Carlos stood in the center of the storm.
The whispers twisted through every hallway, every corridor, every market square like ivy choking a monument. The Queen's narrative took root in every ear:
"The king is under house arrest."
"Carlos controls the palace now."
"He poisoned his brother to rise in power."
The people didn't speak it openly to his face—but they didn't need to. He felt it in every glance that avoided his eyes. In the courtiers who suddenly bowed too late. In the guards who stiffened when he passed, unsure whether to salute or hold their swords.
He didn't flinch. He didn't argue.
Carlos had never wanted their love.
But his brother did.
And that was the problem.
He knew Erevan was watching, quietly absorbing every echo of doubt. And Carlos had seen the signs: the trembling of fingers on quill, the long pauses during council meetings, the slow drag of his breath after reading yet another slanderous leaflet that painted Carlos as a tyrant.
He remembered Lumira's words, furious and urgent: "He can endure pain. But shame? Betrayal? If he believes the people hate him—he'll break."
Carlos clenched his fists, then released them.
"I'll end it," he murmured. "Before he stands again… before he bleeds again."
---
What Carlos didn't know… was that the Queen had moved on to her next piece.
The rumors had served their purpose. Distract the court. Shake the king. Poison Carlos's name.
But her goal was never Carlos.
It was always Erevan.
Her fingers moved deftly in the shadows—hiring a priest from the southern border, one whose loyalty was not to gods but to coin. She drafted letters in the dead of night, sealed with her crest, sent through secret channels.
"I want it to look like a mercy," she wrote.
The plan was quiet. Clean. A mixture—a plant from the far north, pale and ghostly, said to still a racing heart. The healer would never trace it unless she cut open the veins herself.
The Queen prayed in public, wept in temples, lit candles until her fingers burned. The people believed her to be a saint mourning a dying son.
And meanwhile, the poison moved closer.
---
Carlos, unaware of the exact blade hanging above his brother's head, continued the fight in the open.
He confronted priests, nobles, ministers—anyone repeating the Queen's lies. He tore apart their logic with the precision of a dagger, showed receipts, exposed false signatures, humiliated barons with documents they didn't know he had.
It wasn't enough.
No matter how much truth he unearthed, the people clung to what comforted them: the Queen's halo, her smile, her perfect painted grief.
Carlos could face swords. Fire. Death.
But this?
This slow erosion of everything he was trying to protect?
It exhausted him in a way the battlefield never could.
---
Then one morning, Carlos stood outside Erevan's chamber—intent on reporting the latest.
And the door opened before he knocked.
Erevan stood there, pale but dressed in royal blue, cloak around his shoulders. He looked like he had dragged himself out of death's arms and told it to wait.
"Where are you going?" Carlos demanded.
Erevan's eyes were calm. "They want a king. I will give them one."
Carlos moved to block him. "Your heart—"
"I'm not dead yet."
Carlos's voice broke. "You don't have to do this."
"I do," Erevan whispered. "Because if I don't… you will. And you'll burn everything."
Carlos clenched his jaw. "You think I care what they say?"
"No," Erevan said softly. "But I know it hurts you that I do."
Carlos looked away. "Don't stand out there and die for them. I'll carry it. All of it."
But Erevan only smiled faintly. "I'm your king, Carlos. Not your burden."
And then, without warning, his body gave way. A cough wracked through him, sharp and sudden—and blood splattered across the marble floor.
---
The Queen was there. Of course she was. She screamed louder than anyone else, rushing forward with tears like pearls on her lashes.
"My son!" she wailed. "What have they done to you? What has he done?!"
Carlos didn't look at her. He knelt beside Erevan, arms catching his brother before he could fall. Shocked!
Kave pushed through the crowd, fury written across his face. Lumira was not far behind, cursing as she tossed aside nobles to get to her patient.
She was already pulling tools from her pouch. "This family is going to be the death of me," she muttered, panic laced beneath her words.
As she worked, Kave stared at Erevan's blood on the ground.
He finally understood.
It wasn't that Erevan was weak.
It was that Carlos had been too strong suddenly—so strong that Erevan had been allowed to be gentle after that day. Soft. Noble.
But now… now the world demanded a hardened king.
And it might kill him for it.
---
That night, as the healer worked and the palace held its breath, Carlos made a choice.
He would stop chasing justice with speeches.
He would burn through the lies until the only thing left was truth.
Even if he had to tear the Queen's false image down in front of the people's eyes.
Even if it meant they hated him forever.
Because he would rather be hated…
…than see his brother die.