Whispers of lost minds grew louder with each step Darius took into the forgotten depths of the castle. His shadow, and those of his crimson-clad escorts, splashed against the walls as they descended deeper into the dungeon. While he had encountered many troubled souls in his time, none proved more unpredictable than the man he was about to visit.
A narrow corridor appeared when they took a sharp right. Lit sconces and rusty iron bars lined both sides that caged Vlencia’s most condemned prisoners. Darius’ presence sparked an outrage of yelps, pleas, and cries as filthy hands jutted through the gaps of metal.
The flanking crimson guards slapped the pleading palms away as they passed the cells, but that didn’t stop him from taking in the many bulging eyes and gaunt faces hovering over the shadows.
In some ways, he pitied them. Not too long ago, it was him clutching onto cell bars and awaiting a fate worse than an executioner’s axe. He understood the desperation… the fear. After all, nobody was immune from sinning—not even him. He had slain more innocents than his spirit could bear at times, but just because people did vicious things, didn’t make them vicious humans.
When they neared the last cell in the corridor, Darius squared his shoulders as he took in the filthy metal rods that bore no sign of pleading hands or a haunted visage. One guard caught his eye, the knight’s unspoken query hanging in the air. The newly anointed monarch inclined his head, affirming his decision to confront the cell’s occupant.
He watched as the knight stepped forward and shoved a crooked chunk of iron into the rusty lock, twisting it with a grimace. The harsh scrape of metal jarred Darius for a heartbeat, but thankfully, the discomfort was brief.
The gate squealed open and the new king crossed the threshold, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. There, hunched in the dreary corner, Dillian looked up, his face alight with scorn and amusement.
His once-fine clothing hung in tattered rags. His hair was matted, his features haggard—yet somehow, like a stubborn boil, he still possessed that defiance.
“Has your contempt simmered?” Darius asked.
He studied his brother’s cold countenance, searching for any remnants of the boy he once knew.
“You’re a fool to come here,” Dillian replied. “Do you truly believe the people will rally behind a king who couldn’t even summon the manhood to slay his treacherous brother?”
The words stung, but Darius refused to be baited. He stepped further into the dank space, the accompanying knights shifting uneasily, their armour clinking. He gave them a simple side glance, which was enough to settle them.
“Our father’s last wish was for reconciliation.”
Dillian scoffed. “That holds no sway over me. He was weak and passive, just as you are.”
Jaw clenched, Darius fought against the flecks of rage swirling within. “You speak of weakness while rotting in this cell, brother. Look at what your ambition has brought upon you.”
For a breath, Dillian’s bravado slipped and a glimmer of resentment flickered across him. It disappointed Darius just how corrupt he had become. Where his deceit sprouted from seemed destined to elude him.
“I didn’t come here to trade jabs. I came to offer you a chance—one last opportunity to redeem yourself and rewrite your passage in the history books.”
“Oh, how poetic of you.” Dillian’s face narrowed. “Why?”
Darius clenched and unclenched his jaw. “I do not exaggerate when I say we face a grave threat from Kaudon—”
“Not this again.” Dillian waved a dismissive hand. “Spare me your tales of prophecies and dark forces. I never enjoyed fiction as a child, and I have no plans on embracing it now.”
“I only wish it was a mere tale,” Darius countered. “I’ve seen the evidence with my own eyes. The skarlox attack on a rural village… Oldwatch scouts reporting sights of a mobilising army in Kaudon. This is very real, Dillian.”
“Bah! You expect me to believe in such drivel? Skarloxes are the stuff of nursery rhymes, used to frighten children into obedience. You may have fooled our father and that old fool, Alastar, but you’re not smart enough to deceive me. You never have been.”
“Yet here you are, rotting in a cell before being cast into the Void.”
“Never did I say I was stronger or luckier than you.”
Darius fought the urge to shake him, to make him see reason. “You mock what you do not understand. These are no mere stories—they are the darkness that edges closer to our border. The seer’s prophecy has been right so far, and I do not foresee it faltering now.”
Dillian’s laughter echoed through the dank cell, mocking and bitter. “And you want me to join you in this grand crusade? To rally behind the banners of a king nobody knows and his merry band of fools?”
“No, I offer you an opportunity to reclaim your life; to prove your worth beyond the selfish ambitions that landed you in this grim pit. But if you insist on clinging to your pride and arrogance, so be it.”
“Save your redemption for someone who desires it, brother. I want no part in your delusional quest.”
A hot flush crept up Darius’ neck as the sting of humiliation settled in. How could he have been so foolish to expect anything different from a man who stabbed him in the back? “Do you not possess an ounce of remorse for the pain you’ve caused, the lives you destroyed?”
Dillian met his gaze. “Guilt is a burden for the weak, Darius. I shed such emotions long ago. I had visions for this kingdom—grand ambitions that would have restored Vlencia’s beating heart and revived our dynasty. I was willing and ready to die for them—that hasn’t changed.”
“There will be no beating heart or dynasty if Vraqor spills into Vlencia.”
“So you say.”
“I did nothing to deserve your scorn, Dillian. Not now, and certainly not all those years ago.”
“No, you were simply in the way.”
“I didn’t choose to be born first.”
“And I did not elect to be a spare! Count yourself lucky you were exiled and not killed,” Dillian added. “Father clearly saw salvation in you. Any other king would have split your throat open.”
“And what did you see beyond the heir to the throne?” Darius asked.
“I saw a rebel son who suffered the same placid gene as our forbearer.”
“Placid? I gave up my childhood to be a crimson guard.”
“Please…” Dillian waved his response away. “History is laden with men who possessed the skills of a warrior but not the heart of one.”
“Your words are steeped in hatred. May whoever poisoned your mind feel the gods’ wrath when it’s their time.”
Dillian’s gaze wandered to the corner of his cell as the groans and pleas of the other prisoners continued to ring out. “You’re too emotional. You always have been.”
“No.” Darius stepped forward and kneeled to level with his brother’s gaze. “I’m merely offering my last words to a ghost.”
Dillian leaned closer, his lips tugging into a smile. They came nose to nose, their hot exhales colliding like opposing armies. “The crown already weighs heavy on you, doesn’t it?” he whispered.
The memories of his cruel banishment suddenly flooded back—of the years spent scraping by in the thieves’ guild, living in an abandoned ruin at the foot of the Frosty Peaks, fighting winter coughs and long periods of starvation. Of being hated for merely speaking in a different tongue.
Darius’ hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, the leather grip creaking under the strain as visions of vengeance danced in his mind’s eye. How easy it would be to make Dillian suffer as he had suffered… to wipe that taunting sneer from his face and replace it with a wild, unhinged fear.
He briefly tasted the satisfaction of such an act, the allure of cruelty whispering in his ear like a one-night mistress. But even as the temptation grew, a small voice within urged caution. He was a king now, not a thug of the underworld, and certainly by no means an executioner, but Dillian would have to pay for his crimes in full, and by blood.
Darius stood and took a deep, steadying breath. With an effort of will, he unclenched his fist, the leather creaking as his grip loosened.
“Your defiance has sealed your doom, Dillian,” he said, his voice finding a firmer tone. “The law shall be upheld, and justice will be served in this life and the next, for neither the sky gods nor our parents will welcome you to the High Table.”
Darius took no pleasure in the pronouncement, but he didn’t flinch from it either. Even as the words left his lips, a flicker of sorrow resurged within him. It was as if he was mourning the loss of the brother he had once known; the sibling he chased around the palace corridors and shielded after their mother’s passing.
With a steadying breath, Darius spoke once more, his voice empty of emotion. “In three days’ time, Father’s royal procession ends here in Istrille. I offer you the opportunity to attend, to pay your respects to the man who gave us all our flaws and strengths.”
Dillian’s eyes grew hard.
“You will be shackled and heavily guarded, confined to the tower overlooking the grand mausoleum. You’ll be able to witness the event but not interact with anyone. No words shall be exchanged, no actions taken beyond observance, or else you will be escorted back to this… cavity.”
For a blink, Dillian’s defiance wavered, a hint of emotion flicking across his features before he quickly suppressed it. A muscle twitched in his jaw and he gave a curt nod, accepting the offer with a grunt.
Yet, even in that slight gesture, it seemed he possessed more than a heart of onyx. Perhaps beneath this stranger, there still beat the pulse of the person he used to be. Darius turned to leave, pausing at the threshold to cast one last glance over his shoulder. He knew that this would be the last time they shared company together. The next time they met, it would be on the executioner’s block.
“When your day comes, know that your stubbornness led you there—not your deceit,” Darius said, vapour escaping his nostrils.
Dillian gazed up at him and smiled. “One sword, two hands—our legacy.”
Darius turned and left the cell, and as the door clanged shut behind him, the ruckus of the dungeon crescendoed into a harsh, grating groan. He carried on down the hall, striding past the doomed faces and outstretched arms that lined his path, desperate for fresh air to fill his lungs.
As he climbed the winding steps that led out from the pits of the palace, Darius’ thoughts turned to Kaudon and the whispers of dark magic and the battle march of thousands that edged ever closer to the Great Wall of the Oldwatch.
The choices he made in the days and weeks ahead would shape the future of not just Vlencia, but the entire region of Estos. But first, he had a father to bury.
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