After thirty minutes, the never-ending breakfast finally ended. Without caring for the cordial goodbyes or the rehearsed royal courtesies, Marcus rose from his seat the moment his father put down his goblet. His footsteps were measured, too measured, the way a man walks when his mind is louder than the hall itself.
He made straight for the training grounds. Steel and solitude, that was all he wanted.But before he reached the courtyard, a voice pierced the corridor.
"Marcus! Wait up!" shouted Gemma from a distance.
He didn't even turn. "Can't this wait? I need to train."
"I'm sorry," Gemma's voice softened as she drew closer. "I didn't know Father would announce it today."
Marcus stopped just long enough for the echo of her words to die."But you're not against it, are you?" he said, his tone calm, but his words carried the quiet venom of a man biting his own tongue.
"Marcus, for heaven's sake, it's not about what I want!" Gemma snapped, her voice trembling more from pain than anger. "It's about what the people need. What Father decides. What Mother sees fit. None of us—"
"Don't you think I know that?" Marcus interrupted, his voice lowering again to a diplomat's murmur. "Father made the right decision. You have nothing to apologise for. Next week, we'll meet and discuss the kingdom's defences and our alliance to Moxclave. I'll prepare the reports myself."
He wanted the conversation to end there, clean, professional, forgettable. But Gemma, unlike the rest, never let him hide behind civility.
"Marcus, stop this," she said quietly. "Drop the act. It's just us. Talk to me, brother."
For a long moment, the hall was silent except for the faint rhythm of his breathing — slow, then uneven. His jaw tightened. The mask cracked.
"Fine," he exhaled, not looking at her. "You want to know how I feel?"
Gemma nodded once, afraid of what she had just invited.
"I feel hatred," Marcus said at last, "not for you, not for Father, not even for the gods who mock me. I hate myself."
The words seemed to echo in the vaulted corridor.
"Every single thing I've done has been for nothing. I've spent hours upon hours in the training halls, hoping, praying, that something would click, that I'd discover the Discipline meant for me. I studied every weapon, every beast, every tactical manual Father ever approved of. I tried to make my technique so flawless it would force a revelation."
He laughed then, a sound so hollow it hardly resembled laughter.
"But the only enlightenment I gained was agony. My muscles? For show. My studies? Useless without power. The only thing I've truly earned is a title, chief strategist. That's the grand sum of my existence."
He turned toward her, eyes unblinking, the sunlight from the stained glass cutting across his face like a scar.
"And I know I should be grateful," he continued, voice cracking into something human. "I know I should be honoured that my family still respects me despite my weakness. But I'm not. Because the man I despise most is not the prince, nor the strategist, nor the brother."
He pressed a fist against his chest.
"It's me."
For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. The world outside the windows went on, the guards changed shifts, the bells chimed, but inside that hall, even the air was still.
"All my life I've bled for a crown I couldn't lift," he said finally. "Tell me, dear sister… do you honestly believe you can understand that?"
Gemma didn't answer. Her eyes widened, not in pity, but in realization.Her gaze wasn't fixed on Marcus anymore, nor even on Hudson, who had quietly appeared at the edge of the corridor.
It was fixed behind him.
A voice, soft yet commanding, flowed through the hall like a calm wind carrying thunder.
"So it took twenty-three years for me to finally know how you feel, my son."
Both siblings turned. The Queen stood in the archway, Gwendoline Chartle Halgrave, radiant even in silence, her presence commanding reverence without need for crown or sceptre. The faint gleam of her robes caught the morning sun, her hair pinned with a silver crescent that marked her as both mother and monarch.
She did not scold. She did not smile. She merely looked, and that gaze alone could unmake any lie.
"Mother…" Marcus's voice faltered, as if the word itself had weight.
"Walk with me," she said simply. Her tone was not a request.
Hudson bowed and vanished down the corridor with Gemma, leaving mother and son alone. They made their way through the castle in silence, the kind of silence that speaks more than conversation ever could. When they reached the outer balcony overlooking the training grounds, the Queen stopped, her hands resting gently on the marble railing.
"Why didn't you speak up before, child?" she asked at last, her eyes fixed on the soldiers below, the sound of steel clashing faintly in the air.
Marcus took a moment before answering. "Mother, I am not much of a child. And I knew… people would not understand. They would see complaint, not confession. Besides," he managed a weary smile, "I know my place now. I am sorry that you had to see such a weak side of me."
For a heartbeat, the Queen said nothing. Then she turned, and for the first time in many years, the woman behind the crown surfaced.
"Marcus, my beautiful boy," she said quietly, "you are far too similar to me. And that terrifies me more than you know."
He blinked, caught off guard.
"You have my patience," she continued, "and your father's pride. That is both blessing and curse. You deserve to be a king, not because of birthright, but because you understand the burden of one. Yet…"
She reached forward and straightened the hem of his collar, as she used to when he was small.
"For that, you need power."
Marcus nodded, swallowing hard. "I know, Mother. But alas, Lady Luck descends cruelly and indiscriminately."
"Yes," she murmured, her gaze softening. "She does. But only the weak blame her forever."
He looked up sharply, almost wounded, but her eyes were kind.
"It is never too late, Marcus," she continued, her voice gaining the cadence of a lesson long rehearsed. "A king is not defined by the moment he awakens his Discipline, but by the moment he refuses to surrender to despair. You haven't found your path because you keep searching for power that resembles others'. But your path… will resemble no one's."
Her words hung in the air, heavier than any sword.
"I hope," she whispered, "that when you do find it, it will not break you as it nearly broke me."
He turned to her, startled, but her expression revealed nothing more. Only the faintest trace of melancholy curved her lips before it was gone, replaced by regal composure once again.
"Thank you, Mother," he said, bowing his head. "Truly."
Gwendoline smiled faintly. "If gratitude is all you give me, I will accept it. But promise me one thing."
"Anything."
"When the time comes," she said, her gaze drifting toward the training yard where soldiers shouted and blades clashed, "do not let your pride blind you to your worth. You chase power because you think it will prove your existence, but power without peace of heart will devour you. Remember that, my son."
He didn't reply at first. The truth in her words pressed too close to the place where his pride lived.
At last, he nodded. "I'll remember, Mother."
The Queen looked at him one last time, the same way one looks at a storm on the horizon, knowing it cannot be stopped, only weathered.
Then she turned to leave, her robes whispering against the stone.
Marcus remained, alone on the balcony. The wind tugged gently at his coat, carrying with it the scent of iron and roses from the training yard below.
For the first time in years, he realized that his mother's love was not the warm embrace he had imagined as a boy, it was colder, sharper, like the edge of a blade kept polished through duty.
Perhaps that was why he admired her so deeply.Perhaps that was why he feared becoming her.