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He was there first.

Arwin’s head dropped.

All he ever wanted was to be someone’s first choice. He wanted to be Rionach’s first choice, he wanted to be his father’s first choice—Brontes’s first choice. His brother.

That was all.

Arwin’s leg faltered as he blocked another attack. Brontes had struck from above, waving his sword as a hatchet. The King was focused on hurting him, his brother. His only brother, his only blood relative who remained alive.

Now on one knee, taking mouthfuls of air, Arwin looked up to Brontes. The king stumbled back, making space. No, that won’t do. Not now. He wouldn’t do this. Brontes would never leave things unfinished.

“Just kill me,” Arwin mumbled, his eyes filled with tears until they overran, spilling over his dirty smudged cheek. “Please. Just get it over with.”

Rionach screamed at the top of her lungs, begging Brontes not to kill him.

His heart broke even more. She wanted him alive. For what? To see her marry the king? To see her gift that smile to Brontes instead of him? To see her round with a child that wouldn’t be his?

Arwin’s stomach knotted, and he crouched, holding his flanks. “My King, please. I beg you.” Arwin didn’t see Brontes’s forlorn stare fall from him to Rionach and back to him. He was in too much pain to even dare look up, to face his reality. The king won. Everything would remain as it was. He would marry Rionach, crown her queen, have royal descendants with her… descendants who would rule instead of him.

“I will not kill you, General Arwin.”

Arwin’s blood boiled. “Please.” He lifted his head to look at him again. “Kill me!”

“I will not!”

Desperation settled in. He would not be witness to Brontes’s ascension, to his marriage, to him holding a child with Rionach. He would not witness Rionach pulling Brontes down for a kiss, dressed in white and with a tiara on her head. He would not. Arwin’s grip on his sword tightened. He tried one last time.

“King Brontes, I beseech you.”

The king shook his head.

Arwin kneeled down, begging yet. No amount of begging would do. The king would not yield. He never did. Arwin snapped, and with the last ounce of energy in him he raised his sword to strike.

With the same speed as lighting, the Heaven Sword struck Arwin’s face, his weapon dropping along with his remaining dignity.

Arwin stared at his reflection. The long gash on his face had long been sutured. A flesh wound. The doctor had called it a flesh wound… as if it was just a scrape of a mere child falling on his knees. A flesh wound…

The healer forgot to say that it would leave a horrendous scar on Arwin’s once handsome face. Tilting his head, Arwin inspected how the healing was coming alone. He looked miserable. If he weren’t such a coward, he would’ve ended himself right there in front of the king, but oh no, he had to be theatrical and ask Brontes to end him.

Brontes had come into his room after the match, as if Arwin’s pride hadn’t been damaged enough. The king gave him some much-needed leave to recuperate his strength.

Of course, the king needed him. He was his fucking general. He knew more of the army than Brontes did, and yet…

Arwin looked at himself one last time and decided that it wasn’t worth it. Thinking about everything was not worth it. It was done. Brontes would marry Rionach. They were soulmates. Arwin would continue being the general, and Brontes king. Rionach would bear him an heir to the throne, and Arwin would watch as the baby was presented to the world, and he would go through the stupid protocol of bowing on his knees and pledge his loyalty to that baby. The mere thought of him kneeling and presenting his sword to Brontes and Rionach, made his stomach recoil in anger. Scoffing, Arwin grabbed his coat and left the castle.

His goal, for now, was to drown his sorrow with alcohol at Ophelia Plaza, and subsequently find someone to use and forget about the soon-to-be queen of the Sky Kingdom. Yet his visit to the local tavern was unfruitful. People walked up to him and touched his shoulders, but as they saw the scar, they moved away, probably scared not only by the scar but also by whatever was the cause. Arwin didn’t blame them at all. The gash was disgusting, red with the still fresh stitches that pulled his skin. If he let his beard grow, maybe it would cover it up, but as much as he hated that mark, he found it to be a good reminder of what he had done. He had challenged the king and survived.

He snorted.

Who was he kidding?

He survived because Brontes took pity on him. If he had been any other soldier, he would’ve been dead, his corpse tossed out to rot in the blazing Umbriel desert, food for scavenger birds. But no. He was alive, all because he was the king’s secret sibling.

“Fucking asshole,” Arwin murmured to himself as he chugged another shot.

Another pair of soft hands brushed his shoulders, and he turned around. He was met with dark hooded eyes and a mischievous smile. He grunted as he took in the woman before him. He wasn’t enticed, he wasn’t even moved, so he turned and asked for another shot.

“It is such a sad thing, to see the General of the strongest army in Gaia, drinking away his sorrows,” the woman said, sitting on the stool next to Arwin. “Bad week?”