Dorian had never feared the sound of steel before.
He had grown up with it—the scrape of a whetstone against a blade, the crash of swords in alleyway duels, the quiet click of a dagger being unsheathed in the dark. Steel was honest. It did not flatter, did not lie. But now, standing in the shattered remnants of the royal war room, he feared it. Not because it was in the hands of his enemies, but because it was in the hands of his own. Across from him, Cassian held his sword low, its tip glinting with blood. Not his own. Not yet. His expression was hard, betrayed only by the slight tremor in his fingers. Dorian had seen him cut down men twice his size without hesitation. That hesitation was for him alone. “You’re making a mistake,” Dorian said, voice calm despite the fury rising in his chest. Cassian laughed—bitter, sharp. “You always say that when someone won’t kneel.” Dorian exhaled slowly. “You knew what this would take. From the start, you knew.” Cassian’s jaw clenched. “I knew we would burn the rot out of this kingdom. I didn’t know we would become the rot.” The words struck harder than any blade. Dorian took a step forward, but Cassian tensed, his fingers tightening around the hilt. The room stank of smoke and blood, the heavy scent of old war. The table between them—where nobles once argued over coin and conquest—was now cracked down the center, maps curled and blackened from fire. Dorian gestured at the surrounding ruin. “You think I wanted this?” he demanded. “You think I fought for years just to sit on a throne of corpses?” “No.” Cassian’s voice was quiet now, almost gentle. “I think you fought for the right reasons. But I think you forgot them along the way.” Dorian scoffed. “Tell me, when was the precise moment I forgot, Cassian? When the nobles refused surrender and had to be executed? When the generals ordered their men to fire on their own people? When I saw children huddling in the streets, terrified not of a tyrant, but of me?” He took another step forward, and this time, Cassian didn’t move. “You say I have become the rot. Maybe you’re right. But you know as well as I do—this is how power is won.” Cassian’s throat worked as he swallowed. “And how it’s lost.” Silence stretched between them, thick as the smoke outside. The city was still smouldering, though it no longer screamed. The fires had burned through the last of the resistance, and now, only ashes remained. Dorian had told himself it was necessary, that this was the only way. But necessity had a cost. And it stood before him now, sword in hand. “Don’t do this,” Dorian murmured. “Please.” For the first time since drawing his blade, Cassian’s resolve wavered. His lips parted, something unspoken forming there—until the door behind him burst open, and soldiers flooded the room. “Your Majesty!” One of his captains rushed forward, sword at the ready. “We heard—” He cut himself off at the sight of Cassian, blade still bared. His grip tightened. “Is he a traitor?” Dorian didn’t answer. Cassian’s eyes flickered to him, and for a brief, terrible moment, Dorian saw something raw in them. A question. A plea. A silent challenge. Say no, and he would live. Say yes, and he would die. And Dorian—king, victor, architect of a new world—did not know which answer was right.
No comments:
Post a Comment