Bronn's jaw tightened. "I'm not interested."
"Shocker," Helena deadpanned. "But you know how this works. Whether you like it or not, you'll have to show up eventually. Might as well get it over with."
He turned away, his hands clenching into fists. "I left for a reason, Helena. I'm not going back just to play the obedient son in Father's games."
Helena sighed again, this time with genuine frustration. "Look, I get it, okay? I do. But running away doesn't solve anything. It just makes things harder when you eventually have to face them."
Bronn didn't respond, his gaze fixed on the floor.
After a long pause, Helena stood and approached him, her tone softening. "For what it's worth, I don't want to be here either. But I figured if anyone could talk some sense into you, it's me."
He glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "You're wasting your time."
"Probably," she admitted with a shrug. "But that's never stopped me before."
Helena stepped closer, her sharp eyes softening slightly as she studied her younger brother. "You know, I could leave. Deliver Father's message, wash my hands of this, and let him send someone far less charming next time." She smirked. "But I think I'll stay for a bit."
Bronn stiffened, his gaze narrowing. "Stay? Why?"
"Because," Helena replied, brushing past him to examine a bookshelf cluttered with books, trinkets, and a few weapons, "I'm curious. You've been hiding out here for so long, I can't help but wonder what you've been up to. Call it... sisterly concern."
"Sisterly concern," Bronn repeated dryly. "Since when do you care?"
Helena gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. "Bronn! You wound me. I care deeply about my little brother." She flashed him a mischievous grin. "Besides, I've missed you. Believe it or not, the castle is dull without your brooding presence."
Bronn rolled his eyes. "Somehow, I doubt that."
Helena ignored him, continuing her inspection of his room. Her fingers brushed over a worn leather-bound journal, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "And don't think you can chase me off. I'll make myself at home."
"Helena," Bronn began, his voice tinged with warning, but she waved him off.
"Relax," she said, flopping onto his bed with an air of entitlement. "I'll even behave. Mostly. Besides, Mother would kill me if I left without spending some quality time with you."
Bronn froze, the mention of their mother stirring a mix of emotions he couldn't quite place. "Mother?" he asked quietly.
Helena's playful demeanor softened. "She misses you, you know. A lot."
He looked away, his jaw tightening. "She's busy. She doesn't have time to miss anyone."
Helena sat up, her expression serious now. "Bronn, she's the queen of witches, not some heartless automaton. She's your mother. And you've been gone for too long."
"Witches don't... get involved," Bronn muttered, his voice strained.
Helena's crimson eyes glimmered with something unreadable. "She's not just any witch. She's the witch. The queen. And she's more involved than you think."
Bronn turned to her, his expression guarded. "What do you mean?"
Helena hesitated, as if weighing her words carefully. "She doesn't say much about it, but I can tell she's worried. About you. About the kingdom. She may not show it the way Father does, but she feels everything, Bronn. And it's tearing her apart that you're out here, shutting us all out."
He swallowed hard, the weight of her words pressing down on him. Memories of his mother—her quiet strength, her piercing gaze that seemed to see right through him—flooded his mind.
"She's... okay?" he asked hesitantly, his voice barely above a whisper.
Helena nodded, a faint smile touching her lips. "She's stronger than anyone I know. But even she has her limits. She's been preparing for something, though she won't tell me what. And whatever it is, I think it's big."
Bronn frowned, unease creeping into his chest. "Big how?"
"I don't know," Helena admitted, leaning back on her elbows again. "But you know how rare it is for witches to intervene in anything. If she's planning something, it means the stakes are higher than we realize."
Bronn ran a hand through his hair, frustration and guilt warring within him. "Why didn't she just come herself?"
Helena smirked, though her eyes were kind. "Because she knows you'd listen to me first. You're stubborn, but not stupid."
He huffed a bitter laugh. "That's debatable."
Helena stood and crossed the room, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You don't have to decide anything right now, Bronn. But think about it. And maybe... stop being so hard on yourself. You're allowed to want something different. But that doesn't mean you have to shut us out completely."
Bronn didn't reply, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.
"Good talk," Helena said lightly, giving his shoulder a playful squeeze before heading toward the window. "I'm off to find a decent bottle of wine. Don't worry—I'll leave some for you. Maybe."
As Helena disappeared out the window, Bronn let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The room felt heavier now, the faint scent of lavender and steel lingering like a ghostly reminder of her visit. He sank onto his bed, the tension in his shoulders finally giving way to exhaustion.
Her words lingered, though, refusing to fade. His mother. No matter how hard he tried to bury the thought, to push it into the recesses of his mind, the ache surfaced, raw and unrelenting. He missed her. He missed her so much that it sometimes felt like a hollow, aching void in his chest.
Bronn closed his eyes, and her face came to him as vividly as if she were standing before him. Her beauty was unlike anything he'd ever seen—ethereal and otherworldly. Her pale, flawless skin seemed to glow under the faintest light, and her dark hair flowed like a cascade of ink, always impeccably styled yet effortlessly wild, as though the wind itself obeyed her whims. Her eyes, deep and piercing, held the colors of a storm: swirling grays and silvers that seemed to see into the very soul of anyone who dared meet her gaze.
But it wasn't just her appearance that made her unforgettable. There was a presence about her—a quiet, commanding power that made the air hum whenever she entered a room. She didn't need to raise her voice to be heard; her words carried the weight of centuries of wisdom, and her silence was often louder than any shout.