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“I don’t want to know.” Arwin pressed the tip of his sword to Brontes’s Adam’s apple, watching it bob with the force of his swallow. “Tomorrow, first light.”

“Arwin! Please! I—”

“I would shut up if I were you, Rionach,” Arwin warned, before putting his sword back into its sheath.

He stared at Rionach intently, as if searching for a hint of guilt in her eyes. Gods, if he saw just a speck of it, he would ask her to come back, to be with him, to leave the king. He was the one that loved her more than anything in this forsaken place. Yes, he was no king, but damn it, he loved her. He loved her so fucking much. Instead, what he saw made his skin crawl. All he saw was fear, not for him…

No.

Her small hand slipped through Brontes’s, her fingers threading his. She squeezed his hand, looking for comfort. She was scared, not of losing Arwin, but of losing the king.

His gaze dropped to the floor. Arwin turned away and closed the door behind him. When he was finally down the stairs, heading to his chamber, and alone, then he let out a shuddering breath.

He pressed his back to the door, locking it in his wake before he slid down to the cold stone floor. If he died tomorrow, he wouldn’t care, if he killed the king, he wouldn’t care either. If he killed her. He shook his head and grabbed his hair in frustration. He couldn’t kill her. Not her. He couldn’t extinguish the fire that she ignited in him. He couldn’t destroy that smile, that laugh. No, not Rionach.

He couldn’t.

He shouldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

Arwin exhaled, standing again, and undid his belt. His sword clattered loudly as it fell. His chest was heavy with unshed tears. Whatever happened tomorrow, he had lost Rionach. He slipped under the covers and touched the side where Rionach had been hours ago.

Her scent still clung to the pillow, to the sheets. He hugged the pillow tightly to his face, and it dawned on him. He never really had her in the first place, had he?

Arwin did not sleep. Instead, he recounted the moment he met Rionach, and brought her to his home. He replayed the countless nights they would sit after making love and talk about what each one of them wanted. He always added her to his future, always talked about how he would get her a bigger house, how he would buy her the most expensive dresses. Her happiness was his goal.

She would listen to him intently, smile at his words and laugh when he said something too ostentatious. She never said no to him, but… she never truly said yes.

Arwin kept his gaze fixed on a specific stone of the ceiling as maids walked down the halls and soldiers changed shifts.

He needed to get up. The sun was already out, and the king was probably waiting for him somewhere at the back of the castle, where soldiers would be sent to train or spar. He pulled himself out of the bed, grabbed the forgotten belt from the floor and buckled it. He attempted to fix his hair with a shaking hand.

Exiting his chamber, he walked past the judging gaze of the guards by the halls. Arwin knew they knew. Word always traveled fast in Oberon castle. As he stepped outside, he searched for Brontes amongst the soldiers. He found him, sitting on a wooden stool in an open sandy square. Soldiers stood around, wanting to see the duel between the General of the royal Skylian army, and the King.

Arwin’s heart raced, his grip on his sword tightened as he approached his brother, but as he got closer, he saw her. Rionach stood away from the king, yet close enough for Arwin to know which side she was really on.Their eyes met, and for the first time Arwin saw something twinkle in them when she saw him. Yet, that spark wasn’t love. It was something else…

Pity?

“Arwin,” she gasped and walked to him. His heart beat faster, stronger.This woman would be the end of him if he allowed it. “Arwin,” she touched the hand that held his sword. “Please, you do not have to do this.”

Arwin blinked, staring down at Rionach as if expecting something else in them. She wasn’t worried about him; she was worried about Brontes. She was petrified to see him hurt. How...dare she!?

“I don’t, but I want to.” He turned to Brontes, whose face showed remorse rather than fear. “Let’s get this over with.”

Arwin pushed the door to his chamber open. He let the bag hit the ground with an audible and disgusting crack. His trip back to the castle was slow and hot. His cotton shirt stuck to his sweat dampened skin. As he sauntered to his bed, he caught his reflection in the mirror next to his closet.

He had weathered the years well. The fine lines at the corners of his eyes were prominent, as well as the ones at the edge of his mouth. Luckily his hair was already silver, no white hair would pop out. He was still strong, his body an easy witness to that. His arms were thick, thicker than many of the young soldiers at Oberon castle.

Arwin ran his fingers through his hair and tilted his head to the side. He stared at the scar along his jaw, the one that many people saw first when they laid eyes on him. His reminder. As he continued his scrutiny, he decided that something was missing.

Turning to his sleeping space, he wandered about his closet, getting on one knee, and pulling out a large box. He went back to the mirror, opened the box, and took out a crown.

It was Brontes’s crown.

Made of thick, embellished gold, and studded with the same gems as the Heaven Sword. The symbol of Ouranos was shaped delicately in the middle of it, proud and powerful.

Arwin had taken it from Rionach’s room, because it was his now. The throne was his. Not Valda’s, not Rionach’s, no one else’s but his. It had to be his since the moment Brontes died, but his heart did not pump pure royal Skylian blood. He was a bastard. He took in the crumbs of whatever power was given to him by Brontes.