Muffled voices could be heard behind the towering doors into the throne room as he stood at the entrance, his palms growing sweaty with nerves. He knew Father was holding an audience today with some of the important figureheads that ruled over the border towns in Westgarde, the ones that had been carrying whispers of rebellion back to the capital’s ears. But he was not moronic enough to walk in and disrupt that meeting. Instead he waited, constantly passing by the throne room doors to see if the conversation was still in full swing. It was nearing an hour before he heard his father’s resonant, cruel voice call for the conclusion to their meeting.

  With one last steadying breath, he opened the doors.

  Most of the faces within the chamber were foreign to him, and rather old. But two caught him by surprise: Oliver and Lord Farrington. The former caught his gaze with an equal look of confusion as to why the Crown Prince had entered the throne room unannounced.

  The casual murmur of concluding conversations quickly died as all heads now turned in his direction and proceeded to bow, his boots echoing off of the polished marble as he approached. He stopped only a few paces from the grand dias which housed his father’s throne. It was not a typical piece of royal furniture, as Aleksander had had it hewn from stone instead of carpented from wood. Stone was stronger, less movable. As he looked up at his father, a memory flashed in his mind, a time when he himself had sat in that throne that was far too large for him, as Aleksander placed him upon it and informed him of who he was to become.

  But I will never be like you. Not anymore.

  He spotted the faintest twitch of his father’s jaw, an almost imperceivable sign of his irritation, as he sat up slightly in his throne.

  “Philip. To what do we owe this… unexpected visit? We were in the middle of a rather important meeting.”

  He clasped his hands behind his back to conceal their trembling. It felt as if his crown was digging into his skull, trying to warn him of what he might lose.

  “Yes well it seemed to me like this meeting was over,” he stated curtly. “Now if the rest of you do not mind, I wish to have a word with my father. Alone.”

  His eyes remained locked on the King as he raised his voice slightly to address the rest of the men in the room, a sense of authority overtaking his tone as naturally as breathing. A couple of the noblemen hesitated, but Oliver was the first to move, giving him a quick, respectful bow before striding towards the door. His father, however, was the last. His rich brown eyes shifted towards the lord challengingly, and with a cold, forced bow, he finally made his way out of the throne room.

  Something about it made the hairs on his neck stand on end.

  But now his attention was undividedly on the large, imposing man who sat before him, a quiet anger brimming in his cold eyes as he waited for his son to speak.

  “What exactly happened yesterday evening?” he prompted.

  His father’s eyes narrowed, ever so slightly, but it was enough to cause his heart to beat heavily against his chest.

  “There were a great many things that happened yesterday evening, I am a busy man. You will have to be more specific–”

  “Did you strike Aryn?”

  He had anticipated a number of situations, but Aleksander sitting back further into his throne was not one of them. The look in his eyes, however, he had expected.

  “Why do you care?”

  The question slapped him in the face, the insinuation behind it causing his skin to burn. His chest heaved as he attempted to keep his composure.

  “Because he is my brother. My family.”

  “If you really must know, it is because your little brother disrespected me. And I do not take disrespect lightly–”

  “Your son…”

  Aleksander’s face suddenly darkened, and it felt as if all of the light and warmth in the throne room was extinguished. Suddenly he was a boy again, about to get the belt because of a miniscule mistake that had been made, because his mouth had grown slightly too smart.

  “Excuse me?”

  He then remembered the color-drained look on Percy’s face last night. The nightmares he’d had about Aryn. Mother’s letter…

  “Aryn is your son. And he is intelligent, and kind, and talented, and honestly if he were given the chance, he’d be one Hell of a diplomat. Just because he is not exactly like you does not mean he is some sort of disgrace.”

  Aleksander now leaned forward in his throne, his fingers enveloping the arms of the grand chair in an ironclad grip.

  “Did I truly raise you to be so daft? Your brother is not a disgrace because we have differences. He is a disgrace to this family because he does everything in his power to sabotage us. He goes out of his way to tarnish the Stewart name, to attempt to dismantle everything I have built for us,” he growled.

  “Yes well maybe that is how you see it,” he spat.

  “Oh for Heaven’s sake, and how do you see it, Philip? Please do enlighten me, because I have grown dangerously tired of the games you and your brother are now playing.”

  “We are not playing any games!” he shouted. “That is the point, Father! You have always been too proud to admit your faults, too proud to put the blame on yourself. All Aryn wants is to care for our people. There are no games he is playing, no tricks he is trying to pull. But you are threatened by him–”

  Aleksander laughed. A harsh, cruel laugh that made him feel infinitesimally small.

  “Threatened?”

  “Yes, threatened. You feel threatened by Aryn because you know that if our people actually got to see him, to know him, they would want him on the throne. Not you, not me. Him.”

  The King scoffed. “Please. Your brother would destroy this kingdom. He is weak. And no one who possesses such turmoil within their mind, such instability should be in any position of power, and you know it. Do not try to deny the fact that your brother is not sound.”

  Suddenly he saw red. His pulse throbbed within his ears, drowning out everything else around him.

  “He has been abused by you his entire life! He lost his mother. He watched her die, and he was alone. I needn’t remind you how that disgraceful day unfolded. And now he has almost been murdered. He has not had so much as a single second to breathe, let alone work through everything he has been through. And just because you cannot understand how he sees the world, it does not mean he is mad. My brother is one of the wisest people I have ever met–”

  “If he were so wise, he would learn not to disrespect his King.”

  “In my opinion, Father, kings should earn respect. And you have done nothing to earn Aryn’s,” he declared.

  He would not back down, would not let up. And as the words were leaving his mouth, unfiltered and uncensored, the truth of them settled within his soul. He had needed to say these things aloud, to solidify them for himself.

  “Did you come here just to badger me or is there a point to this conversation?” Aleksander demanded impatiently.

  There it was. He had won. Father could find nothing more to say, to defend himself with.

  “The point is that you will never strike Aryn again. You will never lay your hands on my brother, your son, again.”

  That cruel laugh boiled up out of his broad chest again.

  “You cannot make demands of me, boy. I am your King.”

  “You are King as long as you live, yes. But what of our legacy? Do you not care for that?”

  Aleksander froze, tilting his head slightly as his eyes narrowed at him.

  “What are you playing at?”

  His heart threatened to beat out of his chest, his palms sweating. A high-pitched ringing slowly crescendoed in his ears as he stared his father down.

  “If you harm Aryn again, I will relinquish my claim to the throne. And that means he would be next in line.”

  Aleksander suddenly shot to his feet. “Do not make such ridiculous idle threats to me, boy.”

  “They are not idle, and I fully intend to honor them if you ignore what I have asked of you.”

  “I could strip you of your birthright right now,” he threatened, his voice full of pure, icy rage as he glared down at him from the dias.

  “But you won’t.”

  He knew his father was too prideful to do such a thing. To renounce Philip’s inheritance would be admitting disgrace, inadequacy, weakness. And God knew how much Aleksander despised any and all of those things.

  So as they stared at each other, an unstoppable force finally met an immovable object.

  Only this time Philip was immovable.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Get out of my sight,” the King grumbled venomously, refusing to sit back down.

  With a bow that was a touch too smug, he turned on his heel and strode out of the throne room, finally able to breathe again.

  But now he really needed to get out of the castle.

  There was one place he knew he was at least expected to be at today, and while the idea of having a long conversation with Percy was not necessarily settling his nerves, the anticipation he felt at the prospect was far more positive in nature than what had just occurred. Although the young man would not be expecting his arrival until this evening, and the sun was barely cresting into the afternoon. But at this point there was really nothing they needed time to hide from him anymore.

  As he took a few steps down the hall, something pricked at the back of his mind, stirring his intuition. Pausing for a moment, he turned and headed towards the east wing, to his mother’s old study, and shuffled through the letters in her desk, pulling one specific piece of parchment out of the drawer and tucking it inside his coat.

  After milling about the main doors to the castle for near on a minute, he finally decided to depart from his enormous home.

  The trek to Percy’s estate seemed much shorter than the last time, but considering the circumstances under which his last visit had happened, it was quite easy to figure out why. He could not help it as sharp memories flashed in his mind, the horribly bloody visage of Percy, his brother sitting on the stairs in the estate, his blue eyes devoid of life.

  Suddenly the double doors to the house stood in front of him, and his stomach tightened nervously. He and Percy had never really had a… normal conversation, or at least a mundane one. They had only ever discussed politics, or even more unsavory topics and situations. Maybe he should have brought something with him, a gesture or a gift.

  Sighing heavily, he rapped his knuckles on the wood. A tense silence settled over him as he waited, each second ticking by slowly.

  A bolt unlatched before the door opened to reveal Percy. His curly brown hair was somewhat disheveled, and his green eyes looked tired, as if he had been straining them. He was dressed in comfortable breeches and a simple sweater to keep the cold off, but what Philip noticed the most was his hands. They were blotched with various colors of paint. A warm if not slightly apprehensive smile spread across the commoner’s tanned face.

  “Philip. Please, come in,” he invited politely, stepping back as he opened the door wider. “I apologize, I thought you would be arriving a bit later. I would have cleaned up.”

  The short heels of his boots clicked densely on the wooden floor as he stepped through the threshold, beginning to remove his coat.

  “Please, don’t stress on my account. I should be apologizing for coming over before what we agreed upon. I simply could not get myself to stay in the castle,” he explained.

  Before he could protest, Percy snatched his coat from him and carefully hung it from one of the hooks by the front door. It strangely struck up a chord of guilt in his chest.

  “I completely understand. Would you like something to drink?” he offered cordially.

  He could sense the unspoken tension in the air. It wasn’t negative, per se, but that sense of apprehension still lingered. Maybe cracking open a bottle of wine was not such a bad idea.

  A friendly smile spread across his face. “Only if you’ll drink with me.”

  The expression Percy sported softened to a more genuine, boyish countenance as he turned and sauntered into the dining room, heading for the wine rack. Philip wandered into the sitting room and gingerly placed himself in one of the plush armchairs, thankful for the warm embrace of the fire that blazed in the large hearth. After a moment, Percy made his way over, two glasses and a bottle of wine in hand. He passed Philip one and carefully poured the dark red liquid into his cup before placing himself in the other chair and serving himself a glass.

  A dry lump formed in his throat as he took a hearty sip.

  “How is he doing?” he asked hesitantly, swirling the wine in his cup.

  The expression on Percy’s face shifted slightly as he blinked, his emerald eyes now staring intently at his glass.

  “He’s okay, just been sleeping a lot. When I was helping him get cleaned up last night, he just… the world got to be too much for him. And I think that has completely drained the energy from him. So I’ve just been letting him rest, making sure he eats something.”

  He could see the sadness Percy was trying to keep beneath the surface, the heartache he thought no one else could understand. But the first few months after Mother’s death came rushing back to him: the dreadfully long nights of staying in Aryn’s room, watching over him to keep that shadow that haunted him at bay, making sure he didn’t sneak out and do something he would regret.

  “Thank you for taking care of him.”

  Green eyes suddenly locked with his, and something he could not quite discern stirred the air surrounding them.

  “Of course.”

  He anxiously ran his fingertip around the rim of his wine glass, crossing his legs.

  “As you know by now, my brother is… well, he is a very vulnerable person. My father firmly believes he is mad, but I think you and I both know that it is different than that. Before our mother fell ill, Aryn was a force to be reckoned with. He is astoundingly intelligent, incredibly intuitive, and he simply has such a way with people. The common folk, specifically. It was the same for our mother.”

  “You don’t have to convince me,” Percy pointed out, his voice soft but amused. “I am well aware of just how amazing your brother is.”

  He sighed sharply through his nose, a pensive smile briefly twitching at the corner of his lips. “Then you know that this… state he has been in since our mother passed is not truly who he is. That it may yet be mended, healed. And I also know that the catalyst for his healing is sitting in front of me. None of us have been able to reach him, to even get him to speak truthfully about what he has been going through. Except for you.”

  “Philip, I’m not anyone’s savior–”

  “No, not at all. But you are the person who loves my brother, are you not?” he pushed, sitting up in the armchair.

  Something sparked in his emerald irises, a sense of unwavering certainty.

  “With everything I have.”

  He suddenly rose to his feet and strode over to where his coat hung from the wall, retrieving the sealed letter. His boots clicked across the floor with purpose as he came to stand in front of Percy.

  “Then I suppose my mother has some things to say to you.”

  Percy’s brow furrowed as he glanced up at him in disbelief, his large, calloused hand hesitantly reaching for the letter. He plucked it from Philip’s grasp reluctantly, as if he were unsure if the note was truly meant for him, before opening it.

  He sat himself back down in the chair and drained his cup as the commoner read the letter, a blatant intensity on his tan face. But the more he read, the soften his expression grew, until he could see the shimmer of tears threatening in his eyes. Without a word, Percy carefully set the letter down on the table in front of them, staring after it.

  “I suppose there is no natural way to ask this, so I will simply just ask. No matter what happens, will you always love Aryn?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even if one day he has to marry, perform his royal duty, bear children with a woman? Do you love him enough to step away if you must?”

  “If that is what he wanted, then yes.”

  A tense silence settled over them as their gazes bore into each other. But he himself seemed far more uneasy than Percy did. The commoner was calm, resolute, as if he had already thought through the questions he was being asked a long time ago.

  “Would you–”

  Percy leaned forward and placed his elbows on the tops of his knees. “Philip, I would die for your brother. And as much as I hate your father, I would do everything in my power to protect your family, to protect you, and Dahlia, and Aryn, and Oliver. And if it came to it, no matter what, I would defend Aryn’s honor. If it means my life, I would gladly give it to protect him, to make sure no one could weaponize our relationship to ruin him. I will never play games with you, Philip. I know that is a hard concept for your kind to understand, but I give you my word that it’s true.”

  All of the other questions, the rest of the interrogation that had nervously manifested in his mind, disappeared with the late winter wind outside as Percy said his piece and drained the rest of his glass. But beneath the tension of the conversation, he felt a strange sense of peace settle in his chest, and the words that came out of his mouth were not calculated or overthought, just simply real, truthful.

  “My family is your family now, Percy. I want you to know that.”

  A warm smile slowly spread across the commoner’s face as he proceeded to sit back in his armchair, the air in the room becoming lighter, freer.

  “Thank you, Philip.”

  With another pour of wine, they sat and talked for what seemed to be hours, finally getting to truly know one another. As the minutes flew by, his chest began to feel warmer and warmer, his shoulders lighter and lighter as if the weight he hadn’t realized he had been carrying was slowly dissipating. Their tongues grew looser as the bottle of wine was drained and a second was opened, polite conversation progressing to wild stories, brutally honest opinions, and frequent hearty laughter.

  “You should come to the estate when spring arrives,” he suggested, his cheeks flushed from the alcohol and the fire still blazing in the hearth.

  Percy tilted his head curiously, loose curls bouncing as he did. “Are we not already at the estate?”

  Philip snorted, placing his glass down for a moment as he smirked. “No, my family’s country estate. My father procured it for my mother as a gift, for when I was born. Apparently my birth had been a rather awful endeavor. I suppose he felt guilty, so he bought Mother this giant estate to go on holiday to and do whatever she wanted with it. The land is absolutely beautiful, and quite vast. I’ll be bringing Dahlia and Oliver along. You and Aryn should join us. It would be a wonderful time. And I think escaping somewhere for a little while would do all of us some good, especially Aryn.”

  Percy took an indulgent drink of his wine.

  “But won’t there have to be guards or something while we’re there?”

  Philip quickly caught on to the hidden meaning of his question.

  “Well yes, but they only keep guard outside of the estate, not in it. Unless you two were planning on being indecent with each other in the garden in broad daylight,” he teased.

  The commoner’s face flushed a deep ruddy color. “Wow. I’m offended you would even think that,” he exclaimed sarcastically.

  He tossed back the remaining liquid in his cup. “So wait, have you and my brother–”

  “Have we what?”

  They both turned to spot Aryn standing at the top of the stairs, dressed in a loose-fitting sweater and pants. His ashen hair was a mess, sticking out in all sorts of directions as he wrapped his slender arms around himself sleepily. Dull blue eyes took both of them in, but naturally his gaze lingered far longer on Percy.

  The commoner immediately rose from his chair, abandoning the conversation, and met Aryn at the bottom of the stairs, instinctively smoothing out his blonde hair. He watched as his brother’s mood quickly shifted, a sense of comfort and security settling over him the moment Percy made contact.

  “We were just talking about going to your family’s estate for a bit this spring,” he mentioned gently, placing a kiss to the top of Aryn’s head.

  “The estate?” He spotted the subtle look of apprehension that spread across his little brother’s face. “We haven’t visited it in a long time.”

  “I think it would be good for all of us,” he chimed in from across the room. “We all deserve a break I think, wouldn’t you agree?”

  A soft smile twitched at the edge of Percy’s mouth as he tucked a piece of hair behind Aryn’s ear. “We could get away from all of the bullshit for a little while. It’s only going to be us, Dahlia, and Oliver. No hiding, no pretending. We can just be ourselves for a bit.”

  He watched as Aryn’s face lit up with cautious optimism. “Yeah… okay. That sounds nice.”

  “Great,” Percy’s smile grew before he placed a careful kiss to Aryn’s cheek.

  “Well, I should be heading back before Dahlia accuses me of abandoning her,” he prompted playfully, rising from the armchair.

  He could sense the mood shifting. It was clear that his brother had been out cold all day, and the two of them had not truly had a moment for themselves yet. As much as it still felt slightly uncomfortable for him, he refused to get in the way of their relationship, of Aryn’s joy. But after getting to know Percy, that discomfort could more accurately be described now as uncertainty. He was more so unsure as to how to navigate the situation gracefully, trying to tread that fine line between supporting and overstepping. But he had to remind himself that this was uncharted territory for all of them, and they were all doing the best they could.

  Noting the subtle shift in Aryn’s expression, he could tell that his little brother was decoding the thoughts running through his head. It had always been that way, ever since they were children. He had never been able to lie to Aryn; it was as if he could read minds, or at least his mind. But nowadays, it appeared that it was becoming more of a blessing than a curse, as they quickly came to a silent understanding.

  Percy turned towards him, tan face flushed as he realized they still had an audience, and made his way to the front door, grabbing Philip’s coat for him.

  “Thank you for coming over, Philip. We’ll have to do this again soon,” he declared with a warm, genuine smile.

  He returned the expression and nodded, accepting his coat. “I would love that. Good evening, Percy.”

  The commoner clasped him on the arm before opening the front door for him, and as he exited the estate, his heart felt lighter than it had in months.