The woods were quiet. Too quiet. The only sounds Eliot could hear were the crunch of dried leaves under Marcus's boots and the low whimper of wind brushing through bare branches.
"You hear that?" Marcus whispered, crouching beside a thick patch of bramble. His breath curled like smoke in the frigid morning air.
Eliot blinked, straining his ears. "I don't hear anything."
"Exactly. That means it's close."
Marcus handed him the bow—too large for Eliot's small arms, but the boy held it with trembling fingers anyway.
"There's no thrill like this," Marcus continued, his tone both cold and amused. "Tracking a life. Knowing it doesn't even sense death trailing behind."
They had been walking for hours. No guards. No watchers. Marcus insisted it would make a man of him—whatever that meant.
Eliot's fingers ached. Not just from the cold, but from clutching the bow too tightly.
"There," Marcus said suddenly, pointing toward a small clearing. A lone deer stood grazing, its coat pale and dappled with mud.
Eliot hesitated.
"It's just a baby," he whispered.
Marcus laughed quietly. "Perfect for you. Soft. Easy."
Eliot looked into the deer's eyes—wide, unknowing, innocent. His fingers refused to pull the string.
"Kill it."
Eliot flinched.
"I said—kill it, Eliot." Marcus's voice dropped, all charm gone. "If you can't do this, you'll never survive what's coming. Sympathy is a sickness in this family. And weakness," he leaned close, whispering by Eliot's ear, "gets people like your mother killed."
Eliot's blood froze.
"What?"
But Marcus stepped back, gesturing at the deer again. "Shoot. Or I will."
Tears welled in Eliot's eyes. His arms ached. His heart thundered.
He let go.
The arrow flew—crooked, panicked.
It missed.
The deer bolted, but not fast enough.
Marcus was faster.
In a blur, Marcus drew his knife and threw it with such precision that the blade embedded itself into the deer's neck. The creature collapsed, twitching, choking on its own blood.
Marcus turned to Eliot, a grin stretched too wide across his face.
"Next time, don't hesitate."
Eliot couldn't breathe. The smell of blood, warm and metallic, filled the air. His legs buckled.
Marcus crouched beside him. "You want to know why your mother hides you? Why she teaches you songs instead of swords?"
He grabbed Eliot's chin, forcing the boy to look at the dying deer.
"Because she wants you to feel. But feeling won't save her when the time comes."
Eliot closed his eyes. He couldn't cry. Not here. Not in front of Marcus.
And somewhere, deep in the dark parts of his heart, something twisted.
"you need to be like her before she married my brother, she kills wherever she goes" recalling the days, on how Thalia nearly severe his head with a spear.
Marcus chuckled thingking of past memories.
"I can't kill it, it's small" Eliot were fidgeting. "I would if it's bigger," Marcus tapped behind Eliot's back, praising him.
When he was aiming the dagger, Marcus took the chance to see what kind of expression would the boy have on his face.
He didn't even close his eyes, focusing on where would the dagger would placed on the fawn.
The Prince that shriveled in fear when he's alone, wouldn't even blink with death.
This things made him rather- curious. Samuel reported to him, how bizarre his eyes were watching the creature that were turning to dust.
The moment small animals stopped moving, breathing. His nephew were hiding a smile of satisfaction.
He decided to train this tiny prince, just in case his own father would harm him.
"Did you hunt with my brother while I was away, sweetie?" Marcus asked, motioning for Eliot to pick up the dagger from the fawn.
"No, he did not," came Gabriel's voice from behind.
"How come?" Marcus asked. If that was true, then the last time Eliot hunted something was nearly six months ago.
That explained the flush of excitement the boy was wearing now.
"you can come in, you know. Don't mind your father. He's a softie," Marcus teased.
They both laughed.
"Give it to Gabbi," Marcus said, gesturing for Gabriel to come to Eliot rather than the boy walking over with the fawn.
Gabriel took the fawn from Eliot's hands. "Clarity," he called out.
"If you want to hunt again, bring him with you," Gabriel added casually. "He may be an asshole and a drunken lad, but he's damn good with his hands."
He glanced sideways. "None of the knights can take Clarity down in combat. Not even when he's sober."
"Which household did he come from again?" Gabriel asked Marcus. The two were close—Gabriel being one of the few who spoke informally to the former crown prince.
"Robane, wasn't it?" answered a tanned knight behind them.
"He was supposed to be the successor to his house. What disqualified him? Robane's filthy rich—why walk away from that?"
"He left on his own. The family didn't disown him," Marcus explained, joining the conversation. Not many knew that detail. Not many cared to ask why Clarity drowned himself in alcohol.
A genius born from a prestigious household… now one of the Queen's dogs? Well—he wasn't the first.
The Robane household had long split into two factions.
The main family dealt in business, weaving themselves into political circles, upholding a gleaming image in high society. Though not part of the Nine Great Households, they were considered an elite exception—wealthier than most nobles.
The second household, where Clarity was born, trained in swordsmanship and martial arts. They served as guardians of the Robane estate, a militant arm of the family.
For centuries, the Robanes held a deep bond with the Willows. It wasn't uncommon for sons of Robane's warrior line to be appointed as royal guards—especially to keep that bond alive.
If the records were right, Clarity Robane was a distant cousin to both Marcus and Lukas.
And if fate had been different… he would've stood beside them as more than a drunkard with a blade.