Viktor ran.
The hallway blurred around him—stone and shadows and the pale morning light that never seemed to reach the floor. His footsteps echoed too loud, bouncing off walls pressing too close.
Liability.
The word followed him like a shadow.
You are a liability.
His eyes stung. He blinked hard, forcing the tears back. Not here. Not in the open hallways where servants moved and siblings walked and people could see. He just needed to get back to his quarters. Back to the small, plain room with the books and the quiet. Back to somewhere he could breathe.
He turned the corner too fast.
His shoulder hit something solid. Hard.
Viktor stumbled back, catching himself against the wall. His hand went automatically to the locket at his throat—cold silver, his mother's, the one anchor he carried everywhere—and he looked up.
Prince Leopold stood there like a wall of stone.
Viktor's half-brother. Son of Lady Anika. Eighteen and deep into Internalist training—broad through the shoulders, wearing grey training leathers, dark hair cut short and severe. A vein pulsed at his temple. His face held the same hard angles as their father's, and right now those angles were sharp with irritation.
Then he saw Viktor's face.
Something shifted in Leopold's expression. Not concern. Something colder. Like he'd found exactly what he was looking for.
"Watch where you're going, phantom."
Viktor's throat closed. He tried to step around Leopold, to just get past and keep moving, but Leopold shifted with him. Blocking.
"Evaluation day." Leopold's voice was flat. "Let me guess—it went poorly."
Viktor's hand tightened on the locket. "I need to—"
"What? Run back to your room and hide?" Leopold stepped closer. He was a full head taller, maybe more, and he used every inch of it. Looking down at Viktor the way someone might look at something they'd found lacking. "That's what you always do, isn't it? Fail, then run."
"Let me pass."
"Why? So you can waste more of Father's time?" Leopold's jaw clenched. "Do you have any idea what I would give to have him watch me the way he watches you?"
Viktor tried to move around him. Leopold's hand shot out and shoved him, hard, right in the center of his chest.
Viktor stumbled backward three steps before catching himself. The impact knocked the air from his lungs. His vision swam for a second, dark spots dancing at the edges.
"I've trained for eight years." Leopold's voice carried down the hallway. A servant appeared at the far end, saw them, and immediately turned around. No help coming. "Eight years of Internalist conditioning. Bone work. Pain tolerance. Endurance until I couldn't stand. And Father has never—not once—asked to see my progress."
He stepped forward, closing the distance Viktor had gained.
"But you?" Leopold's voice dropped lower. Bitter. "Ten years old and he sends the IMF to measure you like you're something precious. Like you matter."
"I didn't—" Viktor's voice cracked. "I didn't ask for—"
"No, you didn't. That's the problem." Leopold's hands were clenched at his sides. "You get everything I've bled for and you don't even want it. You just fail at it."
The word hit like a physical blow.
"You failed today, didn't you?" Leopold leaned in close enough that Viktor had to tilt his head back. "I can see it on your face. Whatever they asked you to do, you couldn't. You choked."
Viktor's hands were shaking. The nausea from the training hall had come roaring back, climbing up his throat. He tried to speak, tried to force something out—some defense, some response—but his voice wouldn't work.
"You know what that makes you?" Leopold's voice was almost conversational now. Cold. "Soft. Dependent. A waste of every resource they've poured into you."
Viktor's vision was blurring. The tears were coming whether he wanted them or not.
"Father watches you," Leopold said quietly. "He measures you. He cares whether you succeed or fail. And you can't even handle the pressure."
"Stay away from me," Viktor managed. His voice was barely a whisper.
Leopold smiled. No warmth in it. Just the hard satisfaction of someone who'd found exactly where to press.
"Or what?"
Viktor tried to push past him. Tried to just force his way through and run and get anywhere else.
Leopold's hand caught his shoulder, wrenched him around, and threw him.
Viktor hit the floor hard.
Stone met his shoulder, his hip, his elbow—each impact sharp and immediate. The air left his lungs in a rush. His vision sparked white for a second, then cleared into the cold grey of the hallway stretching out before him. The locket had swung out on its chain, clinking against the floor beside his face.
He tried to push himself up. His arms shook.
Above him, Leopold's boots filled his vision. Polished leather, military-issue, the kind meant for standing in formation and marching in lockstep. They stopped inches from Viktor's outstretched hand.
Viktor's breath came in shallow gasps. His chest hurt. Everything hurt. But he pushed anyway, getting his hands under him, trying to rise—
Leopold's boot moved. Planted itself firmly on the stone right in front of Viktor's face.
Not kicking. Just... there. A wall. A statement.
Viktor froze.
"That's better." Leopold's voice came from somewhere above. Distant. Cold. "Stay down. It's where you belong."
Viktor's arms gave out. He collapsed back onto the stone, cheek pressed against cold marble. The impact sent a fresh spike of pain through his shoulder. His throat burned. The tears he'd been holding back were right there, pressing against the backs of his eyes, demanding release.
Not yet. Not while Leopold was watching.
"Eight years," Leopold said again. Quieter now. Like he was talking to himself more than to Viktor. "Eight years and he's never looked at me the way he looked at you yesterday. Do you know what he said to me last month? When I completed the northern circuit drill ahead of schedule?"
Viktor didn't answer. Couldn't.
"Nothing." Leopold's boot shifted slightly. "He said nothing. Didn't even acknowledge it. But you? You froze a cup of water wrong and he called a council meeting."
That wasn't true. That wasn't—
But Viktor couldn't make his voice work to say it.
"You know what the worst part is?" Leopold's tone had gone flat. Empty. "You don't even appreciate it. You get his attention and you waste it. You get opportunities I would kill for and you just... fail."
The word landed like another shove.
Viktor's fingers curled against the stone. He tried to speak, tried to force out something—anything—but all that came was a broken sound that might have been the start of a word or might have been something else entirely.
"Pathetic." Leopold's boot finally moved away. "You're everything they said you were. A liability wrapped in frost. The phantom prince who shouldn't exist."
Footsteps. Moving away.
Viktor didn't look up. Couldn't. He just lay there on the cold stone, feeling the marble leech warmth from his skin, feeling the ache spread through his shoulder and ribs and chest. The locket pressed cold against his collarbone. His mother's locket. The one thing that was supposed to remind him he mattered to someone.
Leopold's footsteps stopped. One last thing, apparently.
"Next time Father asks about you," Leopold said, his voice carrying down the hallway, "I'll make sure to tell him exactly what I saw today. His precious project, face-down on the floor, crying."
Viktor's breath hitched.
"I'm sure that will go well for you."
Then Leopold laughed—short, sharp, satisfied—and his footsteps resumed. Steady. Unhurried. The sound of someone who had all the time in the world and nothing to fear.
The footsteps faded.
Silence filled the hallway.
Viktor lay there, alone on the cold stone floor, and finally let the tears come. They fell hot and fast, tracking down his face and pooling against the marble. His breath came in ragged gasps that he tried desperately to muffle. The hallway was empty now—no servants, no siblings, no witnesses—but that almost made it worse. Even the people who might have helped didn't care enough to stay.
Liability.
Orell's voice, clinical and cold.
You are a liability.
Phantom.
Leopold's voice, bitter and cruel.
Stay down. It's where you belong.
Viktor's hands pressed flat against the floor. He should get up. Should move. Should go back to his quarters before someone else found him like this. But his body wouldn't cooperate. The stone was cold and the silence was heavy and the weight of both words—liability and phantom—pressed down on him like physical things.
He was ten years old.
He had failed his evaluation.
He had been publicly degraded by the IMF.
He had been physically humiliated by his own brother.
And tomorrow, his father would hear about all of it.
Viktor closed his eyes and tried to remember how to breathe.