Chapter 5.5: The Listener

The corridors still smelled faintly of smoke and rain from the hunting party’s return. Servants hurried through the castle carrying damp cloaks and muddied boots while noble guests lingered long after the feast should have ended. Laughter drifted through the halls in strange bursts, too loud one moment and absent the next. Rylla wandered quietly through it all. 

No one paid much attention to the younger princesses after celebrations. Not unless they were being formally presented somewhere. Rylla had learned long ago that people stopped watching children the moment they believed that they were occupied. It made listening easy. 

She moved through the western gallery with her hands folded behind her back, pausing every so often to study paintings she had seen a hundred times before. Great battles. Dead kings. A queen draped in silver chains with wolves at her feet. 

Ahead, voices echoed from one of the smaller receiving rooms. Rylla slowed. The door had not been fully shut. Warm candlelight spilled through the narrow opening and stretched across the floor in a golden line. 

“...handled himself well enough,” a man was saying. 

“Well enough?” another scoffed softly. “The third prince turned a warning into a jest before half the hunting party.” A few people chuckled. Rylla edged closer. 

“He makes people laugh,” a woman replied. “Crowds adore men like that.” 

“Crowds are foolish.” 

“Crowds…are powerful.” There was a pause and then a soft clink of glasses. 

Rylla recognized none of the voices immediately. Nobles from somewhere southern, perhaps. Their accents curled strangely around certain words. 

“The eldest prince is the safer choice,” The first man continued. “Walric at least understands consequence.” 

“Yes,” another voice murmured. “He carries himself like a future king already.” Rylla pictured Walric standing stiffly beside their father during court assemblies, hands clasped behind his back exactly as he had been taught. 

Then came a quieter voice. “Though kingdoms are rarely undone by the eldest sons.” The room softened into silence. Rylla leaned closer before she realized she was doing it. 

“No?” the woman asked. 

“No. They are undone by brothers.” 

Something cold moved slowly down Rylla’s spine. 

A chair creaked. “The third prince gathers affection too easily,” the man continued. “Men have followed smiling fools into wars since the beginning of time.” 

“And the second?” someone asked. 

A hum.

“The dark-haired one?” 

“Nokon.” 

“Yes.” Another pause lingered longer this time. 

“Too sharp,” came the answer at last. “Too resentful.” 

Rylla frowned. Nokon was difficult. Everyone knew that. He challenged tutors simply to watch them lose patience. He refused to answer questions he clearly knew. Sometimes he smiled like he carried a secret no one else understood. But resentful?

“Boys like that become dangerous men,” the noble said quietly. 

A woman exhaled through her nose. “Or dead ones.” 

The words struck Rylla so suddenly she nearly stepped backward into a vase. Inside the room, no one sounded shocked. Just thoughtful. “As long as Malrik lives, it matters little.” someone muttered. 

“This is the problem with kings,” another replied. “They do not live forever.” More silence followed that. Not fearful silence. Considering silence. 

Rylla suddenly understood they were not discussing her brothers as brothers at all. Not as sons. Not even as children. They were discussing them like pieces arranged upon a game board. Useful pieces. Dangerous pieces. Expendable ones. 

And the worst of all, part of her understood what they meant. Walric would survive almost anything before he bent. Orther laughed when threatened. Nokon carried storms inside himself. Without meaning to, Rylla found herself wondering which of them truly would become dangerous if cornered long enough. The realization horrified her. 

She stepped back from the doorway before anyone could notice her shadow beneath it and turned down the corridor as quickly as she could without running. The sounds of conversation faded behind her, replaced by the hush of the upper halls. Torchlight flickered against dark stone. Rylla did not know where she meant to go at first. Her feet simply carried her through familiar passageways while her thoughts twisted tighter and tighter inside her chest. Brothers. Dangerous men. Dead ones. 

By the time she realized where she had wandered, she already stood before the towering doors of the throne room. The guards stationed there straightened at once. “Princess.” 

Rylla nodded politely. One of them pushed the doors open for her. The vast chamber beyond sat nearly empty now. Night had settled fully outside the towering windows, leaving only moonlight and scattered torches to illuminate the black marble floor. Her footsteps echoed softly as she entered. 

At the far end of the chamber, raised upon its stone dais, stood the throne of Korvethis. And beside it, upon the dark pedestal, rested the crown. Iron and gold twisted together like something forged to wound the hand that held it. Violet gemstones glimmered faintly beneath the torchlight, cold as distant stars. 

Rylla stopped halfway across the room. All her life, the throne had seemed enormous in the way mountains were enormous. Unmovable. Eternal. Simply part of the world. But now…

Now she could still hear those voices. Kingdoms are undone by brothers. Her gaze lingered on the crown. For the first time in her life, Rylla did not look at it and think of glory. She thought of Walric standing rigid beside their father. Of Nokon’s sharp eyes. Or Orther laughing at things that frightened everyone else. Of her sisters being traded across kingdoms like promised wrapped in silk. And suddenly the crown no longer looked beautiful. It looked hungry. 

Rylla stood very still in the silent throne room while the torches crackled softly around her. Then, slowly, she wrapped her arms around herself. As though somehow, she could hold the family together alone.