ORATORES
The day began as it always did: with a hollow whisper of organ chords echoing down the palace corridors, drifting past velvet curtains and marble pillars. The hush of early dawn clung to every tapestry, as though the entire royal household was suspended in solemn prayer. At the far end of the main corridor, beyond tall doors gilded in gold, lay the private bedchamber of the Crown Princess—though no one ever dared call them anything but princess .
The occupant of the gilded bed sat awake, blinking drowsy eyes at a polished mirror that reflected an image he detested. His hair, painstakingly arranged into delicate curls the night before, glinted in the faint morning light. His eyes, lined by the royal attendants with subtle kohl, looked far too gentle. The silken nightgown he wore seemed to mock him, all softness and pastel lace. He resented every thread of it.
He hated the suffocating routine. The stiff courtesy bows he was expected to offer. The demure manner in which he was supposed to speak and giggle among the courtiers. The constant scrutiny—“Walk gracefully, Princess,” they would say. “Bow your head modestly.” He wanted to snarl at them, to tear away the illusions of meekness. He was no delicate court blossom. He was not their princess, no matter how many times the courtiers addressed him by that title.
The day’s regimen arrived like clockwork: a gentle rap on the door— the attendants were here to prepare him. Unbidden, they shuffled inside, heads bowed in reverential posture. They began to fuss over him. Their fingers glided over silk garments, their voices pitched in low, respectful tones. In those murmurs, he sensed a thousand judgments and expectations. Every word and gesture reminded him that in the palace’s eyes, he was merely a pretty bauble to be displayed.
He remembered how, as a young child, he once tried to insist he was a boy. He had stolen the wooden swords from the training yard, brandishing them in secret, imagining himself as a knight or a prince leading armies. But the King—his father—had found him, snatched the weapon from his hands with a sneer of disdain. “You are my daughter ,” the King had said coldly, “and you will act accordingly.” Punishment followed, the memory of it still vivid like a bruise.
Over the years, each day hammered him further into the role. The priests in the chapel would proclaim, “For her, we pray. Our beloved princess, so graceful in her devotion.” The palace staff would kneel in the hall, chanting praises to her compliance. The kingdom’s subjects adored the sweet-faced “Crown Princess,” the living embodiment of purity and virtue. To him, each adoration felt like a shackle.
He had grown taller than they ever anticipated. His shoulders broadened in ways the lavish gowns could hardly disguise. His soul seethed with the same unstoppable growth—anger, frustration, bitterness. In quiet moments, he studied his reflection, trying to see the man he was inside, struggling against the powdered face and pinned-up hair. Every day, something in him cracked further, letting in a cold, seething rage.
And then came the music.
In the palace, the day’s spiritual rites began with a solemn chant that seemed to hang in the corridors like the lingering echo of a prayer. Officially, it was just the morning liturgy—a ritual performed by the priests, accompanied by the rumbling bass of drums and the hiss of wind instruments. Yet he heard it differently. As though from some private realm, his own voice sang the lines in his head, words no one else reacted to:
“I am so much bigger / Than you ever could have feared.”
He had first caught these whispered lyrics in the far corner of the cathedral aisle weeks ago, repeated in hushed reverence by the kingdom’s spiritual choir. But even then, it felt personal, as if the song belonged to him alone. Now, it reverberated in his mind like an eerie clarion call. Yes , he thought grimly, I am more than you ever allowed me to be. You turned me into something monstrous in the shadows of your expectations.
He rose, letting the attendants lace him into yet another gown. The tension in his chest tightened. He allowed them to comb his hair into a regal updo, all while his mind wandered through fantasies of defiance. If he truly gave in to that inner storm, would they still see a meek princess? Could they even begin to fathom the fury that burned within him?
Soon, the morning ritual ended. He was escorted to the royal chapel. Incense clung to the stone walls. Flickering candles illuminated grand murals depicting heroic kings and pious queens. But he was not moved by any sense of devotion. Instead, he recalled more lines from that mysterious, privately heard melody, creeping again through his thoughts:
“I’m far more dangerous and terrible / I am the nightmare you created in your head.”
The King and Queen, the priests, the courtiers, his siblings—they had all played a role in forging his resentment. By forcing him into a gilded role that negated his true self, they had created a creature poised to strike back at the very foundation of this oppressive structure.
He bowed mechanically before the altar, going through the motions while the official choir in the chapel continued its ordinary chanting. The King sat on his jeweled pew, chin held high, his imposing presence dominating the room. The Queen offered polite nods to the priests. Not once did her gaze settle on her child with any warmth. This was duty for her, not love.
The day’s sermon ended, concluding with murmurs of a prayer. But in the prince’s mind, the refrain emerged clearly, as if only he could hear the words:
“And still you love me… / Your greatest weakness… / It’s not my fault you love me.”
They don’t love me, he thought. They love their idea of me.
When the chapel service finished, the day resumed. He was guided back through the halls by two ladies-in-waiting. They chattered about the upcoming festivities, about how the princess would look so lovely in a new gown, how the kingdom relied on her virtuous image to maintain alliances. He offered curt nods, barely containing the sharp retort on his tongue.
At midday, he was seated in the royal gardens, expected to embroider or read poetry, as though these were the greatest ambitions he could hold. The sky overhead was a bright, merciless blue. Birds flitted among the rose bushes. He stared at his pale, needle-pricked hands and saw the calluses that had begun to form from clandestine swordplay. They were faint, nearly hidden under layers of forced delicacy, but they were there. A secret truth.
One day, he vowed, he would stop hiding.
Across the courtyard, a cluster of guards performed a ceremonial drill. The bright clang of steel against steel made his pulse race with hunger. He recalled stolen moments in the armoury, the exhilarating heft of a blade in his hands. Before anyone could notice his longing stare, he dipped his head back into the embroidered handkerchief, hiding his expression of yearning behind a veil of compliance.
An attendant approached to fetch him for lunch with the royal family. He rose, his steps slow and measured, because to do otherwise invited scrutiny. The corridor leading to the dining hall was adorned with frescoes of past monarchs—stern kings and proud queens presiding over a devout land. He felt his lips tighten in disdain. He wanted to be none of them. He wanted to be a prince.
At the dining table, the King scarcely looked at him, except to give a dismissive sneer when he spoke too directly or let his voice drop into a lower register. The Queen nattered on about court alliances, the priesthood that guided the moral code of the realm, the necessity of the princess’s public image. Rage flared in him, but he kept silent. Not a single word of this was about his happiness. It was all about how well he performed as a piece in their grand design.
His knuckles turned white around the silverware. The silent voice in his mind returned, lyrics swirling like a mocking taunt:
“And still you love me / Your greatest weakness / It’s not my fault you love me.”
They placed him upon a pedestal of false worship, an icon of purity to be prayed to in the grand cathedral of their monarchy. But in truth, the King and Queen’s brand of love was control. The palace’s brand of affection was nothing more than pageantry.
He excused himself from the meal. A flurry of courtiers stood to bow, but he walked past them with clipped steps. Lifting his chin, he walked outside, ignoring the gentle protests of the attendants who said something about it being improper for the princess to roam unescorted. But he needed to be alone—just for a moment.
He found refuge in one of the lesser-used palace hallways, where tall windows looked out onto the wide moat and forest beyond. His reflection in the glass was ephemeral, superimposed over a vista of green and sky. He pressed his palm against the cool surface, listening to his heart pound. Something was shifting in him, like a dam about to burst.
He might have stood there for hours if not for the approach of a single guard who stiffened at the sight of the princess. The guard respectfully lowered his spear and apologized for the intrusion. A swirl of revulsion twisted in the prince’s stomach. Another person staring at me like I’m precious glass.
He decided to wait no longer. Something must break.
When the official lessons in decorum resumed that afternoon, he found himself in a tutoring chamber with a refined old bishop. The bishop wore robes embroidered with gold thread that caught the lamplight. As was the day’s custom, the bishop led him through scripture, praising the Almighty for the benevolent princess. All the while, a pang grew in his chest. The bishop spoke of devotion, humility, and gratitude. The prince felt his fingernails bite into his palm as he recalled more lines that surfaced, unprompted, from the song only he seemed to hear:
“Is this a savior’s complex? / That you have come to create / Is that why you’ve tied me to this day?”
Yes, the entire monarchy had a savior’s complex, forging a holy narrative about a princess who would guide the realm in virtue. But all they were doing was chaining him to a lie. A lie repeated so often that no one noticed the ragged edges it left in his soul.
At last, the bishop paused. “You seem distracted, Princess,” the bishop observed gently. “Is something troubling you?”
He forced a small, polite smile. “No, Your Grace,” he lied.
The bishop droned on, but the prince no longer heard the words. Instead, memories flashed: the King’s scornful face, the endless dresses, the forced courtesy. The humiliations coiled into a single, inescapable truth. I will not endure this any longer.
Dismissed from lessons, he walked briskly to his private chamber, ignoring the calls of servants. He closed the door and let out a trembling breath. His gaze fell upon an old trunk in the corner. Underneath layers of lace and ribbons lay something he had hidden: a short sword, stolen from the training yard.
He retrieved it, the weight familiar in his hand. He had practiced with it when no one was looking, hacking at imaginary foes in the dead of night. The blade had felt like an extension of his body, more natural than any piece of jewelry he had ever been forced to wear. Now, he touched its hilt, and the spark of anger within him flared.
“You think you’re stronger / Bow and arrow / Draw your sword now / It can’t save you now.”
Those words played in his mind as though mocking the monarchy that had forced him to be their little princess. The time had come for him to show them exactly how he felt.
Outside, the chanting of evening devotions drifted through the corridor in muffled form, beautiful and solemn to all who heard it. But the prince’s version of the song was deafening in his own head, each note fueling his sense of righteous fury.
He opened the door of his chamber and stepped into the hallway. The first person to see him—a startled servant girl—gasped at the sight of the gleaming blade. She cried out, “Princess, no—!” But he walked on, resolute. Guards rushed forward, confusion twisting their faces at the spectacle. Why is the princess armed?
A whisper of shock rippled through the staff. The corridor seemed to stretch, each step echoing. At the far end, the ornate doors of the palace’s interior chambers beckoned. He had no plan beyond confronting the hypocrisy that had trapped him here. Yet a single line of that secret melody pulsed in his mind:
“Do you see this power? / Power you gave me / Undefeated / I am in control.”
They had unwittingly taught him everything he needed—how to hide, how to bide his time, how to unleash fury. They had molded him into something monstrous, and tonight, the beast would bare its fangs.
He lifted the sword in both hands, and just then, a cluster of royal guards advanced. Their leader shouted, “Halt, Princess! Put the weapon down!”
Instead, the prince lunged forward, all the pent-up rage fueling his blow. The clang of metal on metal reverberated down the corridor. The guard, too stunned to react properly, fell back. Shouts of alarm spread. He slashed past them, the blade glancing off armor, drawing sparks and, on occasion, a terrible, bloody consequence.
He felt the wet sting of a strike across his arm. Pain flared, but so did his resolve. A savage cry erupted from his throat, primal as any creature defending its right to live free. The corridors teemed with chaos—servants running, guards shouting, courtiers screaming at the sight of this “princess” turned berserker.
A distinct part of his mind observed it all as though from a distance. This is me, he thought. This is who I truly am: not your delicate flower but your worst nightmare. He recalled the private lyric:
“I am the nightmare you created in your head.”
Yes. Let them see the truth.
He pressed on, heading toward the throne room. The King and Queen, the priests, the entire rotten structure of forced piety and tradition—he wanted them to behold what they had wrought. Down side passages, the alarmed clergy and courtiers babbled in frantic tones. From some distant hall, the official choir continued its chants, oblivious. In his mind, however, the song’s mocking refrain grew deafening:
“And tell me you love me / It’s not my fault / It’s not my fault you love me.”
Panting, with adrenaline coursing through his veins, he slammed open the tall double doors to the grand hall. More guards rushed forward, forming a wall of pikes, but his rage was unstoppable. Swords flashed. The shriek of metal. The tang of blood in the air.
Yet behind this savage momentum, he felt oddly calm, as if the path had always led here. The final confrontation was in sight. The King would be there, enthroned on high, the symbol of everything that had denied him his rightful life.
He fought forward, ignoring the pain of shallow cuts and bruises forming on his arms. Shouts echoed, soldiers collapsed. With each step, he felt the weight of the blade grow heavier, the palace walls seeming to close in around him. But there was no going back.
At last, he stood at the entrance to the throne room itself—larger than life, glimmering with columns of polished stone. The dais at the far end held two thrones, carved from dark wood and gilded with gold. The King and Queen rose in alarm, priests circling them. Panicked courtiers scattered behind pillars. The King roared, “Seize the princess!”
But the prince—no princess at all—merely tightened his grip on the sword.
The throne room loomed like a giant beast’s maw—marble floors reflecting torchlight and the gleam of gilded columns. At the far side of this vast hall, the King and Queen stood in rigid shock, priests clustering around them in horror. Guards, strewn about from the prince’s furious onslaught, groaned or lay still. Splashes of crimson stained the polished tiles.
A trickle of blood ran down the prince’s forearm, soaking into the elaborate gown that clung to him like a second skin. His breathing came fast and ragged. Sword raised, eyes wild, he advanced. A part of him understood he was crossing a line from which there was no return, but it no longer mattered. Everything that had once tethered him to docility had snapped.
From behind a half-toppled column, a new voice broke through the chaos.
“Stop this, little sister!”
He turned sharply, teeth bared, only to see her : the eldest child of the King and Queen, Princess Clarice—his older sister. She stood with sword in hand, regal in her bearing but visibly shaken. Her gaze flicked over fallen guards, over the battered palace doors. At the sight of her sibling brandishing a bloody blade, her eyes filled with desperate alarm.
“Clarice,” he spat, voice rough with emotion. He had always avoided her, just as he did everyone else in the family. She was the rightful heir in the eyes of tradition—older, universally praised for her grace and unwavering devotion. In public, she was everything a royal daughter was supposed to be: beautiful, poised, devout. In private, she was seldom cruel to him, but she never acknowledged his anguish, either. She’d maintained a careful, pious distance from the scandal of a sister who claimed to be a prince.
She steadied her stance, sword trembling slightly in her hands. “You have gone mad,” she whispered. “Why…why are you doing this?”
The King barked, “Clarice, hold her here until the guards regroup!”
At the King’s order, Clarice tightened her grip, jaw set in determination. She took a few steps closer. “Enough killing,” she pleaded softly. “This isn’t you…”
He let out a bitter laugh. “You have no idea who I am.”
Before Clarice could respond, that clandestine song rose again in his mind, as though reminding him of the fury that drove him here:
“You think you’re stronger / Bow and arrow / Draw your sword now / It can’t save you now…”
No one else reacted; no one else heard it. But it filled him with a cold resolve. The sister in front of him was not just an obstacle—she was part of the system that refused to see him as anything other than a broken extension of herself.
His arm throbbed from the earlier wound. The reek of spilled blood and burnt candlewax clawed at his senses. He stared at his sister’s desperate face—at the faint tremor in her posture—unable to remember a single moment when she had tried to understand him.
“I won’t go back,” he growled.
With a cry halfway between sorrow and determination, Clarice lunged. Steel clashed against steel, ringing through the vaulted hall. The priests retreated in terror, and the King roared again for more guards. Courtiers cowered behind pillars.
Striking blow after blow, Clarice fought with well-trained precision. She had been groomed for leadership, prepared to defend her station if ever the kingdom required it. Her swordsmanship spoke of countless hours in the practice yard. Yet the prince’s fury made him unpredictable. Each slash he delivered carried the weight of a lifetime’s pent-up rage.
“I’ve always envied you,” Clarice hissed through gritted teeth, batting aside one of his thrusts. Her eyes were wet with tears. “Your fire, your refusal to bow even when it cost you everything.”
He scoffed, pressing forward. “You never once supported me. You never once stood up to our father when he beat me down!”
A flicker of guilt passed over her face, but she did not lower her weapon. “I couldn’t… I—”
She was forced to parry another strike. Their blades scraped and locked, faces inches apart. Over Clarice’s shoulder, the prince glimpsed the Queen, pale and trembling, while the King roared commands at a handful of arriving guards. The entire hall seethed with frantic energy.
Blood pounded in his ears. A savage part of him exulted in this chaos. Finally, they see me. But even as adrenaline surged, a faint pang tugged at his conscience. Clarice was not the one who pronounced the cruel edicts. She had been another cog in this merciless machine, just like him.
Her voice tore him from his thoughts: “Surrender!” she demanded. “We can fix this—stop the killing! I’ll— I’ll speak to Father. We’ll find a way!”
He flinched, recognizing the note of sincerity. But it was far too late. The monarchy had proven that it valued only obedience. He could never trust them to offer him a place at the throne as a prince, nor even to let him live as one.
“No more lies,” he growled.
He twisted his blade free and swept it in a sudden arc. Clarice parried, but the shock of it reverberated up her arms. As she stumbled, he pressed the attack, forcing her back across the slippery floor.
Her foot found no traction on the blood-slick marble, and she fell hard onto her side. Panicked, she swung upward, narrowly missing his torso. He stepped forward, blade raised.
“Don’t—!” she pleaded, eyes wide with horror.
For a heartbeat, the prince hesitated, chest heaving. Then the next line of that private melody seared through his mind:
“Do you see this power? / Power you gave me / Undefeated / I am in control.”
If there was any chance to end this vicious rule, he could not falter. With a cry that mixed fury and sorrow, he brought the sword down. Clarice threw up her arm in a desperate block, but the angle was off—his blade tore into her shoulder, slicing diagonally across her chest. A burst of crimson stained her regal attire.
She choked, lips parted in silent anguish. For an instant, time seemed to freeze. Her eyes found his—filled with both heartbreak and a wordless apology for never having done enough.
He stared, breath caught in his throat. What have I done?
Her sword clattered to the floor, ringing out like a funeral knell. Then she collapsed, the world resuming its roar.
A stunned hush gripped the throne room. The queen’s shriek pierced the air. The King, face contorted with rage and despair, lurched forward as if to charge. But the fresh wave of guards forced him back, forming a protective ring. Courtiers looked on in horror, covering their mouths in trembling shock.
Chest heaving, the prince staggered a step away from Clarice’s motionless form. He could still feel her blood warm on his hands. A thousand memories flashed—brief childhood moments when she’d tried to be gentle, if distant. He had taken her life.
“Love won’t free me / Love won’t free you / Love will curse me…”
The quiet lyric thrummed in his skull, almost mocking. This tragic moment was an inevitable outcome of a love twisted into control, of a family that refused to see or accept him. No redemption, the melody seemed to say. No turning back.
“You filth!” the King thundered, voice cracking under a father’s grief. “Guards! Stop that wretch!”
The newcomers—armored soldiers streaming in through side doors—surged forward. The prince gripped his sword more tightly, though a hollow ache spread in his chest, nearly robbing him of breath. His sister’s death hung in the air, heavy and irreversible.
Scraping footsteps, shouted orders—every sound blended into a cacophony. The prince realized he was badly outnumbered. At this rate, he would be trapped, pinned against the columns or the dais. The King’s voice roared, but to the prince it sounded muffled, as though submerged underwater.
He risked one last glance at Clarice’s still body. In that same moment, more soldiers closed in. He ducked a pike aimed at his chest and slashed upward. Another soldier lunged, but the prince sidestepped. The swirl of violence continued.
Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw his mother—ashen-faced—clutching at the King’s arm, screaming about their eldest daughter. Far behind them stood another figure: the prince’s older brother, at the throne room’s edge, watching with silent fury. Their gazes locked for an instant, a cold promise of confrontation to come.
A guard rushed in from the side. The prince spun, sword cutting across the man’s chest. A fountain of blood sprayed, and the guard collapsed. Gasps rippled from those who still cowered near the pillars.
“Surround the traitor!” the King bellowed.
The prince realized with a pounding heart that he had to escape or risk being cornered. Every muscle screamed, but his mind conjured the final lyric from the swirling storm in his head:
“Think love is healing? / Love won’t free me…”
A savage calm fell over him. No love here—only the raw instinct to survive. He sprinted down a narrower corridor branching off the throne room’s left side, knocking aside two trembling servants in his path. The hall beyond led to a set of double doors that opened onto a mezzanine overlooking the courtyard.
Shouts echoed behind him as guards gave chase. Pain flared in his side, but he kept running. The corridor’s high windows revealed night’s dark sky, swirling with storm clouds. The tapestry on the walls flapped in gusts of wind from the battered doors.
He burst through the final set of doors onto the mezzanine. Rain had started to fall, slicking the stone balustrade. He could see a raging courtyard below—more guards, more panicked attendants. Torchlight flickered, half extinguished by the downpour.
Steps thundered behind him. He turned, sword at the ready, prepared for another furious clash. Four guards, panting and determined, fanned out to block his escape.
Lightning flickered outside, casting monstrous shadows across the balcony. Somewhere in the distance, the King’s outraged voice reverberated. The prince’s heart hammered. They will never let me go free.
Yet at the edge of his hearing, the quiet, private melody swelled once more, pushing him past the horror of what he’d done.
“It’s not my fault…
It’s not my fault you love me…”
He raised his blade in a trembling grip. The wind whipped at his hair, sending cold rain against his face.
Behind the guards, at the balcony entrance, he caught a glimpse of his older brother standing stock-still. Their eyes met again—two points of focus in a chaos of swirling storm and torchlight. The brother’s rage was incandescent, but something else simmered there, too: heartbreak, maybe, for the sister lost.
A voice in the prince’s mind whispered that the next confrontation would be even worse. If they remained here, locked in steel and fury, more blood would soak the palace stones.
Lightning lit up the sky once more, and the distant thunder rumbled like a funeral drum. The guards closed in, setting spears for a final strike. The prince exhaled, bracing.
He would not die as their “princess.” If he was going to fall, it would be on his own terms.
The moment sharpened into a hush. Then he lunged forward.
Rain slicked the stones beneath the prince’s feet as he dashed through the palace’s winding corridors, sword clutched tight. Shouts chased him—orders barked by captains, the distant wail of grieving servants, the clash of steel as scattered defenders tried to corner him. Every nerve felt on fire, fueled by a mingling of guilt and rage.
He emerged into an open-air courtyard. Lightning shattered the sky overhead, revealing a twisted tapestry of drenched flagstones and tumbled bodies. He did not pause to count how many guards or courtiers had met his blade tonight. The world was reduced to raw survival, to the thunder of his pulse. A swirl of wind tore at his hair, blending with the low moan of distant horns summoning reinforcements.
Flee, some small voice urged, yet he pressed onward, deeper into the heart of the palace. A labyrinth of staircases spiraled up toward the lofty towers that soared above the ramparts. Perhaps if he reached higher ground, he could evade capture—or at least force a final confrontation on his own terms.
At each turn, the prince found more soldiers, their eyes aflame with loyalty to a monarchy he despised. He met them with furious purpose, the sword an extension of his body. Fear and desperation honed his reflexes. Still, every encounter sapped his strength. Cuts formed across his arms, burning with the downpour. His breath came in ragged gasps.
Lightning illuminated the path ahead: a narrow, winding stair that led to the highest tower, known for its sweeping view of the sea cliffs far below. Without hesitation, he plunged into its upward climb. His soaked gown clung to him, heavy with rain and blood. Footsteps thundered behind him, echoing up the stone steps.
A hidden melody, that private refrain only he seemed to hear, swelled in his mind. Over the roar of the storm, over the pounding of his heart, he caught snatches of his own voice singing. Or was it all in his head?
“Is this a savior’s complex? / That you have come to create…”
He ground his teeth. They had imposed their savior’s complex—he, the princess who never existed, the false paragon of virtue. Now that falsehood lay drowned in blood.
At last, he reached the tower’s summit. Rain battered the open parapet, the wind near strong enough to topple a grown man. Beyond the battlements, darkness reigned, broken only by the lightning that revealed swirling black waters at the cliff’s base. The sea below churned in a frenzy, vast and merciless.
He staggered toward the edge, sword still in hand. Another flash of lightning, and he whirled—someone had followed. From the stairwell stepped his elder brother, eyes blazing with anguish. Taller than the prince by a head, clad in partial armor, the brother advanced with grim purpose. Rain streamed down his face, but did not wash away the fury etched there.
“Sister,” the brother rasped, voice trembling. “You will pay for Clarice.”
The prince’s heart lurched. Once, long ago, he had looked up to this brother, a paragon of knightly prowess. But that had been before the palace’s traditions turned them into strangers, before the brother stood silent while the King enforced cruelty. “I am not your sister,” he said, voice hoarse. “Not now. Not ever.”
A moment of silence stretched between them, broken only by the howl of the wind. Then the brother drew his sword, steel glinting in the flicker of lightning. “You took our sister from us,” he said, barely audible over the storm. “You’ve shattered this family. I should end you here and now.”
“Try,” the prince growled, gripping his own blade with both hands.
They lunged, and steel rang out over the howling winds. The prince’s fatigue weighed on him, each swing a desperate effort. His brother fought with disciplined skill—every strike methodical, refined by years of rigorous training. Each clash jarred the prince’s bones. He felt his breath grow labored, felt the sting of fresh wounds as the brother’s blade found gaps in his defense.
Rain lashed the tower’s stones, making each step treacherous. The prince managed to drive a blow toward the brother’s shoulder, but it was deflected with ease. Sparks danced from the clash. A counterstrike sliced across the prince’s thigh, and he choked back a cry.
Focus, he told himself, though dizziness pulled at the edges of his vision. The brother pressed the advantage, forcing him back. “You’ve destroyed everything,” his brother said through clenched teeth. “Your madness ends here.”
Rage flared anew in the prince’s chest. “It was your blindness that let this happen!” he spat, locking blades. “All I ever asked for was to be seen for who I am!”
The brother grimaced, eyes brimming with raw sorrow. “And it brought you to murder.”
Thunder crashed. Their swords parted, then locked again. The prince tried a feint, hoping to exploit some open angle, but he was too slow. His injuries sapped strength from his arms, and his brother’s mastery outmatched his wild fury.
Lightning revealed their faces—both contorted, both bearing the same determined line of the jaw that marked them as kin. The brother hammered the prince’s guard, blow after brutal blow. The prince’s wrists screamed in protest.
“Draw your sword now / It can’t save you now…”
The phantom lyric slashed through his mind, mocking. He felt his footing slip on the wet stones. The brother seized that moment, sweeping in with a savage thrust that knocked the sword from the prince’s grasp. It clattered against the stones, skidding to the tower’s edge.
Gasping, the prince staggered back until his shoulders met cold stone—the low parapet wall. Wind and rain whipped around him, thunder rattling the very air. The brother advanced, sword leveled at the prince’s chest.
Pain spiked through every inch of his battered body. He glanced at the fallen sword a few paces away, but the brother’s blade blocked any hope of retrieving it. The next flash of lightning showed the anguish twisting the brother’s features. “Did you ever think of us ?” he whispered, tears mingling with the rain. “Did you ever think what this would cost?”
The prince’s chest convulsed. Clarice’s pale face flickered in his mind, the memory of her final breath searing his conscience. There was no undoing that act. No returning to any innocence. The monarchy’s illusions had forced him into a monstrous shape, and now the cost was immeasurable.
He looked down. A sheer drop yawned behind him, the dark waters below raging against jagged rocks. He could hear the thunderous crash of the waves.
His brother drew a breath, sword trembling. “Come back inside,” he pleaded, though his eyes were hard. “Face justice. End this.”
But justice in this kingdom had never once sided with him. An empty laugh rattled from the prince’s throat, lost in the storm’s roar. “There’s no place for me here,” he said. “Not in these walls.”
He glanced over his shoulder. White foam churned far below, beckoning with a terrible finality. The wind keened like a mourner at a wake. Slowly, he raised his arms, palms outward, as though in surrender.
The brother’s sword wavered. In that instant, the prince let himself arch backward over the parapet wall.
“NO!” The brother lunged, fingers catching at empty air. Time seemed to slow, the thunder’s rumble replaced by the rush of blood in the prince’s ears. He felt the stone edge leave his feet. Rain battered his face, the wind tearing at his garments as gravity pulled him down.
He plummeted backward into darkness, away from the palace spires, away from the brother’s anguished cry. In that suspended moment, it was only him, the storm-lashed void, and the final lines of that private song echoing through the hollow in his chest. He couldn’t tell if he was merely hearing them in his thoughts or screaming them aloud:
“It’s not my fault you love me
’Cause I’m not your girl
You’re no hero…”
Wind whipped past like the roar of a thousand voices. The tower lights receded into the swirling storm above. The black sea rushed up to meet him, an endless maw opening wide. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw the faint silhouette of a younger self, wooden sword clutched in boyish hands, free and unbound by anyone’s commands.
Then he struck the waters. Freezing shock consumed him, wrenching the air from his lungs. He sank into the fathomless depths, the final note of that song fading in his mind. Darkness pressed in from all sides, erasing the last thought of whether he had finally escaped—or had only found oblivion.
Everything went black.