"Some time later, the general of the army
the brothers were a part of
was mysteriously assassinated."

・ ・ ・

The kerosene lamps lining the walls of the dungeons glowed dimly in the dark.

Footsteps echoed through the hollow, chilly air, heels clacking on the ground sharply. Slayen raised his head the slightest bit from where he sat huddled, his arms around his knees, at the shadowiest corner of his cell.

Crimson glinted as the faint dungeon light filtered through the cell bars, casting shadows over his face.

There was a creaking sound, armour clanking, and then a voice drifted over from the distance. "Your Highness, what are you—?" There was the sound of rustling paper, and the voice was abruptly cut off.

"I expect you to keep your mouth shut." A new voice. Slayen had heard it before, though. He just couldn't remember where.

There was a soft, responding murmur. The clatter of metal, and tinkling.

The footsteps continued, growing ever louder.

Slayen frowned, shifting, and eyed the cell bars. A figure came into view, dressed in night robes made of the finest silks and fabric. His frown grew deeper.

What was a royal, of all people, doing outside of his cell?

His face was shadowed in the dim light, brilliant green eyes staring hauntingly down at him. Imperious. Dignified.

King.

No, no. Slayen chewed on his bottom lip, unnerved by the sudden appearance of the royal. This is not the king.

The king had blue eyes. Blue the colour of marine, the colour of the morning skies and the colour of the seas under the light of the moon.

The royal before him had green eyes. Bright lime, the colour of the forest.

Slayen finally remembered. A certain prince, back when the king was giving him his sentence, had the exact same eyes. A certain prince who had shown obvious interest in him.

A certain prince who had tried to defend him, even though he was a stranger.

"Xenor," he uttered, narrowing his eyes at his visitor. How lucky he was, to be visited by the prince infamously known for his sharp tongue and overwhelmingly harsh critiques.

"Prince Xenor," the royal before him corrected, the faintest hint of amusement in his voice. "And I expect you to call me that from now on. Even a simple 'sir' is acceptable." A gesture, a finger pointed at him. "I'm surprised you know who I am."

A condescending smirk.

Slayen gritted his teeth. "I have no fucking obligations to listen to you." He glared at the prince. "Leave me the hell alone."

"Charming." Xenor glanced down at his fingernails, running his thumb over them. "While I do appreciate your irreverent behaviour, I have no time to humour your garrulous chatter."

"The fuck does that even mean?" Slayen scrutinised the green-eyed prince, befuddled.

"You are an Eltros, are you not?" Xenor's green orbs stabbed into Slayen's soul, as though trying to pry into his darkest thoughts. His secrets. "Murderers of innocents. Killers of authority. The heinous, opprobrious Eltros of old."

Slayen's heart froze for a split second. "What are you talking about?" He swallowed, trying to calm his nerves. A small voice in his head wondered how expansive the prince's vocabulary was.

"You are an Eltros," Xenor repeated, in a quietly dangerous tone, "are you not?"

"No," Slayen said quickly. "I am not an Eltros. I don't even know what that is."

Xenor stayed silent for a moment, allowing Slayen some much-needed time to soothe himself. His heart felt about to jump right through his chest.

"Why, Your Majesty, what brings you to my humble abode?"

"The matter is simple— I came to arrest you for murder."

He shook the thoughts out of his head.

"Really, Slayen, I expected you to be much better at handling deceit." Xenor let out a sigh, rolling his vivid green eyes. "Your words can't fool me."

Slayen's breath hitched in his throat.

The prince shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of mock helplessness. "Well, if you're so adamant about revealing your true heritage, I suppose you do not wish to be released from your sentence."

"Wait, what?" Slayen blinked, stunned. "What are you fucking playing at?"

Xenor gazed at him. "For the last time, I will ask you," he said, grabbing hold of one of the cell bars and leaning forward. His green eyes flashed.

"Murder?"

"Indeed. The murder of the husband of—"

"Ah, that murder." A chuckle. "Yes, I did kill him. And do you know why?"

Slayen pursed his lips, averting his gaze away under Xenor's glare. "You are an Eltros, are you not?" the prince said.

"I killed him because he made fun of me, for my face, for this scar on my eye. I killed him because he insulted me for this hair colour I have, this eye colour I have, that my father, my grandfather, and my ancestors before me all had."

"... Yes. I am." Slayen met Xenor's eyes. "I am an Eltros."

"I am an Eltros. A proud Eltros." A smile. "The very last of my kind."

He quickly shut the voices in his head away, as well as the images that accompanied them. They belonged to the past, not the present.

Not him.

Xenor smiled, a cool, sly smile. It was perturbing to see such a leering expression on the prince's face.

"I am going to offer you a deal." The green-eyed prince tossed something inside his cell, and it clattered to the dirty ground. Slayen reached over, and picked it up. His eyes widened.

A dagger.

The prince had given him a dagger.

He unsheathed it, and the polished, Ultra Titanium blade glowed at him.

"... I'm listening," he said, after sheathing back the dagger and grasping it in his hands. Xenor gestured for him to come forward, and he did, sidling towards the cell bars till he was directly in front of the prince.

Xenor crouched down, and Slayen quietly listened to the prince's hushed murmurs as they reached his ears.

He blinked. Then a grin.

"I never expected a prince like you to be so cunning." He raised a brow, rather impressed by the prince's words.

"Can it be done?" Xenor asked, ignoring his comment.

"Easily, Your Highness." Slayen fingered the blade in his hands, running his thumb up the hilt. "Though, I think I'll work better if I had another one of these beauties."

"Very well." Xenor dusted himself as he stood back up. His green eyes glinted maliciously, and a wide smirk graced his lips, sinister and anticipating. "I will come back tonight. Prepare yourself."

There was that look again. That same royal look that the king gave him on the day he was sentenced.

As Xenor turned and left, Slayen contemplated on what the prince had told him. His fingers brushed the hilt of the dagger once more.

Yes, that signature, royal look suited Xenor's face, when he wore it on.

It suited him very well.

"Father!" Storm called, running to catch up with Bayne. The king turned around, and a broad smile spread across his face. "Good morning," he panted, reaching his father's side.

"Good morning to you too, son." Bayne ruffled his hair, and Storm smiled up at him in return.

"Are you heading to your office?" he asked.

Bayne nodded, heaving a heavy sigh. "The paperwork has been piling up these days," he admitted. Storm cocked his head at him, then tugged at his sleeve.

"Let me help you, Father." He flexed his fingers. "You shouldn't be overworking yourself."

Bayne chuckled, his voice deep and booming. Another hair tousle. "While I do appreciate your eagerness to help me with my work, son, I'm afraid you're still too young."

Storm pouted. "But I'm already ten," he protested. "At least give me a sheet or two to work with."

His father seemed amused as he shook his head. "It'll be too difficult for you to understand. We're talking about politics, son!" He spread his arms wide. "Solving confusing problems about the world, about the Five Kingdoms, about our kingdom. Everything that makes up our kingdom, our economy, our rules and regulations and all things important."

He tapped Storm's nose lightly. "It is not something you should take lightly, my dear boy. One wrong decision, and the foundations of the kingdom can be destroyed all at once."

Storm shuddered, a prickle of dread itching his skin at the thought. "Okay, Father," he relented. "But let me help you when I grow older."

"Of course, son." Bayne smiled, and pulled him into a hug, gratitude shining in his blue irises. "But for now, I'll have to work on my own." A pitiful sigh. "It's so tiring, I'll probably die before I manage to complete it all." He chuckled half-heartedly. "Anyway, go and train with Ash later. I think she's teaching archery today."

Storm nodded, and waved to his father, before heading down the hallways towards his room, to prepare himself for the training session with Ash. As he did, Xenor rounded the corner, and they almost collided.

"Brother," Storm greeted. Xenor didn't even glance at him, continuing to walk down the corridor, muttering things under his breath.

He heard the word 'king'.

Storm stared after his brother, feeling his gut twist with hurt.

Ever since he had helped Tesarah escape from the Palace a year ago, Xenor had become more distant. The void between them was growing bigger and bigger with each passing day, each moment, each second.

Not to mention, the sudden violence and aggression of his once-passive nature only worsened the situation.

He would argue with Bayne and Liss, disagree with Silix, and criticise Ash for not teaching him well enough. He would demand all sorts of things, and stay in his room the entire day, only leaving when he had to eat his meals or had to go to the bathroom.

The maids and servants weren't allowed in his room at all, even if it was just to tidy up. Rosemary became rather stressed because of that.

And to Storm... his brother treated him like he didn't even exist.

He wondered what had happened to his brother to turn him into who he currently was. Cruel, cold, calculating.

Storm shook the thoughts out of his head. No point lamenting on it. He was certain Xenor had his own reasons for the change in his personality.

As his mind wandered to Tesarah, and how she was doing, he was reminded of the words she said to him, before she left the Palace.

"Your brother, he's planning something. Something bad."

Storm frowned.

"And he kept muttering things, whenever he was alone. Something about killing."

Rather strange, when he thought about it. It was most probably linked to his brother's different behaviour. But what did Xenor want to kill? Who did Xenor want to kill? He was only twelve.

"Just— please be careful, Storm. Keep an eye on your brother; he's up to something. And whatever he's planning, it's bound to happen soon. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next year."

How ominous her words were.

A sense of foreboding settled in the pits of his stomach, and it disturbed him greatly. He reached his room, and just as he was about to open his cabinet, there was a hoarse cry from outside the window.

He glanced at the transparent panels, raising a brow.

A dark shape flapped past, and he realised it was a raven. Black wings, black beak, black talons and eyes. A black bird, its body the same colour as his hair... without the white streaks.

Raven black.

As he observed the raven soaring through the azure skies, a single feather fell, and landed on the window sill. He averted his attention to it.

It was elegant, beautiful, and yet so dark.

Storm decided not to ponder on it any longer. He had a training session to attend, after all.

That night, just as Storm finished reading about the kings of Argon and the Stormbringer's origins, a shudder ran up his spine, perturbing him. He rubbed his arm as he closed the book on his lap, feeling the goosebumps start to rise up on his skin.

It was annoying how often he'd experienced the same thing in the day.

He huffed, getting off his bed and moving to his bookshelf to place the book back in its rightful place.

That was when he heard faint footsteps outside his door.

He paused, listening. The padding of feet came again. They seemed to be coming from the corridor to the left. A sudden realisation.

Xenor's room was to the left.

Storm opened the door, peering out curiously. "Brother?" he called out softly, glancing around. "Are you here?"

No response.

He squinted in the dim light of the hallways, and spotted a glint of red. "Brother?" he called out once more, in a louder voice. Was Xenor outside? He shouldn't be. His brother would never do such a thing.

The red glint he saw disappeared just as quickly as it appeared.

A frown.

Perhaps he had just been imagining things, Storm thought, closing the door quietly. He blamed his overcautiousness on the goosebumps and chills he had been feeling since morning.

They were making him paranoid.

A resounding scream woke Storm up the next day. He bolted up on his bed, stiffening, and glanced around wildly, wondering where the scream came from.

He got off his bed blearily, staggering in a hazy daze, and stumbled to the door, yanking it open.

The sight which greeted him was rather... astonishing.

Maids were rushing past him, running down the hallway and talking in hurried whispers. A few servants followed after them, as did a couple of guards, hands tight on the hilts of their swords.

What in the name of the Guardian Spirit was going on?

"What in the seven hells is going on?" came a harsh voice, echoing his own thoughts— albeit a little more rudely— and Storm turned to see Xenor, covering his mouth elegantly as he yawned. His brother stepped out of his own room, shutting the door behind him with a click. "Making such a ruckus early in the morning— how preposterous."

"Shouldn't we go and find out then, rather than stand here and complain about the noise?" Storm told his brother, and for the first time in a year, Xenor looked at him. Straight at him. Green eyes met blue ones, and they narrowed.

"... You make a decent point," his brother grumbled in a grudging voice, before crankily stomping down the hallway, following the flustered maids and servants. Storm stared after him for a moment, before trailing along.

He never thought it would feel so good to be acknowledged by his brother again, after such a long time.

As Storm jogged after Xenor, who was walking rather briskly, he became more aware of the sound of sobbing. It came from further ahead of them, where a surprisingly large cluster of maids, servants and guards were gathered near his parents' room.

And strangely enough, it sounded like Liss.

Xenor stopped in his tracks and stood there, motionlessly staring at the crowd of people. Storm glanced at him, before continuing on, pushing past the bodies in his way. Their murmurs reached his ears, and he finally managed to squeeze out.

His mother kneeled on the ground before him, her face in her hands, broken noises escaping her lips, tears dripping on the carpeted floor from the gaps between her fingers. Rosemary was at her side, trying to soothe her, gently patting her back and stroking her arm.

"Mother?" Storm went forward uncertainly, wondering why his strong, fierce mother was crying. It was the first time he saw her in such a teary mess.

Liss' body trembled as she looked up, her eyes glazed, red and puffy from crying. A sniffle, and something in her must've snapped, because she burst into tears again, her sobs escalating into fragmented wails.

"Mother, what's wrong?" Storm crouched down in front of his mother, worry etched on his face. Liss reached out to him, and pulled him into a tight hug, her nails digging into his skin, weeping into his shoulder.

He was stunned, and patted her back awkwardly, hoping it would calm her.

Instead, her hold grew impossibly tighter.

Storm tilted his head and caught Rosemary's anxious gaze. "What happened?" he asked softly, while trying to alleviate his mother's pain.

Rosemary shook her head, pressing her lips together into a single thin line. A haunted look came over her face, and she looked about to start crying on the spot as well.

Storm glanced down at his mother again, who was slumped against him, clinging onto him like he was the only support she had left in the world—

Where's Father?

He looked around, trying to find his father's prominent figure. Yet he was nowhere to be seen, not even the slightest glimpse of him.

Then the door of his parents' chambers opened, and out stepped Ash, Silix, and Zana, speaking quietly to each other in grave tones, worry lines creasing their foreheads and making them appear older than they usually looked.

Their postures were slouched, as though a new burden had been added to their shoulders— one much heavier than all the others that they currently had.

Storm whispered to his mother, gently stroking her hair and pecking her on the forehead, before slipping out of her grasp— with some trouble— much to her dismay. Then he stood and approached the general, advisor, and Head Cleric, who were still engaged in their hushed conversation.

"... and did you see the wounds on his chest?" Ash was saying, her brows furrowed, fists clenched. "They were made by dual daggers—"

"What wounds?" Storm cut in, and the three adults whirled around, finally realising that he was there, listening in on them. "What are you talking about?"

"Your Highness—" Silix stopped abruptly, and he dropped his head, grimacing. The two women with him exchanged glances, their expressions dark.

"What are you talking about?" Storm demanded, his muscles tensing. Yet the three of them stayed silent, unwilling to speak.

Zana's gaze flickered to his parents' room for a split second, and Storm turned to it.

The door was shut. Quiet.

Foreboding.

He ran up to it, grabbing hold of the door knob, and Silix yelled at him to stop, Ash moving after him with a cry of warning. Zana's dark skin had paled considerably.

The general caught Storm's arm, pulling him back, pulling him away from the door. Storm whirled and wrenched his arm out of her grip, shoving her away from him, before yanking open the door of his parents' room.

And the first thing he saw was red.

It dyed the floor, the walls, and even the ceiling had a few splotches of it. Splatters of dark, dark red. It blinded his vision, and he couldn't comprehend what he was seeing. Why would his parents' room be red? Wasn't it supposed to be blue?

A calming baby blue?

His eyes wandered the room, searching for any other differences. Nothing else, apparently, other than the body that lay on the floor before him—

Body.

Storm glanced at the broken body on the floor of his parents' room. Mutilated, convoluted, gashed, broken.

A dismembered arm lay beside it, ring finger adorning a single ring holding a diamond gem which looked suspiciously familiar.

He took a step forward, and almost slipped. The floor was wet.

His breathing quickened as he realised that the floor was covered in blood. It was blood that coated the walls, the carpets, the body in front of him. And as he took another step, a repulsively sweet odour stung his nostrils, with a metallic tang to it.

Blood.

Storm gulped, reaching the body. He took a look at its face, breath held.

A second later, he found himself on his knees, the blood that dyed the world around him seeping into his nightwear and staining his feet scarlet, scarlet, scarlet. His breaths had become ragged, inconsistent, and he held up a trembling hand, touching the body's face. His face.

Cold skin under his fingers, covered in more red.

The head lolled at his touch, and faced him, giving him a traumatically clear view of its features, his heart almost stopping.

A gash ran across the bridge of its nose, and the skin on its forehead had split open, drenching its entire face in blood. An eye had been gouged out, leaving a gaping, bloody hole on the right side of its face.

Its remaining eye stared at him, empty and wide.

Yet there was no mistaking it.

There was no mistaking him.

Storm's breath hitched, and grasped the body's hand, touching it, feeling it. He knew the feeling of the palm. He felt it on his head everyday, from the day he was born to the day before, messing up his hair with teasing affection. Rough, calloused skin, with the occasional, faint ink blotch on the tips of its fingers.

He pressed his own palm against it, hoping to feel that warmth it always emanated, to feel that whole-hearted love that always pulsed from its veins.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

He glanced across the body, at the cut-off limb beside it. At the ring it wore.

It was the exact same ring Liss wore on her own ring finger.

The world blurred, and all he saw was the bloody sight before him. His heart thumped violently against his chest, pounding in his ears, thrumming in his veins and arteries and under his skin.

He stared at the body's face once more.

A single eye gazed back at him.

A single blue eye, mirroring his own. Exactly like his own.

He looked down at his hands. Blood stained them, and they began to tremble uncontrollably.

His heart ripped itself open, bleeding endless, torturous agony into his soul.

A whimper arose in his throat, and a ringing filled his mind, his ears, drowning out everything else in the world except his own frantic breathing.

Faster, faster, faster, and his chest clenched excruciatingly, his body shuddering. There was a scream, somewhere close by, and he felt tears start to spill from his eyes, streaming down his throbbing cheeks and dripping onto his bloodied hands.

He was the one who had screamed, he realised.

And it wouldn't stop.

"Being worthy is not about having strength, intelligence, nor the ability to lead."

Anguished, guttural noises poured from his mouth, howls of pain and suffering and tormenting, grievous heartbreak. He clasped his hands together, crying and crying and crying, squeezing his fingers so hard till they turned purple and ached.

"It is about the heart."

His shoulders shook, and his chest splintered with an indescribable agony that rocked him to his very core.

The tears wouldn't stop.

"Do not think that you are any lesser than Xenor, my son. Both of you are special, and unique, in your own ways."

They continued to flow, unfaltering, splashing on the ground, on his pants, on his fingers.

The pain wouldn't stop.

"And in my opinion..."

It would never stop.

"... you are just as qualified to be king as your brother is."

The ringing in his ears thudded in his head as he continued to wail out, wishing desperately for some sort of warmth on his head to soothe the ache. It was cold, like ice surrounding him, encasing him, trapping him.

So, so cold.

But there would be no warmth.

No warmth to comfort him, to calm him, to tell him that everything was alright and would turn out just fine.

The warmth was gone.

It would always be gone.

A maddening choke on his mind, another broken scream of anguish, reverberating in his soul, in his chest, in his heart as it continued to bleed out gruellingly, profoundly, endlessly.

Broken like his splintered being.

Broken like the body before him.

Broken like Bayne had become.