Mark’s chamber was bathed in golden light from the sinking sun, its long rays spilling through the tall glass windows and striking the polished floor like broken shards. Despite the richness of the room—the silk curtains, the neatly stacked books, the glittering golden candelabras—the air felt strangely cold, stagnant, as though the very walls held their breath around its young master.
At the center of the room sat Mark, perched on a dark oak chair before his desk. His blond hair caught the sunlight like strands of pale fire, yet the sharp shadows under his eyes robbed him of warmth. His thin fingers danced across parchment, the scratching of his quill the only sound. A half-finished letter lay beneath his hand, its words written in neat, calculated strokes, each one laced with careful venom.
Across from him, Mina reclined on the window ledge, her long legs dangling carelessly over the drop. Her black cloak was half-drawn, concealing the knife she twirled between her fingers. The blade glinted with a cold shimmer as she flicked it lazily, then, with a sudden snap of her wrist, she hurled it out the window.
A flutter of wings and a startled squawk later, the knife buried itself cleanly through the chest of a passing bird. Mina leaned out, smirking as the creature’s body thudded softly against the stone. She plucked it back through the window, poked the limp bird three times as though bored with her own toy, and then tossed it aside without a second thought.
"You’re in a foul mood," Mark murmured without lifting his head. His quill continued its steady path, as though her casual murder were no more than background noise.
Mina shrugged. "I was bored. Killing the bird helped." She shifted, leaning her back against the wall, her crimson eyes gleaming beneath her fringe of black hair. "But you know what would’ve helped more? Letting me finish off that arrogant brother of yours when I had the chance. He was right there, huffing and puffing with his little lion flame. One slice and he’d have been meat."
Mark finally set his quill down. His lips curled into something between a smirk and a sneer as he turned to her. "And what good would that do me?" His voice was low, almost amused, but beneath it was a razor’s edge. "Killing Eilan now would only feed Father’s delusion that I’m weak, that I must be desperate. No... Eilan is useful alive. For now."
Mina raised an eyebrow. "Useful?" She swung her legs idly. "He’s a thorn. A noisy, prideful thorn. What could you possibly need him for?"
Mark stood, smoothing the parchment with a hand. He crossed to the window, looking out at the palace grounds where the last light of day stretched over the training yard. A group of knights practiced below, their blades catching the sunset. Mark’s eyes narrowed as he spoke.
"Every play needs a foil," he said quietly. "Eilan’s ambition... his desperation to prove himself... they will draw Father’s attention, the nobles’ admiration, even the Church’s eyes. While they watch him, waiting for his brilliance, they’ll never notice me rearranging the board beneath their feet."
Mina tilted her head, intrigued despite herself. "So he’s bait?"
Mark chuckled—a dry, sharp sound. "Bait, distraction, shield... all of the above. Let him chase Father’s approval like a starving hound. Let him think every shiny trinket is a crown. The more he hungers, the more reckless he’ll become. And when the time comes, when his usefulness ends..." His smile darkened, a glint of cruel satisfaction flashing in his eyes. "I’ll gut him myself. Slowly. As a final reminder of his insignificance."
For a moment, silence pressed between them. Mina’s lips curved into a wicked grin. "You sound almost poetic when you talk about killing your family."
Mark gave her a flat look. "Don’t mistake this for poetry. It’s arithmetic. A simple equation. Every piece must serve its purpose. Those that don’t..." His gaze flicked to the bird corpse she had discarded. "Are discarded."
Mina laughed, hopping down from the ledge with catlike grace. "You’re colder than most nobles twice your age, your highness" She stopped in front of him, her black eyes burning with a strange mixture of admiration and disdain. "But I can respect that. Still, you’re keeping me on a leash with all this waiting. I’m a blade, your highness. A blade rusts when it’s sheathed too long."
Mark smirked, reaching for an envelope on the desk. "Then here’s your oil." He held it out to her.
Mina took it, turning the sealed letter in her hands. "For Master Sorus?"
Mark nodded. "Inside is our next phase. Instructions, requests... and bait for our true enemies. Tell your master the pieces are ready to move."
Her smirk widened as she tucked the envelope into her cloak. "You know, I think I might start enjoying this game of yours."
"It’s not a game," Mark corrected sharply, though amusement lingered in his eyes. He moved back to the desk, brushing dust from the parchment. "It’s survival. And one day... conquest."
Mina clicked her tongue and leaned closer, her lips curving into a taunting smile. "Then why not rid yourself of Eilan now? You’ve already proven his lion is nothing but a cub before your dragon."
Mark leaned back in his chair, folding his hands beneath his chin. His golden eyes glimmered with a cold light. "Because," he whispered, "a cub thrashing about draws attention. And attention, my dear Mina, is a shield I intend to use until the blade is ready to fall."
Mina studied him for a long moment, then barked a laugh. "Fine. Keep your little brother as your noisy little shield. But when the time comes, your highness—" She raised her hand, forming her fingers into a blade and slicing through the air. "—I want the honor of silencing his roar." ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ N0v3l.Fiɾe.net
Mark’s smirk widened, sharp and sinister. "We’ll see. For now, deliver that letter. And tell Sorus..." His voice dropped, chilling the air. "...the next phase begins with blood."
Mina bowed with mocking flourish before climbing back onto the window ledge. Her cloak billowed as she leapt from the tower like a shadow given wings, vanishing into the gathering dusk.
Mark watched her go, the faintest trace of satisfaction curling at his lips. He returned to his desk, eyes gleaming as he glanced at another piece of parchment hidden beneath his quill. On it was not words, but a rough sketch of the throne—etched in red ink, the crown drawn above it.
His fingers tapped the desk slowly, rhythmically.
"Eilan, oh little Eilan" he murmured to the empty room, "shine as brightly as you can. The brighter the flame, the easier it is to snuff out."