33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33

Silvyr

Time became a blur in Athowen.

If it weren't for the advisors reminding him of each passing day, Silvyr wouldn't have known how long ago he'd been taken from Ghizol. Weeks, months, it all just jumbled together in endless monotony, swallowed deeper and deeper into emptiness.

Every morning, he would wake to cold sweats and wretched gasps, ripped from slumber by the constant nightmares. Every morning, he would wait for Brokil to be there, easing him down from the terror of night. And every morning, without fail, he would find himself alone, fighting to soothe his own racing heart and fill his burning lungs, curling into himself and away from the memories that haunted him.

No matter how desperately Silvyr prayed to wake wrapped in Brokil's arms, that earthen musk surrounding him, it never came. Silvyr was trapped—his waking hours confined to marble walls and cold figures, his dreams chained in the Bravrith dungeons. The warmth of Ghizol was gone.

Day after day, Silvyr spent his time going to and from meetings with the Council, as though nothing had happened. No one acknowledged him further than the presentations he was required to give them. The report on Xeatia, which Silvyr had nearly forgotten about, was treated as though the delay was due to Silvyr's negligence, not the fact that he was taken hostage for months. In an act of kindness, Father had given Silvyr a week to compile his notes and create the report, but nothing he did would change the results. Just like he imagined, Father still blamed him, berating him in front of the Council while Mother and Arlen sat by and watched.

The criticism continued when Silvyr made his report on Ghizol. The week Father had given him was spent in their libraries, searching only for what Athowen already knew of Ghizol. He would give Father nothing that could be used to harm them, and if that meant taking the lash and being abused in front of the Council, so be it. Silvyr would protect Brokil. He would protect his home.

He was pleased to find that Athowen knew very little about the Amesisle orcs at all. Most of what little reading material they did have seemed to be misguided and, in some cases, completely incorrect. Even the existence of the Elders was omitted from any records in Athowen.

Maybe when Silvyr took the throne, he would add them, but for now, he would let Father believe that Brokil led Ghizol alone, let him think they were weaker for it so he might underestimate them.

As expected, his report was not received well, but Silvyr stood his ground, accepting all the abuses hurled at him. Useless. Thoughtless. Incompetent. Nothing new, and all of them expected. All of them lies.

Maybe they expected him to bend and crack under the pressure of their disdain. But he wouldn't do it. He knew they were wrong. He knew he did what needed to be done to protect Ghizol and her people.

The work there had already started, he only needed to hold strong. Ascal told him that the messenger bird was sent without issue, so now he could only wait for it to return, if it returned at all. Brokil might feel it necessary to keep the bird to prevent anyone in Athowen from realizing what Silvyr had done. Though Silvyr wanted nothing more than to hear from Brokil, he understood the importance of their secrecy.

Regardless, Silvyr wouldn't be useless. Or rather, he wouldn't be useless for Ghizol.

When Father's personal attendant, Callow, returned Silvyr's report on his capture, Silvyr had expected it. He knew Father would be unsatisfied with the work, knew he would demand Silvyr do it again, this time with more information. It was a hopeless endeavor, but Silvyr would use it to his advantage, redirecting Father's anger toward himself instead of Ghizol.

Over the next few weeks, Silvyr spent most of his time in the study, compiling the notes on Ghizol like he'd been instructed. This time, however, he filled his new report with what he knew better than anyone in Athowen.

Flowers.

Ghizol overflowed with beautiful blooms and blossoms, anyone who surveyed the area would be able to see that. He spent days sketching various wildflowers across parchment, detailing their uses and meanings in the language of flowers. He spoke of medicines and salves that could be created from them, teas that could be steeped and dyes that could be made. Silvyr compiled it all. Pages and pages of everything and anything Father would dismiss as useless. A waste of his time.

Time Silvyr only bought for Ghizol to prepare.

The reception he received when called to present his research was expectedly hostile. The Council attempted to interrupt him multiple times. Mother rolled her eyes. Even Father, who typically kept a stoic, calculated expression in front of others, did not bother holding back a scoff.

Silvyr continued anyway. His hands shook, and his voice threatened to crack, but he pulled on the strength Brokil insisted he had, wrapped himself in that belief like armor, and got through the meeting without breaking.

When he finally finished the report, he awaited the dismissal that typically followed, only to be met with silence instead. Instead, father stood from his chair on the dais and folded his hands behind his back, setting his glare firmly on Silvyr.

"And is that all?" Father asked, his voice carrying a dangerously sharp edge that made Silvyr's chest tighten.

It was a trick question, of course, as Father only had this particular look when he wanted something more from Silvyr. His legs itched to run. If he didn't need to wait for father's signal, he would have been long gone from the council room by now. "Yes, Father. That is all."

Father glanced sidelong at Arlen, and Silvyr's stomach churned, his mind searching frantically for a reason why. Had Arlen told Father something that Silvyr missed? He hadn't given his brother anything that Father didn't already know, it wasn't possible. He had only spoken to him once since returning to Athowen, and he'd been so careful with what he'd said.

Arlen didn't hesitate to join Father's side, but there was an unfamiliar look on his face as he glanced at Silvyr, one the eldest couldn't quite discern. Pity, perhaps? Or the fa?ade of it. Silvyr's heart rabbited in his chest when Arlen pulled a rolled piece of parchment from his robe and handed it to the king. Father turned his gaze back to Silvyr as he unraveled the scroll. He asked a second time. "You are sure that is all?"

"That is all," Silvyr repeated, swallowing the knives in his throat as a cold sweat broke out on his back.

"I see." Father turned his attention to the advisors in the room. "The beast who orchestrated the abduction of the Crown Prince has been apprehended."

Silvyr's heart stopped, plummeting to his feet at a dizzying speed.

Murmurs and excited whispers flooded the room, but Silvyr couldn't hear them over the rushing of blood in his ears. Brokil had been captured. Arlen had taken him from Ghizol, alive it sounded, but likely not unhurt. And what of Ghizol? Did she still stand? Had anyone else been taken? Injured?

It was all Silvyr could do not to drop to his knees and beg for Father's mercy. To tell him he could do whatever he desired to Silvyr, as long as he let Brokil be and sent him home. But the bravery he'd felt during his presentation had all but vanished, so with a thundering heart, he waited for the whispers to die down and for Father to continue.

"Second-born Arlen Quilen led the party that apprehended him. On the beast, Arlen discovered this." Father let the parchment unfurl in front of him, and Silvyr's legs nearly gave out when he caught a glimpse of the script inside. "It seems our Crown Prince Silvyr has had some correspondence with the beast himself."

The murmuring rose again and Silvyr wanted, needed, to run, but his legs were held firmly in place with Father's powerful gaze. It didn't matter if he ran anyway, Father wouldn't let him get far. Arlen alone could pull Silvyr back into the Council room without much effort. Whatever was going to happen, Silvyr would need to stand strong and take it.

"I think it's worth reading aloud. Perhaps Silvyr of Athowen has good reason to be writing to the beast," Father said and Silvyr's jaw dropped. He wouldn't, would he? Could he truly be that cruel?

"Father," Silvyr started, taking a single step forward only to be stopped with a fierce glare. The words dried up in his throat, but he wouldn't have had anything to say anyway. It was too late. Father had seen what he had written, what he had told Brokil, his every betrayal laid out in curling ink. Silvyr's desire to stay, his desire to protect Ghizol, his desire to return.

Father stared at him coldly, his gaze like ice in a wound. "You will be silent, child," he commanded, his tone one Silvyr had long since grown familiar with. One that promised punishment, retribution.

Mother stayed silent, as she always did in these matters, though Silvyr never hoped for any different. She remained indecipherable, her face as blank as it had ever been in Silvyr's presence. If there was any emotion he could place to her, it was disappointment. Not in Silvyr per se, but in herself for bearing the child that had become him.

Arlen's face was a mystery, full of confusion and pity, perhaps even a mixture of pain himself. It was something Silvyr had never seen from him before. He didn't know what to make of it until Arlen took a hesitant step forward and said, "Father, is reading the note aloud truly necessary?"

All heads snapped in the direction of his brother, and for the first time, that same hatred he held for Silvyr glimmered in Father's eyes. Arlen looked as if he might say more, like he might be foolish enough to stick up for Silvyr for once in his life, but Silvyr caught his eye and gave a small, frantic shake of his head.

Silvyr may not be able to stop Father from exacting his punishments on himself, but he could protect Arlen from that pain. They were not close, blood being their only tie, but blood was enough for Silvyr right now.

Luckily, the younger relented, bowing his head in apology and returning to his spot. Father said nothing else to him, turning his attention back to the scroll and beginning to read.

"Brokil, I apologize for my leaving Ghizol after the promise I made to you. Please know that it was my decision, and I would have never done so without reason…"

With each word Father read, Silvyr felt the heat in his cheeks increase, the blood rushing so quickly it made him dizzy. He wanted to cover his ears like a child, to block out his father's voice. He didn't need to hear the letter again. He knew what it said.

"When Ascal came to retrieve me, I had no choice but to go with her. I did not want bloodshed, and I know she would have fought if she felt the need, and I know you would have protected me. I could not bear to see you harmed…"

Gods, Silvyr had known Father to be cruel, but this? Voicing Silvyr's betrayal to the entire Council, to Arlen and Mother, surely this was just another nightmare. Surely Silvyr would wake in his bed, sweating and gasping like always.

Wake up. Please, wake up.

"Know that when I made my promise to you, I meant every word. I wanted to be there when you returned. Wanted to wake up to you every day, if you'd have let me…"

Silvyr had never felt more of a fool as he did then. Not for the words themselves, but for being stupid enough to write them at all.

"If there is a way for me to keep my promise, to return to you, then I will do it. But if I am unable, know that I will not betray Ghizol. My father intends to burn the city to the ground, but I will protect it to the best of my ability. I will protect our home."

The last two words dripped with venom, spat at Silvyr's feet like a discarded carcass, drained of blood and left to rot.

When Father finished reading, he set the parchment aside and stepped down from the dais. Silvyr didn't dare look up from the floor, unable to bear looking at Father, knowing that he would crumble under the outrage that no doubt lingered in the man's eyes. With each step, Silvyr felt himself quaking, and when Father's silk slippers came into view, the needles in his throat threatened to tear free.

Like pincers, Father's hand grabbed Silvyr's face, forcing him to look upon him and take in his fury. His eyes flared with venom and deep hatred, and even worse still, disappointment.

"When that beast arrives in Athowen, I am tasking you with his execution," Father said, and despite the acid pooling in his eyes, the words came out almost pacifying. As though he were trying to soothe a crying babe. The blood drained from Silvyr's face and his hands went numb, but Father only waited. "Well? Do you have nothing to say?"

"Nothing, Father," Silvyr whispered, curling his hands into fists at his side. Nothing he could say would remove the rage Father felt. Nothing he could say would change Father's mind. Nothing he could say would convince anyone in this room to be anything but disgustingly complicit.

"I see. Callow. The lash."

Father pushed Silvyr's face away from himself, taking long strides to reach the dais before sitting in his throne. Silvyr looked up just in time to see Callow stepping up to him, revealing the whip hidden behind his back.

Silvyr knew this dance. Turning his back to Callow, he stepped up to the wall and removed his shirt. Around him, the Council's murmuring filled the chamber. His scars from Bravrith were on full display, though he doubted they knew where he'd received them. For all they cared, these wounds were given to him at the hands of Ghizol. At the hands of the very people he wanted to protect.

All he needed to do was close his eyes and wait for the end of the punishment. Then he could return to his room, dress his wounds, and be done with it. Father would leave him be after that. He could be strong and take this, just like Brokil said he was.

Even with the Council, Mother, and Arlen watching on, Silvyr would not falter. Perhaps they viewed him better than before, knowing that Silvyr survived the torture, and would survive the lash. He had been doing so his whole life, and today would be no different. He would survive Athowen so that one day, if fate willed it, he could make it home.

"Callow. Ensure that he cannot stand when you are done," Father commanded.

Silvyr placed his hands on the wall and closed his eyes.

You're strong, Silvyr. Fucking strong. You hear me?

I hear you.

The whip cracked.

???

Ascal had to be summoned to carry Silvyr back to his chambers when all was finished. True to his command, Callow did not stop until Silvyr could no longer hold himself up with his own strength, and even then, he did not stop until Father commanded it.

Silvyr refused to cry out or give Father any satisfaction in the punishment given to him. He would take the lash again and again if it meant another chance to send a message to Brokil, to give Ghizol a fighting chance against Father and his rage. Even as Ascal carried him, Silvyr bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself silent despite the burning pain coursing through his entire body.

It wasn't until they were back in his chambers and Ascal carefully laid him on the bed, that Silvyr let the pained whine escape his throat. Every inch of his beaten body throbbed and ached. Even the places where the whip did not reach trembled and radiated with sharp burning.

"Stay there," Ascal said, as though Silvyr could move if he wanted too. Her footsteps moved away from the bed and Silvyr heard her rummaging through his belongings, grunting and huffing as she did so until finally her footsteps returned and her knees thudded onto the rug.

Silvyr listened to Ascal twisting open a jar of salve and braced himself. As she applied the ointment to each open wound, Silvyr sucked in a breath as the stinging salve began its work.

"They captured Brokil," Silvyr said through gritted teeth, curling his fingers into his sheets. "They found my letter."

"I know," Ascal said, her voice uncharacteristically soft. It always was when she treated Silvyr's wounds. "I wanted to warn you, but the King had me summoned to assist with something else until he saw you himself."

Silvyr didn't need her explanations. Ascal had proven herself more than trustworthy, hell, she was the only person in this damned place he could trust. She would have done whatever she could to warn Silvyr, but Father knew that too. It would be foolish for the man to let Ascal give him any kind of warning, so of course he sent her away while Silvyr remained to take the brunt of Father's anger.

Silvyr sucked in a sharp breath when Ascal began to lay the bandages over his back, her fingers brushing over a lash that crossed his still healing boar wound. "Do you know when he will be arriving?"

"Yes. Arlen arrived before the rest of his entourage," Ascal said, letting out a soft sigh. "He will be arriving within a week."

"A week." Silvyr took a breath. "I'll be able to walk by then."

"Silvyr, what are you planning?"

"Father wants me to kill him, and if I don't, then Father will. I won't let him. I can't," Silvyr admitted, thankful that the pain prevented him from looking at her, fearing that his emotions would get the better of him and he would break down entirely. "I can't, Ascal."

She was quiet for a moment, before he felt a gentle touch to the back of his head. "You will walk by the time he is here. I promise," Ascal said, the only words that could have comforted Silvyr.

Despite the pain still coursing through him, Silvyr pushed himself up, groaning against the way his body fought to remain still, to collapse. Even Ascal's hand on his shoulder didn't stop him. He would force it, force his weak, pathetic body to obey him.

"Ascal," Silvyr turned to look at her, reaching out to grasp her hand in his. "I might not see you again after Brokil is here." He didn't need to say why, they both knew. Either Silvyr would leave with Brokil, or Father would kill him for his betrayal. Either way, Silvyr would finally be free from his marble cage.

Ascal stared at him, emotion swirling in her eyes even if her face remained hardened. "I know," she finally said, shaking her head. "You know, you're going to be putting me out of work. Whose personal guard will I be after you leave?"

Silvyr couldn't help but smile. "Arlen could use you," he said. "He will need someone around to show him how to be a good leader. There's no one better for that in this place than you, Ascal."

"If you weren't hurt, I might hug you," Ascal told him.

"If you hugged me, I might break a rib." Silvyr let himself chuckle, despite the shooting pain from every open wound.

"Even so," Ascal stood up and set the jar of ointment on the bedside table. "Lay down, let your body rest. I'll be here tomorrow and we'll work on walking. I'll make sure you're ready."

Silvyr smiled at her, affection blooming in his chest at her kindness. Ascal was the only one in Athowen who ever treated him with any kind of sincerity, the only one he might be able to truly call a friend. He would miss her when he was gone.

"Do you need anything else?"

"Not right now. I'll call on you tomorrow to help me walk," Silvyr replied.

"I'll be here tonight to help you get ready for bed," she corrected him, a warning in her glare. "Do not try walking on your own, you'll hurt yourself more."

"I wouldn't dream of it." It was a lie, and they both knew it. Silvyr wouldn't let himself be idle, not with Brokil on the line, and Ascal knew him well enough to know how stubborn he was. Still, she had duties to attend and couldn't sit there staring at him all day to keep him in bed.

To his credit, Silvyr waited at least an hour before trying to move. The lashes on his back weren't deep, but they were many, and it would be best to let them clot before he tried leaving the bed, lest he bleed out before he got anywhere.

It took him longer than he'd prefer to make it to his feet, and even then, the pain spiked so sharply once he was vertical that his knees gave out entirely. He wasn't sure how long he spent there, crumpled on the floor, trying to catch his breath, but it was long enough for the worthlessness to threaten returning. He couldn't let that happen, so Silvyr clawed at the sheets of his bed and yanked himself to his feet, making it a step or two before collapsing once more. He tried again. And again.

Stand up. Stumble. Collapse. Stand up. Stumble. Collapse. Stand up, dammit. Stand up!

By the time he made it to the seat by the window, Silvyr could hardly see through the haze of black seeping into his vision, but it didn't matter. He'd made it. It might have taken him hours, he had no idea how many, but he made it.

He would handle whatever admonishing Ascal would have for him when she returned that night, but he didn't have time to wait around. He had more important things to worry about.

One week. One more week and Silvyr would see Brokil again. One way or another, he would make sure Brokil returned to Ghizol, and if things went as he hoped, Silvyr would be returning with him. If they didn't… Well, Silvyr would be content knowing Brokil made it home at least. Ghizol needed him more than Silvyr did, and Brokil needed them more than he needed Silvyr. It wouldn't matter then what happened to his own heart.

Let it burn so long as Ghizol was able to thrive.

True to her word, Ascal returned that night, furious to find that Silvyr had walked on his own to the window. It wasn't much, but it was enough movement that his lash wounds bled through his bandages and he still hadn't caught his breath completely.

"Idiot. How are you meant to help anyone if you keep hurting yourself?" Ascal grumbled at him.

Silvyr didn't care. The pain would be worth it.

In the week that followed, Ascal visited Silvyr each day and lifted him from his bed to walk him around the room. The first few times were torture. He was used to remaining in bed until he had healed enough to walk on his own. But that was a luxury he couldn't afford this time, so he ignored every ounce of himself that screamed for relief.

Relief would come later.

By the end of the week, he was able to walk through the castle at Ascal's side. Though the pain still remained and the wounds refused to heal through all the movement Silvyr put himself through, he managed. He was strong. Pain was nothing anymore. Not when he'd been through so much. Not when he had something to look forward to for once in his life.

Confident that he could walk on his own, he dismissed Ascal to rest before dinner.

The sun's rays faded from his window and Silvyr made his way over, gazing out over the rooftops of Athowen proper. His legs trembled with the effort to hold himself up, but Silvyr placed his hands on the windowsill and stared out over the horizon.

It was an unintentional kindness that Silvyr's bedroom faced Ghizol. He could not see it from so far away, but every day where Silvyr did not see smoke on the horizon was a blessing. Yes, Brokil had been captured, but his home still stood, and Silvyr would find a way to get him there.

When a knock sounded at his door, Silvyr wasn't surprised. Father always sent for Silvyr's dinner to be delivered to his room instead of his study while he was healing. Another small act of kindness whenever Silvyr dealt with the lash.

"Come in," he said, pulling a robe on and taking a seat at his desk, biting back a gasp when the movement tugged at his back.

Expecting to see one of Father's attendants, Silvyr was nearly speechless when Arlen stepped into his room, carrying a tray of food with one hand and using the other to close the door behind him. He turned his eyes to Silvyr's, something almost like a smile touching his lips when he saw Silvyr's surprise.

"I asked to bring your dinner," he answered the unasked question, setting the tray on Silvyr's desk. Without asking or waiting, Arlen sat in the free chair across from him, resting his elbows on his knees. "Are you okay?"

The question was utterly ridiculous, and Silvyr couldn't stop himself from scoffing. "I am healing. I always do," he said, watching how Arlen's face twisted with regret. At the question or the subject matter, he couldn't be sure, but a part of Silvyr was satisfied with knowing that someone realized how wrong his pain was. "Thank you for bringing my meal."

"Why did you let Father read that?" Arlen asked him, trying to meet his eye even as Silvyr turned away, staring at the baked cod and grilled vegetables on his plate. Gods, what he would give for Brokil's roasted meats and thick stews. "Last week."

"Do you truly believe I could have said anything to prevent Father from doing as he wished?" Arlen couldn't be foolish enough to believe that Father would spare Silvyr his feelings. If anything, he would have held on to that letter to ensure it was read before his entire court.

Arlen was silent for a long while, only the sounds of their breathing filling the space. Every few moments the muffled conversations of advisors or scholars passed Silvyr's doors, never loud enough to make out what they were saying, but enough for Silvyr to know he was never truly alone in this place.

"I was part of the party that apprehended Chief Brokil," Arlen said, and Silvyr finally turned his head to look at him. Father had said it in the meeting, yet hearing it from Arlen's mouth felt like a slap across the face.

Gods, what had Brokil thought when he saw Arlen? When he saw what Silvyr could have been if he had been stronger, braver, better loved by Mother and Father?

"I see," Silvyr managed to say, setting his hands in his lap to hide their shaking. "Tell me, was he well?" Silvyr needed to know that Brokil was still okay. Even captured, he needed to know that Brokil wasn't badly injured and that he would be able to make the escape back to Ghizol.

"Yes, though he was not easy to capture," Arlen said, and Silvyr caught himself about to smile. He took a breath to steady himself when Arlen continued. "He asked how you fared as well."

Silvyr's stomach flipped at the idea that Brokil even thought to ask about him, and while being captured nonetheless. That foolish man. "And? What did you tell him?"

"The truth," Arlen admitted. "That you're a ghost. That Father would not forgive you for the letter. That the only time you've smiled since returning home is when you spoke of him."

"Well, I suppose that should make sense to you after reading the letter," Silvyr said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Of course he was a ghost, he'd left his life, his heart, back in Ghizol.

Arlen leaned forward, catching and locking Silvyr's gaze. "What promise did you make to him, Silvyr?"

"I promised him forever." He closed his eyes, trying to remember Brokil's face in that moment. The curve of his smile, the dimples left behind by his tusks pressing into his lip. The way he kissed him, long and slow. "A foolish promise, I know."

"Forever?" Arlen sounded disbelieving, as if not even Silvyr could be idiotic enough to do something like that. When Silvyr opened his eyes, Arlen had leaned back in the chair, one leg crossed over the other, staring out the window. "You love him."

Arlen said it so simply, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, and yet hearing the words out loud had Silvyr's chest tightening and his face filling with warmth. Squeezing his hands together to stop their shaking, Silvyr took a long inhale. "Yes."

"Do you believe he returns your love?" Arlen asked him.

Truly, Silvyr didn't know. It would be easy to say that he did. Everything they had done together and everything they promised each other should prove it. Would Brokil have said any of his honeyed words if he didn't feel anything for him? Would Brokil have rescued him from the abyss beneath Bravrith? Would he have asked Silvyr to promise him their forever?

"It doesn't matter now, does it?" Silvyr decided. "Whether or not he does, it would not change my heart, foolish as that may be." Regardless of Brokil's feelings for him, Silvyr knew that when he arrived, he would go to the dungeons of Athowen and get him out.

Brokil could curse his name, promise him nothing, and spit in his face, and Silvyr would take it so that Brokil could thrive in Ghizol. Useless as he may be, he could at least do that for him. His own heart could suffocate for all it mattered to Silvyr. Let it wither and wilt into nothing so that Brokil could live.

Standing from the chair, Arlen reached into his pocket and produced a ring with a single key dangling from it. He set it on Silvyr's desk, metal hitting wood with a deafening clunk in the otherwise silent room. "Father intends to have Chief Brokil die by your hand tomorrow," he said, taking a step back.

Silvyr stared at the keys, then looked to Arlen. What was he doing? Why would Arlen take the risk to help him? To help Brokil? How did he even know? Ascal was the only one he'd told of his plans, but he could see no purpose in her telling his brother. It just didn't make sense.

"Why are you giving me these?"

"You're going to free Chief Brokil from the dungeons, are you not?" he asked, sounding as though he already knew the answer. Silvyr swallowed, and Arlen shook his head with what might have been fondness, if Silvyr didn't know any better. It was gone a moment later. "You are not good at hiding your intentions."

"Why are you helping me, then? Father wants to declare war on Ghizol. He will not take kindly to you assisting me."

"You have no reason to trust me, but I'll speak plain. You, Silvyr, are in my way," Arlen said, his eyes narrowed as he stared down his nose at Silvyr. "I am going to take the throne after Father, and it will be easier to remove him and take his seat if you are not here. Go back to Ghizol, I do not care, so long as you stay out of my way."

Of course. Silvyr shouldn't have expected Arlen to help him out of kindness alone. Arlen may not be Father's exact mirror, but he'd certainly inherited his hunger for power. Still, Silvyr would take any advantage he could.

He moved to stand, his legs still shaky and his breath short, but he managed. His brother eyed him up and down and nodded his approval, waiting for Silvyr to speak. "Will you promise me something, Arlen?"

"Within reason," Arlen didn't hesitate to answer.

"I may not ever return to Athowen. When you are Crown Prince, please leave room for kindness. That's all I ask." Silvyr would have begged, but when Arlen put a careful hand on his shoulder, he knew he didn't need to. He continued before Arlen could answer, knowing this might very well be the last time he saw his brother. "I believe you could be a better king than Father. Better than me too."

"I can promise that," Arlen told him, his lips twitching into a handsome smile. After a moment, he dropped his hand and stepped back. "Chief Brokil is being held in the lower dungeons. There will be no guard, and I have the only set of keys."

"Thank you." Silvyr might have hugged him if he thought Arlen would allow it. Instead, he offered his brother a smile. "Father will be furious."

"I will handle it," Arlen assured him, turning to look out the window again. "You don't belong here, brother. You never did. Go be with your beast where you do belong. Don't waste this chance, Silvyr."

Silvyr couldn't stop himself this time, and despite the pain and the way his body protested, Silvyr threw his arms around his brother's shoulders. If only he had been seen sooner, if only Arlen had known him sooner. But now was better than never at all. He would take it.

Carefully, as if touching him would shatter him, Arlen wrapped his arms around Silvyr.

"Thank you," Silvyr said again. Thank you for giving me hope.