Romano remained in the room long after Alex had left, as if the very air had thickened around him, binding him in place. His legs felt carved from dead wood, refusing to carry him anywhere else, each muscle heavy with the weight of unspoken truths. Tall bookshelves loomed around him, their shadows stretching like reaching arms across the stone floor, whispering secrets he could no longer ignore. The darkness felt alive-pressing against his skin, crawling into the quiet corners of his mind, a suffocating shroud that refused to lift.
It was too quiet. The only sound was his own breath, ragged and uneven, each inhalation a reminder of his turmoil. He swallowed hard, but the guilt stayed lodged in his throat, a solid, choking thing that threatened to suffocate him. The guilt. The shame. The way the truth never stopped aching inside him, a relentless throb that echoed in the silence.
He moved toward the heavy, dark-leathered chair by the cold hearth, its presence familiar yet foreboding. It groaned faintly as he sank into it, the familiar weight grounding him, yet damning him to the past. The old scars in the wood still caught the light-scratches from his father's ring when he'd slammed his hand down in fury.
The chair had always been heavy. Even when he was a boy, it had swallowed him whole, enveloping him in its embrace as if it understood the burdens he carried. He'd grown into it, but never out of it; it was a constant reminder of the legacy he inherited, a legacy now stained with regret. And now, sitting here again, he couldn't pretend anymore.
He remembered.
He remembered everything. After all, it was the same chair he'd collapsed into after that day. The day his father had chosen him over his sister. Chosen him over the one who truly deserved the crown. Elira would've saved the kingdom. There was no doubt in his mind. She would've led them through these dark years with strategy and fire in her blood, her spirit unyielding, a beacon of hope. But now, everything was cracked and failing, and he-he hadn't heard from her since that day, the silence between them a chasm filled with unspoken grief.
It had been a morning so bright it bordered on mocking. The sky stretched a pure, cloudless blue, as if the ancestors themselves had decided to watch, their eyes heavy with judgment. Sunlight spilled golden over the courtyard stones, illuminating the world with a warmth that felt almost cruel. The kind of morning that made the world seem full of promise, but for him, it was a harbinger of despair.
Romano woke before dawn, unable to sleep, the weight of the day pressing down on him like a stone. He'd dressed in silence, pulling on the heavy black uniform that felt as weighty as his dread, each button fastened a reminder of the responsibilities he could no longer escape. Romano had dressed with care, knowing the meeting would take place in the throne room, the very heart of power and authority. That alone had made him uneasy, a gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach. His father preferred the throne room when he wanted to remind them who held power, he just hadn't known how deep the rot went.
He reached for the crown last, the final piece of the puzzle that had eluded him for so long. It rested in a polished case lined with red velvet, a thing of beauty and terror. When he touched it, he felt the dormant magic shiver along the golden vines, a pulse of life that sent a shudder through his fingertips. The crown felt alive-breathing in the dark, whispering promises and curses alike.
He lifted it carefully, its weight anchoring him to the reality he had tried to evade. The crown had felt heavy even before he'd placed it on his head, a physical manifestation of his fears. The gold twisted under his fingers, the vines coiling tighter around the blood-red gems, a reminder of the lineage he bore. As he set it on his brow, he felt the metal move, reshaping itself into The Diadem of Embers. The largest gem settled over the place his third eye would be, cool against his skin, a reminder of the sight he wished he had. The others lifted free, igniting in silent flame, a halo he hadn't earned, a crown that felt more like a shackle than a symbol of authority.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the tall mirror by the wardrobe, the reflection staring back at him both regal and commanding, yet beneath the surface, he felt the simmering turmoil. Intimidating. Burdened.
He'd never felt more like a fraud.
The corridor to the throne room was long and echoing, each step striking the stone floor like a quiet accusation that reverberated in Romano's chest. Shadows flickered along the walls, shifting with the light, and he saw her before she saw him-Elira. Her hair fell loose down her back, black as midnight ink, glistening in the dim light like a waterfall of darkness. The dress she wore was deep green, accentuating her strong shoulders, set square beneath the fine fabric. In that moment, she looked every inch the ruler she should have been.
They had never been close, not even as children, their lives a mosaic of polite indifference. Now, as young adults, their conversations barely extended beyond the realm of obligation, each interaction a carefully choreographed dance of cold formality-like actors forced to play siblings on command, their true bond buried beneath layers of resentment and duty.
Yet, something about seeing her there-called to the same meeting-set his nerves on edge. The clipped determination in her stride made his heart crawl up into his throat, a visceral response to the tension that hung in the air. She walked with long, sure strides, her black hair swaying behind her like a banner of defiance. Her face held their mother's sharpness, her eyes colder than ice, cutting through the stillness. She stood taller than him, stronger, in every way that mattered.
She turned her head when she heard his footsteps, her gaze flicking over him-taking in the crown, the formal uniform-and for just an instant, he thought he saw a flicker of pity in her eyes. It was a fleeting expression, but he didn't know which was worse: her pity or her scorn, each carrying its own weight of judgment.
They walked side by side, the silence between them thick and suffocating. Neither spoke. They didn't need to. The air crackled with unspoken tension, the shared history of their fractured bond swirling around them like an uninvited guest.
As they reached the imposing doors of the throne room, they exchanged a glance-one last fragile moment of understanding, a silent thought passing between them: Whatever this is, let's survive it.
The doors opened with a low groan, a sound that echoed ominously in the cavernous space beyond. They stepped forward together, the throne room designed to dwarf anyone who entered, an architectural statement of power and dominance. Tall stained glass windows split the morning light into bloody shards across the red carpet, casting a kaleidoscope of colors that seemed to mock the gravity of the moment. At the far end, the king's throne sat high above the floor, a symbol of authority and a reminder of the distance between them. White marble steps led to the dais, polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting not just their images but the weight of expectation that hung heavily in the air. His father had designed it that way. He craved the height. The distance. The power.
Romano's father was already seated there, face carved from granite, an immovable force of nature.
Romano and Elira moved in perfect unison, a practiced performance that belied the chaos beneath. They both bowed, dropping to one knee at the foot of the dais, right arms pressed to their chests, left arms behind their backs. Eyes lowered. They looked like subjects-not children. Exactly how their father preferred it.
He could feel his heartbeat thundering in his palms, in the back of his throat, hammering harder with every second they held their heads bowed. The crown hovered warm above his dark brown hair, an oppressive weight that threatened to crush him under its significance. The air smelled of old stone and the bitter resin of the incense burning near the pillars, a scent that mingled with the tension in the room.
He hated it. All of it.
The silence stretched, an interminable void that seemed to swallow them whole. The air felt thin. Heavy. Romano's breath came shallow and tight, each inhale a struggle against the panic rising within him. He had the absurd thought that if he lifted his gaze, he would see the king smiling, relishing the performance unfolding before him. And maybe he would have. His father always savored moments like this-the raw humiliation of seeing his children made small.
Finally, with the trained stillness of someone who'd endured this too many times, Romano said, "You requested our presence, Your Highness?"
The question echoed in the vaulted space, a stark reminder of their roles. He felt Elira tense beside him, though she said nothing, her own anxiety palpable in the air. Their father waited a moment longer, like a predator deciding which throat to tear open first, the silence stretching out with a menacing intensity. Then, in a rough and cold voice that scraped like steel across stone, he said: "When I die, it will be Romano who inherits the throne."
For a moment, Romano thought he must have misunderstood, the words tumbling through his mind like stones in a river-disjointed and unyielding. The breath left his lungs in a single, ragged sound, a visceral reaction to the irrevocable shift in their destinies. Beside him, Elira made a small, strangled noise, a sound that echoed his own disbelief. Romano lifted his head too fast, forgetting everything-his posture, the rules, the display. He looked up. Elira's head snapped up at the same time, her eyes wide, filled with a mixture of shock and something darker.
"Sire?" he choked out, his throat burning with the effort. "But... Elira is older. She is prepared. She has studied statecraft and-"
"-And she is a woman," their father spat, the word dripping with contempt as if it tasted foul on his tongue. "Do you imagine I would let a daughter sit in my chair? That I would let the line be weakened by a woman's rule? No. I will not have it."
Romano felt the shame crawl up his neck, hot and suffocating, a physical manifestation of the disgrace he felt for both himself and Elira. His stomach twisted as he absorbed the weight of their father's words, each syllable striking him like a blow. Elira stood frozen beside him, her hands trembling ever so slightly. He didn't know if it was from fury or heartbreak-but he felt the sharpness of it all the same.
"Father, please-" she tried to reason, her voice steady despite the storm swirling around them.
"Silence." The word cracked across the room like a whip, a sound that lashed against Romano's skin, more real than any blow.
"I will not entertain debate from either of you," the king said, his tone final and unyielding. "You, Romano, will ascend when I am gone. And you-" He shifted his gaze to Elira, the contempt in it so pure it made Romano's stomach heave. "You will remember your place. Women govern households. Not kingdoms."
Elira's shoulders drew in, like she was bracing for a blade, her expression a mask of suppressed rage. Romano's chest burned, the shame clinging to his skin like a heavy cloak. He opened his mouth, but nothing came. Every word he might have spoken caught in his chest, strangled by fear. How many times had he seen his father destroy people for less? How many times had he stayed silent? And still-still-Elira turned her face to him, her voice quiet yet unbreakable.
"Well?" she demanded, her eyes locking onto his-blue and bottomless, filled with a fury that felt like a storm raging just beneath the surface. "Say something. Deny it. Refuse. Protest. I don't care what you do, Romano-but you will speak." He tried to form words, but they slid against his teeth, soft and empty, a betrayal of his thoughts.
"If it is His Majesty's will..." he finally managed to say, the tremor in his voice betraying his own fear. "Then I will serve the kingdom to the best of my ability."
The silence that followed was worse than any scream, a chasm of despair that swallowed the air between them. He didn't look at her again. He couldn't bear it. Elira didn't shout. Didn't scream. She only let out a breath that sounded like the start of a laugh-one she couldn't bring herself to finish. "I see," she murmured, each word laced with disappointment.
"You will not question me again," their father ordered, his voice cutting through the tension. "Leave me."
They bowed, the taste of defeat metallic on their tongues, a bitter reminder of their powerlessness.
The doors shut behind them with a deep, echoing boom that resonated in Romano's chest. Outside the throne room, the air was colder. Quieter. But somehow even heavier. He didn't know how long he stood there, staring at nothing, before he forced himself to look at her. Maybe, foolishly, he hoped for something-understanding, a sliver of the bond they'd never built. What he got instead was ice. Elira's face was calm. Too calm. Her voice was softer than he'd ever heard it, almost fragile. "I know we've never been close," Elira said, not looking at him, her gaze fixed on some distant point. "But I never imagined you'd betray me like that."
"Elira-"
"No."
She lifted a hand, the gesture final, a barrier between them that felt insurmountable. "You don't get to say anything now. You made your choice. And I want you to remember it." He swallowed, but it did nothing to ease the ache in his throat. She turned to face him fully, her eyes glinting with something colder than hate, a reflection of the chasm that had opened between them. "You may sit on that chair one day, Romano. But never come to me seeking support. Don't ask for my counsel. Don't expect my blessing for your heir. You've chosen a path that cuts me from the line-and I will not help you walk it."
Her voice dropped even lower, the words wrapping around him like a noose. "And when they marry me off to some noble fool to keep me quiet, don't expect me to play the good little princess. I will undermine him at every turn. I will rule from behind him if I must. And as for your reign..." She leaned in, her voice like silk drawn across a blade-deadly and beautiful. "I will offer you nothing but mockery. Nothing but reminders of what could have been."
She stepped back, the distance between them feeling insurmountable. For a moment, he thought she might say something else. Instead, she only looked at him-really looked-and something in him withered under the weight of it.
"You should've spoken, brother," she said, her voice a quiet storm. "But I suppose silence suits cowards."
Then she walked away, leaving Romano alone in the echoing corridor, the weight of his choices pressing down on him like a stone. He didn't follow her. He didn't move at all. He only stood there, listening to the echo of her footsteps fading into the darkness, each step a reminder of the bond that had shattered, leaving only silence in its wake.