silence.
But one guiding, one threatening.
And the second—
two handwritings stitched together,
like two mouths trying to use the same throat.
He turned them, again and again, the way men turn knives to test their balance.
His mind cut itself on questions.
It had started here—
this ink, this lie, this whisper that dragged him into the dungeon.
Before the clock in his chest had ever spoken.
Before he'd dared believe the Child of Darkness could still draw breath.
His pulse pushed against his teeth.
Logic circled. Collided. Collapsed.
And then—
The door shrieked open.
Ryven jolted, letters vanishing beneath his sleeve before thought caught up.
He stood too fast, breath sharp, eyes trying to turn steel again before anyone saw the crack.
Bootsteps.
A shadow that walked like it had no leash.
Ryther.
Tall. Scar-laced. Movements loose, defiant.
He didn't enter the room—he took it, like walls existed to lean on him.
He flung himself into the chair opposite Ryven.
Boots slammed onto the desk, hands locked behind his head.
A grin that smelled of blood and smoke stretched his mouth.
"Well, well," he drawled. "The little heir finally remembers I exist. Let me guess—something you want."
Ryven's jaw locked. "I wanted silence. You came instead."
Ryther laughed. Ugly. Free. "Still polite as a priest. Guess what? I'm not."
"Obvious," Ryven said coldly.
"Don't act surprised. The ones supposed to teach me manners?" Ryther leaned forward, grin sharper. "They're both dead."
The word parents never touched his mouth. It didn't need to.
The room swallowed the gap they left.
Ryven's gaze cut sideways. "You haven't changed."
"Neither have you," Ryther said. "Still pretending you're taller than your shadow."
The air between them was a blade no one picked up.
Ryven exhaled through his teeth. "The Council calls you hero. Border savior. Sword-dog who bleeds where they don't want their carpets stained."
Ryther stretched like a man pleased with his own leash.
"They call me a lot of things." His grin turned vicious. "But my favorite? The Mad Dog. Fits better, don't you think?"
The title carried rot and triumph in the same breath.
And Ryven hated him for wearing it like a crown.
"So," Ryther said, eyes flashing. "Why am I here, Ry? Don't tell me it's for tea."
Ryven stared. Masked. Reluctant. Then:
"I'm leaving the palace."
Ryther blinked. Then barked a laugh so loud the window shivered.
"You? Run? Gods, you'll trip on your own pride before you make it past the gate."
Ryven's face didn't move. "I don't need to make it far. Just far enough never to be found again. Suits you, doesn't it? You've wanted the throne since the cradle. If I vanish, it falls right into your lap."
The laughter died. Ryther leaned forward, boots hitting the floor with a thud.
"Tell me the truth. What's the game?"
Ryven's eyes flickered, then hardened.
"The Child of Darkness breathes."
Ryther's smirk cracked. He opened his mouth—closed it.
For once, no laughter.
"You're serious."
"Yes."
"And your plan?" Ryther asked slowly. "What—walk out with a map and a smile? You already failed once."
Ryven's voice cut sharp: "That's why I need you."
"Need," Ryther echoed, mocking the word. "What if I don't care? What if I hand you over instead?"
Ryven stepped closer, shadows slicing his face into edges.
"Because I'm giving you what you've wanted all your life."
Ryther tilted his head. "And what if you're wrong?"
Ryven smiled then. A dangerous, thin smile.
"You won't."
"And why not?" Ryther challenged.
"Because you like winning too much," Ryven said. "And I've just set the board."
The words hung like gallows in the room.
The candle guttered again.
The night leaned closer.
Ryven's smile stayed.
Sharp. Patient. Dangerous.
"The best thing about brothers… is you can trade places."
Ryther's boots hit the floor with a thud.
His grin was back—ugly, feral, promising storms.
"Now that," he said, "sounds fun."