"You arrogant, short-sighted fool!"
The roar vibrated through the heavy doors of the royal study long before the King actually appeared. When King Alderon finally slamd the doors open, he didn’t look like a man who had just returned from a peaceful diplomatic journey to the neighboring kingdom. He looked like a storm given human form. His traveling cloak was still stained with road salt, his crown sat crooked on his brow, and his eyes were bloodshot with a mixture of exhaustion and pure rage.
Yerel didn’t even flinch. He remained slumped in the high-backed armchair by the fireplace, a glass of amber wine dangling from his fingertips.
"Welco back, Father," Yerel murmured, his voice smooth and entirely too calm. "I trust the neighboring lords were as boring as usual?"
"I was gone for two weeks!" Alderon slamd his gauntleted hand onto the desk, sending a stack of reports flying like panicked birds. "I cross the border and the first thing I hear is that my son, the future of this realm, has publicly humiliated his own fiancé in public? That you stood there and mocked him until he now collapsed? Have you lost what little mind you had?"
Yerel took a slow sip of his wine. "The engagent was a farce, Father. Everyone knew it. I simply provided the ending the public was already waiting for. It was... a rcy killing, really."
"A rcy?" Alderon’s voice dropped to a terrifying, guttural whisper. He stepped into Yerel’s personal space, the sll of rain and horse still clinging to his furs. "I just ca from his bedside, Yerel. He’s been unconscious for three days. He gave his entire life to being your shadow, and you stepped on him like he was a common weed."
Yerel rolled his eyes, a flicker of genuine annoyance crossing his handso features. "He was always fragile. Always looking for a reason to faint so I would have to carry him. If he’s sick, it’s just another one of his theatrics to try and guilt into taking him back. It’s pathetic."
"He loved you!" the King scread, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "He was the last of a line that stood by this family when everyone else was sharpening their knives! And you cast him aside like a used-up rag in front of every gossiping noble in the city!"
Yerel set his wine glass down on the mahogany table with a sharp, final clack. The liquid sloshed against the crystal, amber ripples catching the flickering firelight. Slowly, he stood up, finally discarding the mask of lazy indifference. He drew himself to his full height, his eyes cold and sharp as a winter’s blade.
"He loved ?" Yerel repeated, a twisted, mocking smile curling his lip. "Perhaps he did. But I do not! And I will never."
The declaration was like a physical blow. King Alderon recoiled, his breath hitching as he stared at the absolute lack of remorse in his son’s gaze.
"I am the Crown Prince, Father. I am the future of this kingdom," Yerel continued. "Why should I be shackled to a shadow? Why should I spend my life tethered to a man whose only rit is a bloodline that has grown thin and a devotion that has beco a suffocating noose? He was a duty I never asked for."
The King turned away, his chest heaving. He looked at the empty seat across the desk where Cherion’s father used to sit. The guilt pressed down on him like a boulder lodged in his gut.
"I regret it," Alderon whispered, more to himself than to his son. "I regret ever believing you were worthy of his devotion. I thought he would be your heart, Yerel. I didn’t realize you didn’t have one."
Yerel set his wine glass down on the table with a sharp clack. "If you’re so enamored with him, why don’t you adopt him? I’m really done with him. It’s heavy, it’s boring, and it slls like incense. Find soone else to deal with his tantrums."
"Oh, I have," Alderon said, spinning back around. His eyes were cold now, a terrifying, final kind of cold. "Since you find him so ’useless,’ and since you’ve ensured no noble in the Empire will touch him for fear of offending you, I have found him a new place. A place where his na and his blood still an sothing."
Yerel tilted his head, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "Who? So count in the marshlands? A marquis with a penchant for broken things?"
"Zarius Valtrane," the King stated.
The smirk on Yerel’s face vanished. He went perfectly still, his eyes narrowing as if he’d just been struck. "The Duke of the North? The Monster? You’re joking."
"I am not," Alderon said, his voice regaining its kingly authority.
Yerel suddenly burst out laughing, a jagged, ugly sound that had no humor in it. "Zarius? You’re giving my leftover... my used-up shadow... to a monster like him? Honestly, Father, that’s almost poetic. A broken, lovesick oga for a monster Duke like him. They can sit in that frozen tomb together and wait for the end. It’s a perfect match for two things that are already half-dead."
The slap was so fast and so hard that Yerel’s chair nearly tipped over.
The Prince’s head snapped to the side, his hair falling over his eyes. He stayed like that for a long mont, the red print of his father’s hand blooming on his cheek. He slowly touched his lip, feeling the bead of blood there, and then he looked at his father with a chilling, vacant amusent.
"Is that all?" Yerel asked, his voice a whisper.
"Get out," the King breathed, his hand trembling. "Get out of my sight before I forget you are my blood."
Yerel stood up, smoothing his tunic with a terrifyingly steady hand. He didn’t look like a son who had just been struck by his father; he looked like a predator who had just won a prize.
"Send him to the wolf, Father," Yerel said, walking toward the door. "Just don’t expect to send flowers to the funeral."
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