The moon hung low that night, silver and silent over the palace walls. The training yard was quiet, save for the distant howl of a hound, and the flickering lanterns swaying in the breeze.
Rythe sat alone on the low stone bench just outside the barracks, still in his half-armored coat, sleeves rolled, gloves discarded beside him. His sword leaned lazily against the wall, untouched. He was staring at the ground, as though waiting for something to make sense.
Footsteps approached softly.
He didn't lift his head.
"You always did prefer the quiet corners," Maleus said gently, coming to stand a short distance away. "Even as boys."
Rythe's fingers flexed on his knee. "I wasn't hiding."
"I didn't say you were."
A beat of silence.
Then Rythe said, without looking up, "Did he shout at you?"
"No," Maleus replied, a little surprised. "He didn't say anything at all. Just poured himself a drink and stared at the fire like it held all the answers he never asked for."
Rythe gave a faint, humorless huff. "Sounds like him."
Maleus stepped closer and sat beside him. Neither spoke for a long while. The silence stretched, heavy but not hostile.
"You said a lot today," Maleus finally said. "Things that needed saying."
Rythe's jaw worked.
"And yet I feel no better for it."
"Because some wounds don't heal with words," Maleus murmured. "But you weren't wrong."
Rythe closed his eyes briefly.
"You were right about me, too," Maleus continued. "I should have thanked you. For saving him. For protecting me from Father's wrath. I didn't. I was too proud. Too ashamed."
"You loved him," Rythe said simply. "They made you ashamed of that. Not me."
"Still. I abandoned you when I should've stood beside you."
Another silence.
Then Maleus added, quieter:
"You were never just our sword, Rythe. You were our spine. The reason this empire hasn't broken under its own weight."
Rythe didn't respond right away.
But then, in a rare moment of vulnerability, he said:
"Sometimes I think I forgot how to be anything else."
Maleus turned to him, eyes searching.
"You haven't. You just haven't been given the chance."
Rythe looked at him finally, his face tired. "There's no redemption for what I did to Aurean. Not even peace could absolve me of that."
Maleus placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "Then maybe don't seek redemption, Rythe. Seek... rest. Let your heart remember it belongs to you."
"And if I don't deserve rest?"
"Then take it anyway," Maleus said, "before it's stolen from you again."
They sat in silence again, two brothers bound by duty, by blood, and now—at last—by a fragile, overdue understanding.
The wind whispered through the yard.
And for the first time in years, Rythe felt a quiet anchor settle in his chest—not from power, not from command, but from something gentler.
From family.
The late morning sun filtered through the stained glass windows of Rythe's war office, scattering soft hues of crimson and gold across the heavy stone floor. Scrolls and maps lay forgotten on the desk, a half-eaten tray of food untouched beside them.
A quiet knock came at the door.
"Enter," Rythe said without turning.
A young courier stepped in, bowing deeply. "A sealed letter, Your Highness. From Virelia. Hand-delivered by one of Prince Eiran's men."
That made Rythe's head lift.
He took the letter without a word, fingers careful around the seal embossed with the sigil of the Virelian royal house—a crescent sun encircling a laurel.
The courier bowed again and excused himself, leaving Rythe alone.
He broke the seal and unfolded the parchment, his eyes quickly scanning the flowing Virelian script.
To His Highness, Prince Rythe,
Greetings from across the sea. I write this with good news—as you requested, I've kept my eyes on your emissary, though I wonder if he suspects the attention he draws is not solely diplomatic.
Aurean is adjusting far better than any of us anticipated. He has become somewhat of a quiet marvel in the palace. His presence, though still reserved, carries a quiet strength. The court has taken a liking to him—not for his story, which he never tells—but for his poise, his clarity, and the curious way he puts others before himself without even realizing it.
He learns swiftly. Virelian etiquette, political structures, language—he absorbs them all with patience and purpose. But he does more than just learn; he teaches too. Already, our young pages speak of him as if he were one of the sages. His thoughts are sharp, his questions even sharper.
Rythe's hand slowed on the page. A breath caught somewhere in his throat.
I do not think you give yourself enough credit, Rythe. Whatever darkness you believe you cast on that boy—it has not dimmed his light.
Also, per your request, we will be sending a shipment of the things he loves over here and finds calming. They'll arrive with the next diplomatic crate.
And yes, I will continue keeping your messages to me a secret, as promised. Though I suspect if Aurean ever finds out, he will not be angry.
He might even smile.
In strength and loyalty,
Prince Eiran of Virelia.
Rythe lowered the letter slowly. His eyes stared past the stone walls, beyond the colored glass.
Aurean was healing.
Not merely surviving—but living.
And not a day passed without Rythe thinking of him.
He stood and walked to the tall window, hand tightening around the edge of the letter as he looked out over the distant horizon. The air smelled of salt and sun today. It reminded him of Virelia.
After a long moment, he exhaled.
Just barely, Rythe smiled.