It took hours before the blood was scrubbed from the marble floor. Longer still for the whispers to become sentences. But by dawn, the entire empire had heard:
A fifteen-year-old prince killed the Queen.
The Queen—the angelic mother beloved by the church, the gentle widow who raised the king alone, the perfect symbol of grace—exposed as a monster. A traitor.
Some wept.
Some refused to believe it.
Others, quieter and older, remembered rumors buried under silk and smiles.
Then came the evidence—scrolls sealed with her signet, a chef who confessed under oath, the poisoned wine imported under her name, the lilies she insisted the king plant, the vines that she herself gifted.
It was true.
The Queen had tried to kill her own son.
And a boy—just fifteen years old—stood before her, faced her madness, and ended it.
Whispers turned into silence. Then into awe. Some still hated Carlos. Many feared him. But all bowed as he passed now—not for his title, but for what he had done.
---
When Erevan stirred again, it was evening. The scent of medicine lingered in the air. Sunlight spilled through the curtains like gold poured from heaven. His throat was dry, his ribs ached, but he turned his head—because he felt a presence.
Carlos sat beside him. Exhausted, bruised, with red under his eyes from sleeplessness.
"…You stayed," Erevan rasped.
Carlos blinked, then laughed softly. "Like I would leave after all this?"
The healer had already gone. Left them alone at Carlos's request.
"I heard," Erevan whispered, voice hollow, "you… executed her."
Carlos nodded once. "She tried to kill you again. I wasn't going to let her."
"I know." Erevan stared up at the ceiling. "I always knew she wanted the crown more than she wanted a son. But I never thought—"
Carlos stopped him gently. "Don't say it. It'll only hurt worse. Your heart is already fragile."
Erevan smiled bitterly. "You're stronger than me."
"No," Carlos replied. "I'm just used to pain."
" You changed, Little Carl."
---
Carlos stood alone in the moonlit corridor outside the king's chambers. The castle had grown quieter. Safer. But he couldn't shake the weight in his chest.
He thought: I've changed it. The path that killed him. The queen is gone. That part of fate is broken.
And then—a voice. Cold, ancient, echoing in his bones:
"You think slaying one snake ends the forest's poison?"
Carlos didn't flinch. "You again."
His god, the one who gave him the memories of his past life, whispered:
"Fate is not so easily defied. For every thread you sever, another tangles in its place."
Carlos closed his eyes. "Even so… I'll keep cutting."
"You think you've saved him."
"I know I did."
"He bled for you today. Would you let him bleed again?"
Carlos clenched his fists. "I'll bleed first."
The god was silent for a moment. Then laughed softly, cruelly.
"Very well. Let's see how long you last, soldier boy. We hope you dream well."
And he vanished.
---
BACK IN THE CHAMBER
Carlos returned quietly. Erevan was asleep again, chest rising and falling gently. For a moment, Carlos just looked at him.
The past had changed.
But not the people.
Erevan still smiled like nothing ever hurt. Kave still covered his worry with frustration. The healer still cursed him under her breath while tending his wounds.
And Carlos… Carlos still loved his brother more than the empire ever would.
So he sat beside him.
And watched.
And waited.
Because fate could burn itself to ash, and Carlos would still be there.