The gates of the mansion swung open, and the sound of hooves thundered against the stone courtyard. Two figures advanced — one with black hair and broad shoulders, the other with red hair, equally imposing.
Their resemblance to Colden was undeniable, yet there was something sharper about them, something that made them appear more polished, more commanding. They looked like him, but somehow better.
As they marched through the town, civilians and peasants lined the streets. Faces lit with awe, voices rose in cheer. It was a spectacle never seen before — the kind of march that defined royalty. Their attire was solemn, their stride regal, and yet beneath the grandeur lay arrogance.
They carried themselves not with kindness, but with entitlement, their eyes sweeping over the crowd as though it existed only to serve them.
At the mansion, the maids lined the entrance, kneeling in welcome. Their hands trembled, their bodies stiff. They had never been forced into such displays before; Colden had never demanded submission, never sought such gestures. But this was different.
This was dystopia in motion. Glinda, watching from the corners, felt a strange sense of accomplishment. She had trained them for this moment, and now the palace bent under the weight of tradition and command.
The brothers stepped inside, and the air shifted. It was as if the aura of the mansion itself had changed, the walls absorbing their presence, the atmosphere thickening with tension. Colden stood at the far end of the hall, his eyes meeting theirs.
For a moment, the old timidity rose within him — the boy who had always wanted his brothers' approval. But something had changed. His gaze was firm, his stance steady.
The brothers smirked as they crossed the threshold. "Well, Mr. King," the black-haired one said, his tone dripping with mockery, "here we are."
The words hung in the air, sharp and heavy, as the palace braced itself for what was to come.
To be continued…