The council chamber is too warm. Stifling, actually. The kind of warm that makes the back of your neck itch and your shirt cling in the worst places. Incense curls from gold dishes in the corners, trying to cover the tension in something sweet. It fails. The stink of politics is stronger.
Reuben sits at the head of the long obsidian table. Back straight. Shoulders squared. Gloved hands folded so neatly it looks rehearsed. He hasn't said a word in… what? Seven minutes now?
The silence isn't awkward.
It's intentional.
A weapon, like everything else about him. Every second he waits is meant to make them sweat. And it works.
Around him, ministers shift in their seats, like maybe if they move just right, they can slip out from under the burden of the silence. One clears his throat. A thin, nervous sound that dies fast in the air. Another dares a glance up at Reuben, probably hoping to gauge his mood. Mistake. Their eyes meet, and the poor man flinches like he's been struck.
At last, Reuben speaks. Softly. And somehow that's worse than if he'd shouted.
"The tax reports from the western ports. They don't add up."
Then Lord Halden—always too eager, always too nervous—scrambles to fill the gap, his hands shaking the papers in front of him. "Y-yes, Your Highness. We believe it may be a miscount from the trade ledgers. The influx from Istania was—"
"I didn't ask for a belief." Reuben doesn't raise his voice. "I asked for facts."
Halden freezes, mouth still half-open like he was about to ramble on. The only sound now is the soft hiss of incense burning low.
Reuben stands. The scrape of his chair against the marble floor is deafening in the quiet room. Every head snaps up.
He steps out from behind his seat. His boots strike the floor with steady thuds. The ministers shrink back in their chairs as he passes. The proximity alone can damn them.
"You've been overseeing western trade for how long, Lord Halden?"
Halden's fingers twitch at the papers in front of him, as if the numbers on the page might somehow save him. "F—Five years, Your Highness."
Reuben stops behind him. Close enough that Halden stiffens. Close enough that the man's breath starts coming faster, shoulders tight as a drum.
"Then you should know what happens when coin goes missing under my rule."
Halden swallows hard, papers forgotten at his side. He tries to rise, words forming on his tongue—maybe a protest, maybe a plea—but before he can get them out, Reuben's hand lands on his shoulder.
Not gently.
The weight of it pins him down.
Reuben's hand stays firm on Halden's shoulder like a stone. He leans in just enough so only Halden can hear. "You've gotten too comfortable," he murmurs. His voice barely rises above a whisper, but it hits like a hammer. "This chamber does not exist to indulge incompetence."
"You will return to the ports," Reuben commands, stepping back just enough to let the sentence land. "Tonight." Eyes snap to Halden, who sits frozen, the color draining from his face. "You will take nothing but your seal and your name. If the missing funds are not accounted for by the end of the month, your estate will be dissolved. Your family will be relocated to the outer provinces."
A desperate voice breaks through—"Your Highness—please—"
Reuben leans in, "You were so wrong," then straightens, and without another word, commands the guards. "Escort Lord Halden to his quarters. He leaves before nightfall."
Two burly guards step forward and grab Halden by the arms. The nobleman struggles, desperation making his voice tremble as he pleads, "Your Highness, please! This has to be some terrible mistake. The ledgers—they're mixed up because of the new merchants from Istania. It's not missing coin, just delays in paperwork. I swear, I've done everything by the book."
His words tumble out, frantic and uneven, but the grip on his arms doesn't loosen. He glances back toward the council, eyes begging for an ally, but the chamber is frozen—faces turned away, eyes buried in parchments, pretending not to see.
"Please," Halden adds, voice cracking, "there are forces at work beyond my control. I ask for time—just a little more time to sort this out."
The guards haul him upright, his feet scraping against the marble floor and his protest fades. Reuben doesn't even glance at him. Instead, he strides back to his seat, smooths his coat like he's dusting off an old problem, and sits. He lifts his wine cup, takes a slow sip.
The ministers pretend to read their parchments, to straighten documents that don't need straightening. Reuben leans back slightly, elbows on the armrest, fingers tapping once—twice—against the black wood. He's no longer focused on Halden. That matter is finished. Disposed of.
Business isn't just about decisions here. It's about who holds the power to make those decisions stick.
His gaze drifts to the sealed letters near the edge of the table. Reports from the northern lords. A request from the high clergy. And one scroll marked with the red insignia of the Inner Circle—his spies.
That one, he pulls toward him.
He breaks the wax seal with one gloved thumb, unrolls the parchment, and reads. His eyes don't move as he reads—only once, side to side—and then he folds it calmly again, like it's nothing. Like it doesn't carry news of a lord's rebellion brewing beyond the marshlands. Like it doesn't confirm three more nobles are meeting in secret.
"I want all northern correspondence routed through my chamber," he says suddenly. His voice cuts through the stillness. "No letters leave, no visitors arrive, unless I see them first." The scribes nod, scribbling. No one questions the order. "And raise the tariffs on all outgoing grain. Effective immediately. If they want to test me, they can do it on an empty stomach."
One older minister, his silver beard twitching as he leans forward, clears his throat. "Your Highness, increasing tariffs may stifle the already fragile trade in the northern regions. The peasants suffer, and unrest could grow."
Reuben taps the table twice, sharply. "Better unrest in empty stomachs than rebellion in full bellies."
Another voice, younger and less steady, ventures, "But—if the nobles hear of this—"
Reuben's eyes flick up, ice meeting fire. "Do I look like I care about what they hear? I will not have my rule questioned under my watch." Silence falls again, broken only by the scratching of quills as scribes record the commands.
From the far end, a sharp-eyed woman speaks up. "Your Highness, with these new restrictions, will you be assigning additional guards to the northern borders?"
Reuben's lips curve into something like a smile. A great question, finally. "Yes. Double. And place the Iron Wolves under direct command of my chamber. No exceptions."
Heads nod, some reluctantly, others with the rigid discipline of those used to obeying without question.
The council chamber empties with quiet haste.
Chairs scrape gently. Papers are gathered. Coats fastened. No one stays longer than they must. A few offer shallow bows before leaving. Most just nod and slip out, grateful to escape the storm before it turns.
The heavy oak doors close behind the last one. Reuben remains still, eyes fixed on the carved lion etched into the table's center. Then—without a word—he moves. Not to his private study.
He turns toward the corridor behind the throne. A narrow path meant for guards and servants. He walks it without pause, torchlight flickering off stone walls. At the end of it is the training yard. Bare, silent, moonlit.
And Reese is already there.
He stands in the center, rolling his shoulders, sword in hand. No armor, just linen and leather. A faint scar runs down the side of his neck, a gift from Reuben himself years ago. He's the only man in the kingdom who still grins at Reuben like he's not the crown prince. Like he's just a fighter with sharp instincts and too much rage to burn.
"You took your time," Reese says, tossing him a practice blade—oak, worn smooth at the hilt. "Was beginning to think you'd gone soft."
Reuben catches it one-handed. "I was busy cleaning up after cowards." He steps into the yard, rolls his sleeves, and squares off.
There's no salute. No formality. Just the quick shuffle of feet and the blur of wood crashing against wood.
Reese strikes first.
Reuben blocks, spins, and drives forward with a clean thrust that would've cracked ribs if it were steel. Reese parries, grunts, and retaliates with a sweeping arc that Reuben dodges by inches.
They move like they've done this a thousand times.
Because they have.
The clash of wood echoes in the cold night air. No words now. Just the rhythm of impact, breath, and ground. Reuben fights like he commands—mercilessly. He doesn't slow down. Doesn't let Reese breathe. Every strike is calculated to break. Every movement honed to punish. This is where he lets it out—the brutality that diplomacy can't afford. The fury that never makes it to the surface in front of nobles or generals.
A spin. A low strike. A shove.
Reese stumbles back. And Reuben stops. Breathing hard. Face unreadable.
"I'm not here to win," Reese says, panting, half-laughing. "You know that, right?"
Reuben's voice is flat. "I know." He tosses the sword to the side and turns away, muscles still tight, jaw clenched.
"Then what are you here for?" Reese asks behind him.
Reuben doesn't answer. Because he doesn't know if it's practice. Or punishment. Or if he just needs to keep hitting something so he doesn't start a real war before breakfast.
Reuben walks to the edge of the yard, breathing slowly. He doesn't look at Reese now. The sword lies somewhere between them. The wood is splintered now. Reese doesn't move either. Just watches his brother with that same tired look he always wears after they spar.
"You fight like someone trying to outrun his blood," Reese mutters, finally stepping over to the bench to pick up his coat.
Reuben scoffs. "And you talk like someone who's proud of sharing it."
That earns a humorless laugh. "I'm not. But at least I don't pretend I don't come from the same damn line."
They're both silent after that.
The moon casts long shadows over the stone. One brother in a straight, royal stance. The other loose-limbed and reckless, a man built from instincts and stubbornness.
Reese and Reuben. Same father. That's where the similarities end.
Reese was born of the queen.
But not the woman Reuben called mother.
That woman—his mother—died under a veil of rumors and courtly shrugs. And Reuben, barely ten at the time, knew what none of the courtiers dared to speak aloud: the queen now sitting on the throne had her killed.
Poison in the evening tea. An illness too sudden. The servants all changed that week. The physicians were paid in silence. Reuben saw everything—and said nothing. Not because he was afraid.
Because he remembered the way his mother smiled when she handed him that same tea and told him to be brave.
Reese came not long after. Born from the very woman who'd taken his mother's place. The court called him a gift. A blessing.
But Reuben never forgot.
He never accepted.
He watched his father melt for her. He saw the way the king turned his gaze from his firstborn to this new boy. This soft-eyed child the queen kept close, always dressed neatly, always trailing after her like a shadow.
The betrayal nested in Reuben's chest and grew teeth.
He hated his father for choosing her. Hated the queen for winning. And as Reese grew older, he began to hate him too.
Not for anything Reese had done. But for existing. For breathing so easily in the place Reuben's mother had once stood. For being called "prince" in the same breath as him.
Even now, as they spar, as grownups with sharpened minds and stronger blades, that hatred simmers under Reuben's skin. He can't look at Reese too long without remembering the blood price behind his birth.
And yet—
Reese fights back. Reese never bows.
That makes it worse.
Because that's exactly what the queen wants. Her boy, born of ambition and sealed with treachery standing tall, fearless, unbent before the heir she never approved of.
She wants him to be king. She's made no secret of it. Not in her looks, not in the way she laces every court dinner with poisoned words, not in the way Reuben's every failure becomes a joke in the hallways she rules from behind lace curtains.
Every rebellion whispered in the court—she ties it to Reuben.
Every death on the battlefield—she attributes it to his cruelty.
She's spent years building a picture of him as a tyrant before the crown is even on his head. Unfit.Unworthy. And perhaps most dangerous of all: too much like his father.
None of it helps. It only deepens Reuben's hatred for her. And for Reese.
But Reese… he never wanted any of this.
He is nothing like her.
A free spirit, that's what the old commanders used to call him. A boy who would sneak out of the palace to walk among the villages. One who learned the names of farmers, listened to merchants' stories, fed stray dogs behind the temple kitchens. Reese never wanted a throne. Never cared for power. More than once, he's told Reuben that.
"I don't want your crown."
He said it without bitterness. Without challenge. And that—that—always throws Reuben off. Because how could the queen and her son be so different? How could the poison not touch him?
But even now, Reuben knows Reese is under pressure. Has been since childhood.
The queen tried to twist him young—stories about Reuben's cruelty, tutors who taught that blood must rule blood. That kindness was weakness. That Reuben would cast him out the moment he wore the crown.
But it never stuck.
Maybe because Reese saw through it.
Maybe because some men are born with sunlight in them that poison can't cloud.
And maybe that's why the queen works alone now. Why she hides her schemes behind veils and soft smiles, forging letters, stirring discontent, planting knives in the dark.
Because her son refuses to be her weapon.
And Reuben. He's always watching. Wondering how long Reese can keep that light alive before something finally snaps. Because no matter what Reese says—no matter how often he shrugs off the crown, walks away from the table, or stands beside the people instead of above them—he's still her son.
The queen's blood runs through his veins. The same hands that cradled his head once smothered another woman's breath. The same voice that sang lullabies whispered murder into servants' ears. The same eyes that softened for Reese hardened every time Reuben stepped into a room.
Reuben has seen what she is.
So how could he ever believe that her son is truly any different?
No. He doesn't trust Reese. He never has. And he never will.
Reuben is many things, but a fool is not one of them.
Reese could be sincere. He could be the only person in this cursed family who hasn't lied or schemed or killed to survive.
But sincerity doesn't erase blood.
And Reuben has learned—over and over again—that blood always finds its way back to the blade.