In hindsight, the calm and serene morning should have tipped him off. Kirran might have noticed the peculiar quietness, the way the sunlight seemed to stretch too far across the floor, leaving shadows in places they did not belong.

You're in trouble again, the voice hummed in his left ear, smooth as silk.

Kirran tilted his head slightly as if adjusting to catch a sound he couldn't quite hear. The funny thing was, he was deaf in his left ear— had been ever since he could remember. Except when it decided to talk.

"I know," Kirran muttered under his breath, though he was careful to let his lips barely move. The last thing he needed was more rumors about how the Dreamer of Yarrow had finally lost it. Kirran felt a tightness in his chest that was far from comforting and as he knelt before the massive throne-the simple gold shimmering in the light of the rising sun- he knew he was being punished. For what, he did not yet know, but he had no doubt he would find out all too soon.

He clenched his hands— drenched with sweat— before his stomach, his bloody nail beds hidden under satin gloves of sage green. His thighs burned with the effort it took to keep him keeling, and he did not doubt he would wake up with cramps in his legs next morrow. He had trouble breathing.

"Nirvana, Your Grace," he asked, his voice high and fraught with tension.

Merely three words from the other had been enough to sow discord on his day, leaving him grasping at the crumbling debris of his plans.

With an elegant arch of his eyebrow, Everiel rested his cheek on his palm. His crown slipped from its perch on his head, precariously slanting over his left eye, and he toyed with the glass in his hand, letting the wine swirl around and lick at the rim. Kirran watched it, as though in a trance, and every time the liquid neared the edge, he held his breath, Everiel's white gloves tantalizing in their invite to be defiled.

"Remind me, Kirran… just how many sisters do you have?"

None, thanks to you. Kirran forcefully tore his eyes away from the blood-like liquid and opened his mouth, but nothing aside from a soft squeal of terror came from his lips. That wasn't fair. It was necessary—there wasn't a choice. Everiel didn't have a choice.

Said choice-less man narrowed his eyes in confusion at his younger brother's horrified gaze. Surely his question had not been that absurd?

You should be more careful, the voice chided softly. Everiel doesn't like it when you converse with me. He'll think you're hiding something. He's watching you, you know.

"But I'm not," Kirran whispered back, his brows furrowed in annoyance. He had no patience for it on the best of days, and today was far from one.

Why do you think he would care?

Kirran bristled. Sure, his brother could be mean, but at the end of the day, Everiel still cared for him. One just had to dig deep through the pickled linings and brick walls that Everiel's heart consisted of to find the hidden love.

"I—I believe she went to town, Your Grace," he suggested.

"She mentioned that she told you she would visit the temple."

His cheeks flamed, as though the lie had scorched him from the inside to punish him, but luckily Everiel was too busy scowling to notice.

"Alone?"

He silently began counting the Imperial guards who formed a half-circle before the throne. Kirran felt his skin prickle. He didn't like it when people stood behind him. It made him scared, though if you were to ask him why, he would not be able to explain.

"Well, she did not take a guard, that is certain," Everiel muttered, glaring at the guards.

Kirran wanted to shrug, Nirvana had snuck out alone before, and she would again.

His little sister liked her freedom and no one— not even the King— could take it away from her. He opened his mouth to tell Everiel exactly that, but the words that slipped out were not the ones he intended.

"The man with a shadow for a tongue will speak, and you will wish he hadn't."

High and cruel, the words escaped his unmoving lips. Kirran clamped them shut and sealed them with his hand, horrified at what had escaped. Against all odds, he prayed no one had heard, that his words had been swept away by the wind. Alas, it hung in the air like a scent that refused to fade. The guards all unsheathed their blades, the metal glinting in the light that streamed through the huge, arched windows. Eyes of blue, brown, and grey shot at every side, searching the shadows behind the pillars, trying to place a body to the voice, but there was no intruder to be found. Kirran did not search. His breath came in short, sharp pants, and he doubled over, rubbing his stinging chest, wishing he could rip his tongue out of his mouth. All that cursed, pink organ had done was cause him problems, problems, and more problems. He bit down harshly and gagged when the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. Cold sweat ran down his back. As unnoticeable as possible, he slipped his hand into his pocket, feeling around until he brushed up against a hairy leg. Thank the Skies for Cassandra, he thought as the spider, as big as his palm, scuttering up into his sleeve, its tiny legs grounding him. A small sigh left him, but his feeling of relief was short-lived.

"Kirran?"

Everiel's voice, though soft and controlled, was laced with…. hurt?

He sat frozen, the calm before the storm. Kirran flinched, nearly tripping over his own feet when the glass goblet in Everiel's hand shattered. The wine was indistinguishable from his blood as it cascaded down his hand. A sense of impending doom hit Kirran when he saw the gloves, their original color hidden under a layer of dark red.

Don't be stupid, the voice sneered. It is a wine-stained glove. Do not try to find dimensions in a square. Kirran shook his head in disagreement.

"The ground knows your blood as it knows the blood of the forgotten, and it waits for the flood," he said softly, his eyes clouding over. Cotton filled his ears, bouncing around his head as he stumbled. His fingers, their slim outline clear through the gloves, gripped tightly at a pillar, afraid he would float away were he to let go.

Only when he realized the words that fell from his lips did he still and allow clarity to return to his sight. A glance upwards showed that thankfully, Everiel had not heard him nor seen him, busy as he was with shaking off the shards of glass and concerns of the Imperial Knights. Kirran winced at the deep gashes running over Everiel's palm. Oh, Skies above, Nirvana was going to kill him.

"Are you alright Your Grace," he asked fretfully as he darted up the stairs, careful to avoid the puddles of red. When Everiel did not respond, he placed a hand on the older man's chest and gently forced him back onto his throne. All he could feel for a moment was the rapid, desperate thud beneath the cold skin—like a trapped bird battering against a cage. It made him queasy. His brother's heart was beating too fast, too hard, as though something inside him was on the verge of breaking loose. And yet his skin felt lifeless as if the warmth had bled out long ago, leaving only a hollow shell behind.

He let out a sympathetic hum as he sunk to his knees, studying the wounds with a keen eye.

"Oh, dear. That does look bad, doesn't it?"

He made sure to keep his voice light, as though he were talking to a little kid rather than his twenty-six-year-old brother, though he could not keep his voice from trembling. He fought back the bile rising in his throat as their skins touched—Everiel's hand was so cold, veins coiling beneath the surface like snakes waiting to strike. Disgust churned in his gut, sharp and sudden, and he hated himself for it. This was his brother, not some grotesque stranger. He should feel compassion, not revulsion. But still, the nausea lingered.

"Let's wrap some gauze around it, shall we," he offered, careful to voice it as a question, and Everiel jerked a nod.

As if on cue, a maid, a sweet-looking woman with mousy brown hair scuffled forward, bandages in hand. She must have run out the second Everiel had shattered the glass.

"Your Highness," she forced out, nodding at Kirran before glancing fearfully at Everiel.

Kirran smiled, hoping it was an encouraging smile.

"Thank you, my Lady. I shall take it from here."

When she curtsied, the gesture was stiff, as if she couldn't decide whether to bow lower out of respect—or flee faster out of fear. A tense silence enveloped the two brothers as Kirran wrapped the wound, almost unconsciously humming a soft tune as he did. It was Everiel who cracked first.

Everiel's lips twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile, wasn't quite a frown. "What did you mean, just now?" he asked softly, the weight of his gaze heavier than the words themselves. He was giving Kirran an out—just one—but Kirran knew better than to trust it. Everiel didn't ask questions unless he already knew the answers. A knot twisted in his stomach. Did Everiel hear him? He hoped not, but by now, he knew of the futility of hope. When it came to Kirran's secrets, Everiel was worse than a bloodhound. Yet as he saw Everiel's lips tremble and draw into a straight line, and the vulnerability shone brightly in his eyes, Kirran thought he might be able to lie his way out of this situation after all.

"What are you talking about Your Grace?"

He let his arms fall in his lap when he finished, taking a moment to admire his handiwork. The white linen blended almost seamlessly with Everiel's skin, which looked like parchment stretched too tight over bone.

Everiel jerked his arm away, and the sight caused irritation to prick at Kirran. The Skies know how many times he had told Everiel not to wave around his injured appendages, and certainly not with such speed, but it seemed like the Gods had skipped over Everiel when handing out common sense. Everiel had grown too comfortable with him around. Why care for his wounds when Kirran existed, running behind him like a dog runs after his master, always there to fix the mess? The anger that flickered under his skin wasn't new—it was an old companion by now, like a dull ache that never quite went away. But as much as he hated being stuck in this role, he hated the idea of Everiel being alone more. His brother was a mess, a beautiful, broken thing, and Kirran hated himself for being the only one willing to pick up the pieces.

"Nothing."

Everiel waved Kirran away— with his uninjured hand this time— and the color returned to his cheeks.

"It is irrelevant, forget about what I said."

He hesitated, and Kirran could practically see him weighing his words, picking and choosing until he could form a sentence. Kirran settled onto the floor, shifting from his knees to a cross-legged stance, though his muscles remained tight with tension. He hated the way Everiel's silence seemed to stretch endlessly between them, like a noose waiting to snap tight. But if his brother wanted to play this game, then fine. Kirran could play along too.

"The dreams."

Everiel whetted his lips, his brows furrowed in concentration, and Kirran felt his blood grow cold.

"Do you still have them?"

"Of course not. If I had, I would have told you."

The lie spilled over his lips The words might as well have been wine. Kirran felt bad. He was by no means an honest person, his role in court made lying a near-impossible necessity. But lying to Everiel—lying to his brother—felt like a knife twisting in his gut. It was the kind of wound that never bled on the outside but left him hollow all the same. And yet, what choice did he have? The truth was a luxury neither of them could afford. He couldn't help but feel guilty in the face of Everiel's sad yet hopeful expression. Everiel held his gaze for a few seconds before sagging, the tension seeping from his weary frame.

"Good," he whispered.

He brought his uninjured hand down to rest on Kirran's head, gently carding his fingers through his long hair. Kirran leaned in, cautious not to startle Everiel. Tears welled up behind his eyelids as a sense of loneliness hit him with such force the breath was knocked out of his lungs. In a time now nearly forgotten, this sight had not been unusual. Little Kirran, quickly growing bored of his palace exploits, would wander into the throne room, where the young boy King and his advisors held council. There, Everiel would draw his little brother onto his lap and weave flowers in his red hair as he discussed the matters of the state. In those days, the sun always seemed to shine a little brighter in the throne room. Kirran could still remember the feel of Everiel's hands in his hair—deft, gentle, and unhurried. The scent of jasmine lingered in the air, mixed with parchment and ink as the boy King juggled council matters and flower crowns as if they carried equal weight. Back then, Everiel's laugh was soft, almost shy, and when he smiled, it felt like a promise: I'll always be here.

But the years had taken their toll, grinding away that boyish warmth until only the ghost of it remained. These days, Everiel's smiles were as rare as falling stars—fleeting, distant, and impossible to catch and Kirran gratefully lapped up any acknowledgment from Everiel, which usually revolved around state matters or inquiries about his sister—whose fate remained unknown, he should add.

He grudgingly stood up, letting the hand glide from his head and Everiel watched him, the stained clothes washing out his waxy face.

"Your, Grace, with your leave I'll dispatch search teams to find Nirvana."

He bowed slightly. He had to look down to meet the sitting King's eyes, yet still, it seemed as though Everiel was looming over him, his presence larger than life itself.

"This wouldn't have happened if you had just done as I said. If you had stayed with her, you could have watched over her," Everiel accused, his lips drooping down into an accusatory pout.

He swallowed down the unfairness of it all. When not even well-trained knights could stop his sister from slipping away, how could he? He had tried. He really had. But Nirvana was like smoke—slippery, flighty, and impossible to hold onto. Trying to stick to his ever-so-elusive sister was a job best not started. At least, not as long he wasn't allowed to put a leash on her. He, however, had no way of voicing this unfairness. Everiel Yarrow was known for many virtues, but his understanding and patience were not among them.

The voice in his ear snickered, and Kirran bit the inside of his cheek to keep from lashing out. It wasn't real. It was just his mind, just a trick. But the urge to scream at it, to tell it to shut up, was almost overwhelming.

Everiel shook his head and turned to the guards lining the walls.

'What about you? Surely one of you noticed her sneaking off."

The silence that followed was louder than any answer they could have given. The guards exchanged uneasy glances, their faces mixed with fear and shame.

Everiel gritted his teeth, his sour, lemon-colored eyes hard and unforgiving. Gone was the gentle, sickly look. Gone was the vulnerability he so rarely showed, replaced once again by a gaze burning bright with anger and hate. He slid out of his chair and drew himself up to his full height. Frail as he appeared, his presence filled the room like a predator circling prey, the quiet threat in his every movement more chilling than any outburst of rage could ever be. Kirran could feel the tension in the room, the way the air seemed to thicken with the weight of unspoken fears. Kirran did not blame the men for flinching back. Though frail-looking and fine-boned, Everiel's cruelty was famous among the realms. He felt a shiver run down his spine. Curse Nirvana, who made the lives of those around her miserable.

"They cannot help it brother, you know how Nirvana is," he tried, but it was in vain.

"How is it that none of you know where she is? Twelve of the best knights and a highly-trained prince to watch over her, and you still managed to lose her. Truly, that takes a special kind of incompetence."

The voice in his ear agreed, and Kirran had to bite his tongue to keep from echoing its sentiments.

"With all due respect, Your Majesty," a voice interrupted, and time seemed to stutter to a stop.

Everiel froze, his body going unnaturally still. Kirran could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched as if longing to reach for something—something sharp. Kirran tilted his head slightly, listening to the voice in his ear. He's going to snap, it murmured, almost as if it were delighted by the prospect. You should've stopped him, Kirran. Now look at what you've done.

Everiel squinted his eyes as he turned to face the young knight who had dared to speak.

"Yes?"

The young knight, emboldened by the bravado and recklessness of youth stepped forward, squaring his shoulders. Sweat trickled down his cherry-red cheeks, and his breathing was hard and uneven. Despite that, he whetted his lips and cleared his throat.

"I-I'm sorry, Your Majesty, but we weren't trained to handle someone who's trying to get out, not in. It's… it's different." the knight said, his voice wavering only slightly.

Kirran did not know whether to admire his bravery or curse his stupidity. He shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the guards whose faces had hardened into masks of indifference.

Everiel's expression was one of resignation, irritation, and pure, unadulterated helplessness.

"The Princess is fifteen. I very much hope you are not proposing to offer training to keep a child from sneaking out."

The knight flushed, and Kirran saw the boy's confidence falter as he bowed his head in defeat, the softly muttered 'Your Majesty' barely audible. He stepped back in his rank under the glares of his seniors who by now had learned the futility of trying to talk sense to the young King. Kirran tried to send the boy a sympathetic smile, but his attention was quickly diverted back to his brother who had abandoned his pursuit of harassing the guards to stare out the window, a faraway look in his eyes. He's losing it, the voice whispered, and Kirran wasn't sure if it was talking about Everiel or himself.

Kirran sighed, feeling the exhaustion settle in his bones. He turned to the closest guard.

"Go assemble a search team and find the Princess. Do not return without her," he ordered.

The guards hesitated, looking to Everiel for confirmation, and Kirran's irritation flared. He knew he didn't command much respect within these halls—whispers of his supposed lunacy followed him everywhere—but ignoring a direct order was a new low. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms, and felt a familiar warmth as blood trickled between his fingers.

"I do not like repeating myself," he said, trying to sound stern, but his voice came out weak, barely more than a whisper. The voice in his ear hummed again, a soft tune that both comforted and unnerved him.

The noise seemed to shake Everiel from his detached stupor. His eyebrows twitched, as though he saw something that greatly confused him. His eyes, wide and devoid of emotion continued to stare, but his fingers began to wander. The zing of a sword being unseated was the only warning Kirran got before Everiel struck.

"Everiel," Kirran yelled, but it was of no use.

"Everiel we only have twelve Imperial guards, we cannot afford to lose them right now!"

The guards, all save for one, scrambled back. The unlucky one stood frozen, the broad of Everiel's sword pressed against his throat. Kirran could see the bulge on the man's neck bobbing nervously, pressing the skin further into the blade, and he winced.

"If my ears aren't deceiving me, which I know they aren't, my brother gave you an order, did he not?"

Kirran grunted as he tried pulling Everiel's sword arm, but he might as well have been pushing a rock, as Everiel did not budge other than to bat Kirran away.

"Do not touch me," he hissed, venom spitting from his tone, but all Kirran did was cling to him tighter.

He panted, sweat gathering in places he did not know he could sweat. Kirran clung stubbornly, struggling to keep a grip on Everiel's smooth, silk coat. Everiel's sharp elbows dug into his sides, and on second thought, he would much rather push the rock. At least rocks don't hit him, he thought pettily.

"Get going! Please, " Kirran almost begged as he finally managed to wrestle his struggling elder brother away, and finally, the guards scurried off, the unlucky one rubbing away a small stream of blood as he went.

He held a bit back a yelp when Everiel roughly pinched the tender skin of his upper arm, forcing him to let go.

For one long, torturous moment, Kirran feared Everiel would hunt down the knights and strike them down where they stood, but it seemed that he had luckily regained his grip on his emotions. That was until Kirran's head filled with cotton again, the familiar feeling of flying washing over him.

No, Kirran thought. No, no, no, no, no, no.

A voice that was not his own spoke through his mouth, his eyesight growing fuzzy with tears.

"She knows the name you dare not speak, and it rolls on her tongue like the taste of blood. You think she does not see, but her hands have already touched the edges of your mind and the glass will shatter, the forgotten truth bleeding through the shards."

A headache so sharp it threatened to split his skull in two made him drop to his knees, his palms pressing at the sides of his head. A man, his hands bound in chains knelt before him, a steady river of crimson flowing from where his silver circlet had cut into his crown. Big silver eyes, as wild as the clouds on a stormy night stared up at him with a pleading intensity, begging him for something. What, he wasn't sure of.

"Please."

His voice sounded hoarse and painful, yet he felt no sympathy. His eyes wandered around, taking in the surprisingly nice room. The hall they found themselves in was huge, a gold-coated paint covering nearly every surface. The floor, simple and rough granite was littered with old books and tomes, dust rising up around them. Had he been human he surely would have sneezed. Amidst all this the man was bound, trembling before him. Kirran's robes parted, and mist materialized into a leg. Kirran used his newly acquired foot to tilt Stellar's face towards him, smearing dirt on his ashen face.

"Do not beg, Stellar," Kirran said, his strong voice echoing through the hall.

"You have brought this upon yourself when you lied to me."

A cold breeze swept through the room, putting out the candles. In the darkness, the man's sunken cheeks seemed more pronounced and the desperation in his eyes sharper.

"I had spared your life, and this is how you repay me? Now, I will ask you one more time. Where is the Torch?"

Kirran

He was on his knees, and the floor was white.

"Please, PLEASE!"

Stellar trashed in his chains. Kirran raised his arm. He couldn't breathe

Kirran

The sun shone outside, it was still early in the day.

It was dark, it was night. He couldn't breathe.

Kirran

Blood splattered on the text. Stellar was dead. Someone laughed. He couldn't breathe

Kirran

Kirran had killed him.

Duck

The books drowned in blood, they were unreadable. So much lost knowledge. He couldn't breathe.

Kirran, duck

Something hit him across the face, hard and heavy, and Kirran's world went dark.

He couldn't breathe.

Kirran

Kirran barely registered the blow before his body crumpled to the ground.

Something hard hit him across the face, and he vaguely processed the sensation of being flung back, the sharp, metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. His head collided with the cold floor, and balls of light, as small as needle points, danced erratically in front of his eyes. Gingerly, he touched the back of his head, wincing as his fingers came away slick and wet. He blinked again, more slowly this time, and with great effort, peeled his eyes open. Gold met gold. Everiel's eyes locked onto his, wild and burning with something Kirran couldn't quite place—fury, fear, or maybe both.

"Wha—" Kirran mumbled, his tongue heavy, thick like lead in his mouth.

His voice faltered, barely coherent. He tried to force the words out, but they died on his lips.

"You were talking to yourself," Everiel stated, his voice a cold, flat explanation.

The words felt like an accusation. Only then did Kirran notice the bruising on Everiel's knuckles, his fingers trembling as if barely containing the violence still simmering beneath the surface. Kirran's cheek stung. His eyes stung too. Moving his facial muscles hurt like hell. His heart crumpled pitifully in his chest. He tried to speak again, but all that escaped was a garbled cry, choked and full of pain, whether, from the throbbing or the knowledge that his big brother struck him, he did not know. With a hoarse whimper, he spat out the blood that bubbled and frothed in his mouth, harsh coughs wracking his body. He felt like he was floating, disconnected from his body and mind. Everiel watched him, his face pale, his lips trembling with barely contained rage. Even in his anger, he was still painfully beautiful to look at. As fragile as a wilting flower, as broken as a shattered teacup, and as cutting as the cracked porcelain shards. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were wide and lost as if he couldn't comprehend what he'd just done. Then, the fire that roared in his eyes froze over. Kirran barely had time to wipe his mouth before Everiel was on him. His hand shot out, grabbing Kirran's collar and yanking him up with an iron grip that made Kirran's stomach turn.

"You're a filthy liar," Everiel hissed, his voice cracking, a tremor slipping through his words. He shook Kirran violently, the motion making Kirran's head throb even worse.

"A liar, liar, liar!"

"Everiel—" Kirran whimpered, clutching his pounding head, his vision swimming. His legs were useless beneath him, jelly-like, trembling violently. Right now, he trusted his legs about as much as he trusted Nirvana—which was to say, not at all. He sagged against Everiel, a limp, helpless doll in his brother's furious grip. Everiel showed no concern for Kirran's state. His claws only tightened as he shook him again, harder this time. Kirran's head snapped back, his neck arching in ways it was not designed for.

"You were dreaming!" Everiel screamed, his voice raw with anguish.

His pale face had turned ghostly, his hollow eyes wide and brimming with a desperation that twisted his features into something manic, something unhinged.

"You promised me you'd stop!"

"I can't help it!" Kirran cried, struggling against Everiel's iron-like grip.

His heart pounded in his chest, each beat sending waves of dizziness through him. "Let me go—please, let me go!"

Everiel ignored him, his breath coming out in harsh, erratic bursts.

"You're lying. You promised, Kirran! You promised me!"

His voice broke, the words laced with something brittle, something that felt like a scared child's plea.

Before Kirran could protest again, Everiel's hand shot out, striking him across the face with brutal force. A sharp crack rang out, reverberating in the cold, empty room. Pain exploded through Kirran's skull, and once again, everything went black. When his vision returned, Everiel was pulling him close, crushing him to his chest, his grip unrelenting.

"I'm sorry," Everiel whispered, his voice trembling.

The sudden shift in his tone made Kirran's skin crawl. Everiel's hands, still bruised and trembling, moved to cup Kirran's jaw, fingers brushing the spot where both slaps had landed. His touch was gentle now, almost tender, but Kirran could feel the insanity lurking just beneath the surface.

"You know I'd never willingly hurt you, right?" Everiel murmured, his voice soft, almost soothing, as though he were talking to a child. His breath was warm against Kirran's ear. "Big brother's just worried… I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

Kirran felt his heart lurch painfully in his chest. He'd seen this before—this cycle of rage and regret, of violence followed by tender, desperate apologies.

"I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to, but you keep dreaming. Why do you keep dreaming, Kirran? You promised you'd stop. I—" his voice wavered, breaking into a sob. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

Everiel's hands were cold against his burning skin, and Kirran winced as the bruises on his face flared with fresh pain.

"I… I forgive you," Kirran whispered, even though his voice shook.

He couldn't think of anything else to say. He didn't know what else to do. He had to calm down, Everiel would never really hurt him. Right? His cheek stung in response.

Kirran's eyes flicked to Everiel's arm, to the faint glow of the water pictogram carved into his skin. It was barely visible at first, just a soft shimmer beneath the surface. But then it grew brighter, and Kirran felt a cold dread settle in his stomach.

"Everiel…" he whispered weakly.

"Stop—Everiel, stop it, please," Kirran begged, his voice shaking.

His fingers trembled, but he pressed the shard against Kirran's cheek with almost tender care, as though this was a comfort, not a punishment. The ice stung, but what scared him more was the magic seeping from Everiel's body, pulling from his very essence.

"I don't want to do this," he murmured, more to himself than to Kirran.

"But you… you keep dreaming. Why do you keep dreaming?" His voice cracked, and for a moment, his gaze softened, the storm in his eyes giving way to something fragile and broken. Then the ice grew colder, and Kirran could feel it draining Everiel's life with every passing second.

"You're hurting yourself!"

But Everiel didn't stop. He just kept murmuring soft, apologetic words under his breath, as though Kirran hadn't spoken at all. His hand tightened on Kirran's face, his body pressing against his in a way that felt suffocating.

"You'll forgive big brother, won't you?" Everiel whispered, his voice trembling.

"You always forgive me."

Kirran's body stiffened as Everiel's arms wrapped tighter around him. Too tight. Way too tight. His breath hitched in his throat as Everiel's grip grew more constricting, squeezing the air from his lungs. Kirran tried to pull back, tried to push Everiel away, but the older man held him like a vice, his arms locking Kirran in place.

"Everiel—" Kirran gasped, his voice weak, barely a breath.

"Please, you're choking me…"

He couldn't breathe.

Everiel's eyes glazed over, lost in whatever frantic thoughts raced through his mind, his grip tightening with terrifying force. His bony frame pressed into Kirran's smaller body, constricting him as though Everiel was trying to fuse them together, as though he couldn't let go. Kirran's panic surged. Every inhale was cut off before it could fill his lungs, the air slipping away from him like wine through his fingers.

He couldn't breathe.

The room seemed to blur around him, his thoughts scrambling for something, anything that could pull him back to reality. But all he could feel was the cold, sharp press of Everiel's bones against his skin, the suffocating weight of his brother's fear. He didn't want to die—he couldn't.

Was this how it would end? Forgiving Everiel, even now, even as the world darkened around him?

For a fleeting moment, Kirran saw them as they used to be—Everiel bundling him up so tightly Kirran could barely move his tiny hands, let alone walk. But that did not matter, because Everiel's arms, strong and invincible, caged him in, and his voice hummed low in his ear as he promised Kirran that he would always protect him. But now, those hands were cold, pressing the air from his lungs, draining the life from him. The brother who had once been his savior was now his executioner.

Tears leaked from his eyes as the all-encompassing fear started to change into something else. It did not wane in intensity, rather, it grew and transformed and grew until every pore in his body oozed with hate. Hate for the man before him, hate for his brother, his best friend, his protector, his savior. Hate for Everiel.

His throat convulsed in a desperate attempt to gulp in air, but nothing came. No matter how hard he tried to suck in a breath, his chest remained hollow, and his ribs strained against the crushing pressure. The world was shrinking, collapsing inward, the space around him filled with nothing but Everiel's suffocating embrace. Black spots swarmed the edges of Kirran's vision, growing, creeping closer, threatening to swallow him whole. His chest burned—Skies, it burned, an agonizing fire clawing its way through his lungs, shredding him from the inside out. His thoughts scattered, frantic, as his body thrashed weakly, limbs flailing uselessly in a desperate attempt to push Everiel away. His gloves had slipped off somewhere along the way. He dug his nails into his brother's back and scratched open his neck. Still, his brother didn't budge. Didn't hear him. Didn't see him. Didn't feel him.

The air was gone.

Completely gone.

Kirran's trembling fingers scrabbled wildly at his sleeve, blindly pulling out Cassandra. The spider clung to his palm as he moved it toward Everiel, his vision narrowing to a tunnel of suffocating emptiness. So close. Cassandra's deadly fangs glinted, poised to strike, but just as they were about to sink into Everiel's skin, the doors burst open with a deafening crash. Cassandra was blown away, smacking onto the floor near their feet. She didn't move. A scream, raw and desperate tore from his throat, a last cry for help. It was too late. As darkness descended upon Kirran like a heavy shroud, his last embers of hope died out and he went limp in Everiel's suffocating arms.

Fat tears rolled down his cheeks. It wasn't fair. Life rarely is, sweetheart.

He couldn't breathe.

Just like his siblings before him, he too would die at Everiel's hands.

He didn't want to die. Not like this!

He heard yelling, loud and high. A hand, firm and reassuring, wrapped around his waist and yanked him from the suffocating embrace, the pressure lifting like a weight off his chest. His throat was free and he gulped in the air like a starving man.

He could breathe.

He was placed on the floor, and the coldness of his brother was replaced with warmth that smelled of incense. Kirran sobbed in relief, but that soon twisted into nausea. With barely a moment's notice, he doubled over, his stomach lurching as though it tried to throw itself out of his body. A calloused palm rubbed his back and whispered soothing nothingness in his ear. A snort cut through, and he saw a girl throw her head back, wrapping herself around Everiel like a snake. Kirran's hands cramped, and he squeezed them into fists, his knuckles so white they could blend in with the floor underneath. His whole being trembled and he saw red with rage. Like a sitting duck, he had been enduring Everiel for years, begging for his sister's leftover scraps of attention, while allowing himself to be abused.

Everiel will not cause his death. Kirran will not die a martyr; his blood is an inconceivable drop on Everiel's red hands. He just had to hold out until he could slip into his room. He had a letter to send.

Change of plans.