"Have you prepared my morning dress?"
"Yes, my lady."
"Good." A slow, satisfied smile touched Isabelle's lips as she studied her reflection in the dawn-lit mirror. "Yesterday was… productive. I played the game with Tenebrarum's favor, and I stumbled upon a deliciously stupid secret in Camilla's chambers last night."
Her attendant, Elara, allowed a small, cautious smile as she laid out a gown of pale grey silk. "You seem very pleased this morning, my lady."
"Of course I am," Isabelle murmured, her eyes gleaming with private victory. "All I've ever wanted is Tenebrarum. I want him woven so deep into my future that no one else can even glimpse him." She turned from the mirror, the morning light catching the sharp edge of her smile. "And now… everything is aligning as it should."
"Aligning as it should?"
The voice was not Elara's.
It was low, calm, and came from the sunlit doorway of her sitting room.
Isabelle's breath hitched. Her gaze darted to the entrance.
Prince Magnus stood there, silhouetted against the bright corridor, his arms folded. His face was composed, but his eyes were sharp, missing nothing.
He hadn't just arrived. He had been listening.
"I always knew you were a slut," he said, his voice disturbingly calm. "Running after Tenebrarum like a starved dog after scraps."
Her attendant, Elara, immediately bowed her head low, becoming a statue of discretion.
Isabelle's smile didn't falter; it hardened. "At least I'm not a dog that chases every passing smell," she replied, her tone cool and precise. "I chase gold. The real kind."
"We are to be married in a matter of days," Magnus stated, taking a slow step into the room. "And this is the rubbish you speak?"
"Please correct yourself," Isabelle said, turning fully to face him, her chin lifted. "I will never marry you. I will marry Tenebrarum. He is the only gold worth having."
He closed the distance between them in two swift strides, his breath hot against her ear. "You're a fool," he hissed, the calm veneer cracking. "You acted so sweet when we first met. I should have known… your mother sent me a viper." His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist and tightening until her bones ached.
"At least my mother sent me after something precious," she shot back, her voice low and venomous. "Not a fool who lost a crown because he wasn't worthy. You'll never be worthy."
The words cut deeper than a blade.
It wasn't his fault.
He was too weak—just a child when Tenebrarum had been chosen over him.The old wound, never truly healed, tore open fresh under her contempt.
He released her hand, his own fingers trembling. A dull, hollow ache bloomed in his chest, sharper than any bruise. He turned without another word and left the room, the door closing softly behind him.
In the empty corridor, he pressed a fist to his sternum, feeling his heart thud violently against his ribs.
Three years.
He was older than Tenebrarum by three full years. By blood, by tradition, by right, the throne should have been his. Not because of legitimacy alone, but because he was the first son.
But his father had chosen Tenebrarum. A boy born from a whore. A son whispered to be half-demon, conceived in shadows with a creature from the deepest hell.
No matter how hard Magnus trained, how fiercely he plotted, he could never match him. How do you fight a prince who was never entirely a normal datk creature?
How do he defeat a storm?
He leaned against the cold stone wall, his breath coming in short, ragged pulls. The crown wasn't just stolen—it was given to something monstrous.
I hate you, Tenebrarum.
The words were a sharp, guttural snarl, torn from a place of wounded pride and bitter inheritance. They hung in the empty corridor, a vow whispered not to the shadows, but to the legacy of a brother who was always meant to eclipse him.
He did not look back. He walked deeper into the gloom, each step echoing the old, familiar rhythm of a prince walking in another's shadow—a dark creature forever outshone by a darker sun.
---
Thud!
The door to Tenebrarum's chambers burst open with a shuddering sound.
Tenebrarum did not rise. He was seated on a black chaise, draped in robes of deepest charcoal, his faceless mask a void in the dim light. Every line of him, from the fall of his sleeve to the stillness of his posture, seemed an extension of the shadows themselves.
"Are you out of your senses?" Tenebrarum's voice was low, a blade wrapped in silk.
"Sir, we tried to stop him—" a guard began, bowing low.
A single, slow gesture from Tenebrarum's hand silenced him. The guards did not wait for another. They fled, the door clicking shut behind them, leaving Magnus alone with the darkness he had come to challenge.
"I know you've always wanted Matrona," Magnus stated, his voice too loud in the sudden quiet.
Tenebrarum's response was not anger, but a low, genuine burst of laughter. "Wanted?" he echoed, the sound cold and humorless. "The word you're looking for is hated."
"I'm not joking, Tenebrarum."
"How dare you," Tenebrarum said softly, all trace of amusement gone. He rose, unfolding to his full height. He was only slightly taller than Magnus, but the difference felt absolute—a mountain regarding a foothill. "How dare you come into my world and spew nonsense in my presence."
Magnus didn't back down. "I've always known you wanted a higher bloodline. She's a witch. You want your heirs to be strong."
Tenebrarum went still, his masked head tilting slightly. The idea had never occurred to him. He had never so much as glanced at the witch in that way. But as the words hung in the air, a cold, calculating part of his mind stirred.
A higher bloodline.
It wasn't desire. It was strategy. And Magnus, in his clumsy rage, had just handed him a weapon he hadn't known he needed.
"A higher bloodline would be… advantageous," Tenebrarum conceded, his voice a slow, thoughtful murmur behind the mask. "But no. I am not after that. I have a soon-to-be wife. Camilla is… not so bad."
"You want me to believe you?" Magnus scoffed, the bitterness sharp in his throat. "You searched for her. You claimed her as your partner in yesterday's game. Don't pretend it was random."
Tenebrarum's stillness deepened. "I have always known you were envious, Magnus. But now I see you are also delusional. You should check yourself—this obsession is rotting your mind."
"And I do not intend to get you angry," Magnus replied, forcing his voice to steadiness. "I would prefer you go after your worn-out toy, and I face what is mine."
"Leave. Now."
Tenebrarum's words were not spoken—they were a wave of pure, smothering heat that rolled through the chamber. The air grew dense, shimmering with a feverish intensity. Magnus could feel it searing the back of his throat, pressing against his skin like a warning from a dormant volcano.
He did not argue.
He turned and walked out, each step measured, his pride the only shield against the urge to run. He knew, with a hunter's instinct, that if he stayed a moment longer, this room would not be a chamber, but a charnel house.
The door closed behind him, sealing the heat and the silence inside.
Tenebrarum did not move. He simply watched the space where his brother had stood, the air around him still rippling with contained violence.
----------------------------
To be continued...