The courtyard was thick with tension. Messengers came and went like vultures, nobles whispered behind silk fans, and banners no longer waved with pride—but trembled with doubt.
Carlos stood atop the marble steps of the palace, cloak wrapped around him like armor, the golden crest of his ducal title shining against the early sun. He was not supposed to be here. Not the face of the crown. Not the one speaking.
That was Erevan's place.
Behind him, Lumira and Kave stood tensely—watching, waiting. But Carlos's eyes never left the gathering crowd at the gates.
And then—footsteps. Unsteady. Familiar.
"Carlos."
Carlos turned sharply. "You're supposed to be in bed."
Erevan stood, his royal robes trailing behind him like the weight of his legacy. Pale and trembling, but eyes clear. "And you're supposed to be beside me, not ahead of me."
"You can't—"
"I can't what?" Erevan's voice cracked, but he didn't back down. "Speak? Rule? Defend the people who still call me king?"
Carlos stepped forward, his voice low, begging. "Erevan, you're sick. One wrong move and—"
"And you'll take everything for me again? Become the blade, the shield, the villain?" Erevan laughed bitterly. "You're not even giving me a choice."
Carlos's jaw clenched. "Because you'll choose to die before letting others bleed for you."
Erevan took another step—and coughed. Once. Then again.
And then, blood.
"Erevan!" Carlos caught him before he hit the stone. Lumira rushed to their side, already pulling herbs and cloth from her satchel, face grim.
"You see?" she hissed to Carlos, "He's not ready. He's not even half-healed."
But Erevan, even in Lumira's arms, didn't stop speaking. "They need to hear it from me… not you… If I vanish and you rise, they'll say you stole everything. That you planned it from the beginning. Even if it's a lie—it will grow."
"I don't care," Carlos growled.
"Well I do!" Erevan shouted, and then winced in pain. "Carlos… You have always stood in front of me. I am not asking you to fall back. I'm asking you to stand beside me."
The words hit harder than a blade.
Carlos looked down at his bloodstained gloves, trembling with heat again. With guilt.
Kave knelt beside Erevan, his face torn between duty and helplessness.
And Lumira, her hands glowing faintly with healing light, murmured, "You both are fools. But one of you is bleeding from the heart. The other from the soul."
Carlos bowed his head.
The wind shifted. The crowd beyond the gates began to press forward, hungry for a voice—any voice—to tell them what to believe.
Carlos looked at Erevan, then stood. He stepped to the edge of the stairs, and raised his hand to halt the guards.
"I'll speak," he said. "But not as your king. Not even as your duke."
He turned to glance back at his brother—his king, pale and heaving in Lumira's arms.
"I speak as a brother. As someone who loves the boy behind these palace walls more than my own name. And I will not let anyone… not even a mother in white robes… poison him again."
The silence was heavy. And then—he began to speak.
And beyond the walls of the palace, in a quiet chamber drenched in incense and candlelight, the Queen began to prepare her next mask.