-16 YEARS

The sunlight streaming through the gallery's towering windows cast long shadows across the polished marble floor. Vylaas stood before a massive tapestry, its threads woven with scenes of Tylwyth glory—armies marching beneath unfurled banners, worlds brought to heel beneath the empire's might. His reflection ghosted in the glass, collar gleaming dully at his throat.

"Magnificent piece, isn't it?"

The voice startled him from his contemplation. Sister Myra stood at his shoulder, her academic's robes a stark contrast to the opulent surroundings. Her eyes remained fixed on the tapestry, but Vylaas caught the slight tilt of her head—an invitation to play along.

"The artistry is... remarkable," he replied carefully, conscious of the nobles drifting through the gallery. None were close enough to overhear, but in the palace, walls had ears. "The way it captures our empire's greatest triumphs."

"Indeed." Myra's finger traced the air before a particularly violent scene—Tylwyth warriors cutting down alien defenders before their own city walls. "The composition here is especially striking. See how the artist draws the eye to the victorious moment, yet leaves the aftermath in shadow?"

Vylaas studied the section she indicated. Beyond the clash of armies, civilian figures huddled in darkness, their features obscured. "An interesting choice of focus."

"Art often reveals as much in what it conceals as what it displays." Myra's voice remained light, scholarly. "Take this figure here—the conquering hero. Notice how the light falls on his blade, yet his face remains in shadow? One might question whether glory lies in the deed or the doer."

A group of courtiers passed nearby, their chatter echoing off the vaulted ceiling. Vylaas waited until they moved on before responding. "Perhaps the artist meant to suggest that individuals matter less than the empire they serve."

"A common interpretation." Myra's smile held a sharp edge. "Though history shows us that empires are shaped by the hearts of those who lead them. Consider the reign of Veraxes the Wise—a ruler remembered not for conquest, but for the centuries of peace his diplomatic efforts won."

"An... unconventional example," Vylaas said carefully. The name was familiar from his studies—a ruler whose pacifist policies had been largely stripped from official histories.

"Unconventional times often call for unconventional wisdom." Myra moved to another section of the tapestry. "See here—the artist depicts the submission of the Aelvarian colonies. Yet contemporary accounts speak of a people who chose alliance over conquest, who saw wisdom in cooperation rather than conflict."

Vylaas felt the weight of her words beneath their scholarly veneer. The current regime's aggressive expansion stood in stark contrast to such historical examples. His father's policies...

He pushed the dangerous thought aside.

"Sister Myra," he said, pitching his voice for any listeners, "your knowledge of historical context adds fascinating depth to these works."

"Context is everything, young prince." Her eyes met his briefly. "In art, as in governance, we must look beyond the surface to find truth. The past offers us guidance, if we have the wisdom to see it."

They moved through the gallery, maintaining their facade of artistic discussion. But beneath the talk of composition and technique, Myra wove a more subversive narrative. She spoke of ancient rulers who had chosen reform over repression, of societies that had flourished through cultural exchange rather than conquest. Each example carried unspoken parallels to current imperial policies.

"Consider this piece," she said, stopping before a statue of a Tylwyth warrior standing triumphant over a fallen foe. "The artist clearly meant to glorify victory through strength. Yet look at the defeated figure's face—there's something almost noble in their resistance."

Vylaas studied the statue. The fallen warrior's expression did indeed show dignity rather than defeat. "Perhaps they fought for something they believed in," he said slowly. "Something worth more than survival."

"Principles can be powerful things," Myra agreed. "They've toppled empires and reshaped worlds. Though speaking of such matters..." She glanced meaningfully at his collar. "One must be cautious in today's climate."

The warning was clear. Vylaas touched the metal band unconsciously. "Yes, the empire takes great care to... protect its interests."

"Protection can take many forms." Myra's voice dropped lower. "Some find strength in weapons and walls. Others in knowledge, in carefully chosen allies, in understanding the currents of power that shape events."

A servant entered the gallery, beginning to light the evening lamps. The shadows lengthened, lending their conversation an added layer of privacy.

"The hour grows late," Myra said, her tone shifting back to casual pleasantry. "But before I go—have you read Archival Volume 7 from the Third Age? There's a fascinating account of the Concordat Rebellion. The official histories paint it as mere civil unrest, but contemporary sources tell a different tale."

Vylaas recognized the reference—a carefully coded suggestion to investigate further. "I haven't had the pleasure. Though the imperial library's historical section has been... reorganized recently."

"Indeed." Myra's smile held hidden meaning. "Though some texts survive in unexpected places. The Academy's archives, for instance, still maintain certain... historical perspectives. Should you wish to broaden your studies."

She turned to go, then paused. "Oh, and young prince? Do give my regards to Lord Elmsworth. I believe he's organizing a symposium on comparative governance next month. Such gatherings can be most... illuminating."

With that, she glided away, leaving Vylaas alone before the statue. He stared up at the triumphant warrior, seeing it now through new eyes. The fallen figure's dignity in defeat spoke of something his father's empire seemed to have forgotten—that true strength lay not in conquest, but in the principles worth fighting for.

The gallery had grown quiet, most visitors departed for the evening meal. Vylaas's fingers brushed his collar again, feeling its weight in a new way. It was meant to bind him, to keep him safely controlled. But Myra's words suggested other paths to power—through knowledge, through carefully chosen allies, through understanding the true forces that shaped their world.

He turned to leave, his steps echoing in the empty gallery. Behind him, the tapestry's scenes of imperial glory hung in shadow, their message somehow hollow now. But ahead... ahead lay possibility, if he had the courage to grasp it.

----------------------------------------

Kaelen pressed himself against the rough wall of the alley, the neon glow of the skinmarket’s gaudy signs staining his pale face with reds and greens. The air stank of burning oil and unwashed bodies, and his leg throbbed, the pain creeping up like an old enemy, coiling hot and needling just above his knee. He clenched his jaw, exhaling through his teeth. The brace strapped around his thigh shifted, the rigid frame biting into his flesh as he adjusted his stance.

The streets of the lower tiers were no place for heirs—even broken ones. He tilted his head back against the wall and shut his eyes, letting the cool press of stone ground him. Above him, glimmering holographic banners advertised "Prime Augments," "Custom Chrome," and "Tennyson Fusions—No Questions Asked." Below the signs, dealers barked from behind rusted counter stalls, their voices scraping down the narrow alleys. The ambient noise melded into a steady hum. It mirrored the buzz thrumming beneath his skin, a sign of his frayed temper steadily unraveling.

A boot scuffed against the concrete, the scrape of a steel toe deliberate, not accidental. A noise designed to catch his ear.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Kaelen cracked his eyes open.

High General Valerius came into view, moving through the alley like a prowling jaguar. His armor—not the ceremonial trim but actual full-blade combat plating, all muted chrome and industrial menace—caught the sickly neon light and fractured it into sharp-edged reflections. His face, leathery and scarred as cursed terrain, twisted into a smile devoid of warmth. It was the gallows grins of a predator.

"Prince Kaelen," he said with a nod. "Interesting to see you here. Are the palace doctor's not to your liking?"

"My recovery remains my business." Kaelen’s jaw flexed; even as he spoke, he knew he should have been ignoring the provocation, but he couldn't contain himself. Valerius was a powerful man—there was no chance he hadn't been following every surgery Kaelen underwent, noting the results, waiting for a low-point like this to reach out. It was all politics. He pushed off the wall, pain shooting down his hip, but bringing him closer to the general's eye level.

"Your business, is it?" Valerius stepped closer, his boots clicking against the wet pavement. "Last I checked, the heir's health was everyone's business." He gestured at the neon-lit shops. "These back-alley butchers will only make things worse. Your father should—"

"Leave him out of this." The words came out sharp as knives.

Valerius raised an eyebrow, that predatory smile widening. "Of course. Just consider that there are... other options. Ways to fix what's broken that have long proven effective, even if they don't match your father's aesthetic standards." He tapped his own armored forearm. "Better ways."

The pain flared again, hot and insistent. Kaelen's throat went dry.

Valerius slipped a data chip from his belt, holding it between thumb and forefinger. The crystal glowed faintly blue in the neon-stained darkness. "I brought you something. Call it a gift."

"I don't want your gifts." Kaelen's knee screamed as he shifted his weight, but he kept his face neutral.

"Pride's a luxury you can't afford right now." Valerius rolled the chip across his knuckles. "There's nothing nefarious here, just something to help fix your perspective. It could change everything for you. Put you back where you belong."

The promise of restoration pulled at something deep in Kaelen's chest. He crushed the feeling down, but his eyes tracked the chip's movement. "I know better than to trust anything from you."

"Smart boy." Valerius set the chip on a rusted ledge between them.

"Play it. Or don't," It was casual enough to nettle Kaelen even more. "Eaither way I learn something, so it makes no difference to me. I only brought it personally to see you up close with my own eyes. You're the eldest Prince of this failing kingdom of ours—I need to know what to make of you."

Kaelen hesitated, weighing the situation. He hated Valerius. Hated the smug arrogance that oozed from him like a venomous tide. Hated more how every word that came out of his mouth hinted at deeper, uglier truths he couldn’t afford to face.

Still, his pride—or maybe paranoia—forced his hand. His gloved fingers pinched the edge of the chip. His reflection caught in the chip's surface stole his breath—a gaunt face stared back, one he barely recognized anymore.

"It's security cam footage." Valerius watched him like a bored hawk. "Blacklisted feeds, the feeds your father's court didn’t sanction. Think of it as… highlights of the kingdom’s latest pet project."

Kaelen ground his back teeth as he triggered playback.

Grainy visuals sputtered to life, projected into the air between them. Greenish layers of ambiance bathed the shapes in flickering static rivulets. And there, unmistakably central…

Vylaas.

The younger prince moved haltingly under the watchful eyes of an elite instructor cadre, a collection of forbidding silhouettes wrapped in the traditions of Tylwyth military grandeur. Vylaas stumbled through the motions, each swing of the crude practice swords revealing his inexperience. The soft child Kaelen knew was laid bare by their father's instructors. He stood a creature of hesitation and sweat, jumping at every barked command. His brother clutched the practice weapons like they might bite him, muscles tensing with each corrective shout from the shadows.

Kaelen almost missed the context—one of many factors Valerius’ raspy voice would be delighted to outline:

“The King has suborned members of my officer class to provide the child with extra care in his training. Individual mentorship from Captains, rather than the jump-up apprentices the rest of you noble scions work with.” His head tilted toward the slightly flickering footage. “One wonders how that compares to the treatment the King's eldest has been receiving during his long and painful recovery.”

Heart constricting, vision tunneling, Kaelen swallowed back the bile threatening to claw up his throat. His traitorous mind providing backup for the General, forcing memories to the surface: the acrid chemical of med-ward air, his wheezing agony as he tried to inhale with scorched lungs, and months of darkened rooms where sterile stim-contraptions buzzed constantly, but actual Tylwith nurses were rare.

No King visiting to acknowledge any unspoken oath, to offer any reassurance or condolence to a subject who was wounded in the line of duty. No father, to offer simple signs of love and support for a son who nearly died.

Valerius leaned closer, his breath hot against Kaelen's ear. "The Chimera... it should have been yours. You were bred for it. And now your father gives your weapon to the spare?"

"Don't call him that," Kaelen responded, reflexively defending his younger brother, but his eyes remained fixed on the projection—on Vylaas executing forms with soulless, mechanical precision, each movement drilled into muscle memory through endless repetition. His brother's face showed none of the gentleness that had defined him. The defense tasted hollow on his tongue. With father forging Vylaas into something new, did he need protection from his broken older brother any longer?

"You're still thinking like a soldier, like a wounded young man, but not like a prince." Valerius circled behind him. "Your father—no, the King—is playing a bigger game, one he cares for far more than he does his family. And you've been sidelined."

"Politics," Kaelen whispered. The word came out broken, a plea rather than a defense. His knee throbbed in time with his racing pulse.

"Exactly. Politics. Rotting our Empire to the core, and nowhere moreso than in your father's Kingdom. He's handing a potential planet-killer to a child who, last I heard, wanted to become a veterinarian?" Valerius' voice dropped lower, deadly quiet. "In what world does that make sense?"

The projection shifted to new footage: Vylaas practicing with augmented reality targets, his movements more fluid now, more lethal. The collar at his throat gleamed.

"At the end of the day, it's always going to come down to 'survival' for your father," Valerius spat. "This Chimera project has to show success. He already plans to sacrifice Vylaas for his ambitions, so soon after he sacrificed you during the first binding attempt. He's good at sacrifice... so long as it isn't his ass on the line. Remember Tarsis Minor? A billion souls glassed to ash because negotiation might have made him look weak in the imperial court?"

Kaelen's throat constricted. The memory of that news incident—entire continents reduced to glass plains under orbital bombardment—haunted his family. It had destroyed his mother.

"Get to the point." His voice cracked, betraying the desperation clawing at his chest.

"My point, princeling, is that you know this is all wrong." The general's voice was suddenly a gentle thing, compassionate and reassuring.

"Look at him." Valerius's voice slithered through the alley's shadows. "Your poor brother, forced into your bond. Just to earn your father approval. It will likely kill your brother, but what's one more son?"

The words rang true as bells. Each emphasis the general added carved deeper into wounds Kaelen thought long scarred over.

"And leaving aside how unsuited Vylaas is as a soldier, do you intend to just watch your birthright given away?" Valerius pressed closer. "Or will you do something about it?"

The resentment crystallized, sharp and bitter on Kaelen's tongue.

Valerius leaned in until his lips nearly brushed Kaelen's ear. "I have resources, Kaelen. Secrets. Opportunities." His whisper dropped lower. "You have access, ambition, and breeding. We could help each other."

Kaelen's laugh came out harsh, brittle. "For a price, I'm sure." The words tasted of defeat, of bridges burning.

"Everything's currency in this game, princeling." Valerius's eyes locked onto his, pupils contracting in the neon glare. "Your pride. Your pain. Your brother's future..." His lip curled. "Even loyalty. Especially loyalty."

Without another word, Valerius turned and melted into the crowd. His black cloak cut through the press of bodies like a shark's fin through murky water.

Kaelen stared at the data chip. The market's chaos swirled around him—merchants hawking wares, drunks stumbling past, music bleeding from a dozen different shops. But he remained frozen, the weight of choice pressing down on his shoulders like a boulder.