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Chapter Eighty-One

Jasce

A month after we return to Sharhavva, two guards drag Aleksander into the throne room.

My fingers tighten on the armrests as I take in the shell of the man before me. His black hair hangs in strands around his face. The rich clothes he once wore with such pride now hang loose on his frame, and blood crusts around his wrists, where the shackles have rubbed his skin raw.

The guards force him to his knees before my throne, and he sways slightly, as if the simple act of kneeling requires more strength than he possesses.

“You’re being exiled,” I say, my voice emotionless.

Aleksander remains silent, his eyes distant and unfocused.

I reach for my goblet of wine, needing something to wash away the acrid taste of this conversation.

“Don’t drink that wine.” His voice cuts through the air, stopping me. “It’s poisoned.”

My hand freezes mid-reach. I study his face, searching for deception, but find none. With deliberate slowness, I pick up the goblet and pour the wine into a potted plant. The petals shrivel and blacken instantly.

Heat pulses through my veins as I turn back to him. “How did you know about the wine?”

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Do you think I’m a fool, Jasce? That I’m no threat to you?”

“I’ve always thought you were a threat,” I say as memories flood back unbidden. “From the time I was fifteen summers old, and you pushed me into that bear cave.”

“I got you out later.” His face remains impassive, but something flickers in his eyes.

“That doesn’t negate what you did.” I study him, this brother who has been both ally and enemy. “Who is behind the wine?”

Aleksander leans forward, his chains clinking softly. “Brathen. He wants your throne.”

“Impossible. He’s not even here. So, how can he poison my wine?”

Aleksander shrugs. “Believe me if you want or choose not to. I don’t give a damn what you think.”

I study my brother. Even in chains, even defeated, there’s still that serpentine grace about him. “Tell me the fucking truth. How do you know about the wine?”

“The color. It’s darker than normal, and I’ve seen it before when Brathen used it on his enemies.”

So, now you save me?

What are you really up to, Alek?

“Why tell me this now?”

That familiar smirk tugs at his lips as he tilts his head to the side. “Perhaps I’ve grown fond of you, brother.”

I rise from my throne, closing the distance between us. “You’ve never done anything that didn’t benefit you first.”

“True. But sometimes our interests align. Brathen wants both of us dead. You because you sit on the throne he covets, and me...” His smirk widens. “Well, I know too much.”

I circle him slowly. “And what exactly do you know?”

“Enough to make your blood run cold.” He tracks my movement with those calculating eyes of his. “Enough to make you question everything you think you know about the war, about our father, about why your mother really died.”

My hand shoots out, gripping his jaw. “Don’t you dare speak of her.”

“Still so protective.” He doesn’t flinch from my grip. “Still the dutiful son. But what if everything you protected wasn’t what you thought it was?”

Disgust churns in my gut as I release him with a shove. “You’re trying to manipulate me. Again.”

“Am I?” He straightens his shoulders. “Look beneath that mask Brathen wears. Look at his eyes. Don’t they seem familiar to you?”

Something about Brathen’s eyes has always nagged at me. Something I can’t quite place.

“What are you saying?”

“You know exactly what I’m saying.” Aleksander smiles as he continues. “The question is, brother. What are you going to do about it?”