Tomas strode down the opulent palace corridor, scowling at the fawning servants who scurried out of his way. As the Thorneborn emperor's brother, they treated him with the same cloying reverence they gave Aeron. It made his skin crawl.

Back home in Talheim, he had lived a simple life, his only worries caring for their small farm. Now, he was confined in this gilded cage, guarded night and day, more prisoner than a prince.

The stifling expectations weighed heavier upon Tomas than any crown. Aeron had been thrust into an impossible role while their family lived in his shadow. They had lost all freedom when his brother's cursed golden eyes manifested.

Rounding a corner, Tomas saw the imposing mage Deron approaching with Aeron in tow. Trailing behind were two servants, each holding a jeweled box housing dragon eggs intended for Aeron and Tomas. Symbolic "gifts" tying them to the Imperium.

Deron's stern voice echoed down the hall. "You and your brother will ride these dragons one day…”

Aeron looked small and overwhelmed, as always. Before Tomas could intervene, Deron gestured to the servants. "Present the imperial eggs to their lieges."

Something in Tomas snapped as the servant bowed low, holding out the ovoid box. Without thinking, he struck it away angrily. The egg tumbled across the polished floor as Gasps arose.

"I want no part of your pomp and rituals!" Tomas shouted, pent-up rage overflowing. "I had a life before you dragged my family into your intrigues!"

Deron's expression darkened. "Mind your outbursts, highness. Your brother is emperor by sacred right."

"He's still just a child underneath your gaudy robes!" Tomas stepped between Aeron and Deron. "Find another pawn for your games."

"Tomas, please," Aeron implored, trying to intervene.

But Tomas had already stormed off, fuming with frustration. He would not stand idly by as they crushed Aeron's spirit to fit some mythic mold. Tomas slammed the door to his gilded chambers. There had to be a way to protect his brother from these people. He only prayed he found it before Aeron was lost completely.

***

Keith hurried to intercept Tomas before he could cause further dissent. As Aeron's appointed imperial guardian, it was Keith's duty to negate threats, whether open or subtle.

He cornered Tomas in an alcove. "That was unwise, Your Highness. Questioning the Thorneborn tradition undermines Aeron's authority."

Tomas's expression hardened. "I don't care about authority. I care about my brother, not your mythical emperor."

Keith bristled. "They are one and the same. Aeron's will be divine law."

"He's still just a boy underneath all this!" Tomas retorted hotly. "He wants a normal life, not to be idolized and controlled."

"What Aeron wants is irrelevant. His desires pale beside destiny's decree," Keith said coldly. "Submission to the eternal emperor's will is the only path."

Tomas stepped closer, eyes blazing. "So speaks his loyal dog. But Aeron remains my flesh, not yours, whatever grand title he's been forced to adopt."

Keith met his fiery glare unflinchingly. "Titles Destiny bestowed since ancient days. Would you set yourself above the Formless themselves?"

"If it meant saving Aeron, yes," Tomas vowed.

Keith studied Tomas intently, seeing the depth of devotion. Perhaps they both wished to shield Aeron in their own ways. Keith disliked this rebellious brother but recognized a shared desire to protect Aeron's vulnerable spirit.

Keith relaxed his confrontational stance. "Your love for your brother is clear. But take care it does not lead you into treachery."

Tomas still looked suspicious but less combative. "And take care your zeal does not blind you to Aeron's misery in this gilded prison."

Keith bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement. They both sought Aeron's wellbeing, if by clashing means. "Then let us both counsel Aeron wisely, each in our own way. For his burden is heavy indeed."

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For Aeron's sake, Keith would make this uneasy truce. But he vowed to remain vigilant against the discord Tomas' defiance threatened to sow. The Thorneborn's reign must stand unwavering against the darkness pressing in.

***

Neonatal studied Heinz closely as the man shifted in obvious discomfort before the Obsidian Throne. Aeron's hesitant farmer father seemed diminished amidst Imperial grandeur, but Neonatal saw cunning behind that humble facade.

"You appreciate the honor granted you, I hope," Neonatal began pointedly. "To be named founding Patriarch of the exalted 47th Imperial House..."

Heinz glanced away evasively. "I did not seek such standing and finery, my lord. I am not suited for nobility."

Neonatal suppressed a sigh. "Your lineage speaks otherwise. As a father to the Thorneborn, your bloodline must be ennobled appropriately."

When Heinz still looked unconvinced, Neonatal sharpened his tone. "Refusing this title insults your son Aeron. Will you really deny his authority so openly?"

At last, Neonatal saw the spark of Parental stubbornness in Heinz's eyes. Aeron came by his modest virtues, honestly, it seemed.

After an uneasy silence, Heinz finally spoke. "If Aeron asks this of me, I shall not refuse my son." He met Neonatal's gaze. "But I always remain a simple farmer at heart, my lord."

Neonatal inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Then I suggest you adjust to courtly life swiftly for Aeron's sake."

Though seeming compliant at last, Neonatal did not miss the flicker of reluctant resignation on Heinz's face. Clearly, the man bore watching. His rustic principles could prove inconvenient left unchecked.

But Neonatal needed Heinz's cooperation for now. Keeping Aeron's rebellious family under control required delicate balances. But Heinz would be molded to his noble role in time by persuasion or pressure.

The Imperial Houses brooked no defiance from within. Neonatal would guide Heinz to his proper place at court, even if the farmer resisted his new status, for Thorneborn's reign depended on absolute unity and fealty from all.

***

Rakoth shivered in the drafty cell, clutching his thin prisoner's tunic around himself. He had lost track of the days since his imprisonment, each blending into the next in a haze of cold, hunger, and fear.

Any defiance he'd felt after meeting the scraggly prisoner Ben had swiftly disappeared, replaced by utter despair. When the heavy cell door finally creaked open, Rakoth scurried back into the shadows, expecting more roughness from the guards.

But instead, an elegant woman swept in, followed by two broad-shouldered men. Her face was angular and severe, her robes embroidered with a black turtle insignia he recognized as one of the ruling Imperial Houses. Rakoth trembled under her piercing gaze.

"On your feet, boy," she commanded. Her voice was crisp and sharp as a whip crack. When Rakoth hesitated, one of the men seized his arm and wrenched him upright.

The woman circled him slowly like a hawk sizing up prey. "My spies tell me you are quite the capable young thief. A valuable talent, properly directed."

Rakoth shrank from her scrutiny. "I know nothing that would interest a great lady."

"Perhaps, perhaps not." She stopped before him, eyes boring into his. "I am Matriarch Mingus of House Blackturtles. You will serve me now and serve well."

Before Rakoth could respond, she swept from the cell, black robes billowing. The guards hauled him out after her. Stumbling along the corridors, Rakoth felt only dread. He had escaped one cage only to be caught in another gilded one.

Rakoth stood stiffly in the opulent chambers of Lord Kind, trying not to tremble. After a week under the harsh tutelage of Matriarch Mingus, he had been handed over like chattel to this Imperial noble.

Lord Kind eyed him like a prized horse, walking slowly around the rigid boy. "You've some potential beneath the guttersnipe roughness." He flicked a dismissive hand at Rakoth. "We shall make you presentable, I suppose."

Kind snapped his fingers, and attendants descended, tugging at Rakoth's dingy clothes. He struggled against their grasping hands.

"Enough simpering," Kind growled, grabbing Rakoth's chin. "You belong to me now, rat. Best accept your new station gratefully."

He shoved Rakoth down to his knees before turning away. "See, he is washed and outfitted appropriately," Kind ordered the attendants. "And teach him some manners before he's allowed at court."

Rakoth trembled with impotent rage as he was dragged away. These vile nobles knew nothing of his life yet presumed to control his fate. Hands that had picked pockets now clenched helplessly, yearning to strike back.

But Rakoth was trapped in their gilded world. He bitterly wondered if death might have been kinder than whatever cruel futures now awaited within the Imperium's uncaring grasp.

Rakoth cringed as Lord Blanche's cane came whistling down, striking his shoulders sharply. "Hold your tongue unless spoken to, rat," the severe noble snapped.

After his disastrous stint serving Lord Kind ended in disgrace, Rakoth had been pawned off to the elderly Lord Blanche, who believed only brutality could train the boy properly.

"That's enough for today," Blanche declared, lowering his cane. "See, he gets only bread and water. Disobedience must be punished."

Rakoth glared at the stone floor as Blanche's servants led him away. He imagined wrapping his hands around the scrawny noble's throat and squeezing tightly. But he was helpless to resist their dubious "lessons."

Thrust once more into a barren cell, Rakoth collapsed into anguished tears. He was no closer to freedom. The Imperial Houses played with him cruelly, caring nothing if he broke so long as he obeyed.

Curled alone on the cold floor, Rakoth prayed for the courage to endure or the mercy of a quick death. They had taken everything from him - hope, dignity, even his name. He was now just a beaten dog, awaiting each new master's lash.

The noble's cane rose and fell, but Rakoth retreated deep within himself, beyond pain, locking his tears and screams safely away where they could not touch him. The boy thief was gone. But someday, maybe the man would find a way to rise again. Rakoth clung desperately to that fragile thought as darkness claimed him.

***

Aeron stifled another yawn as the droning voice of Sir Rimes filled the palace study. The stern knight paced before an immense map, extolling the many military victories of the three exalted Imperial Houses - Blackturtles, Tigherfang, and Phoenixwright.

"The esteemed Matriarch Mingus crushed the eastern rebellion ruthlessly," Rimes declared. "While Patriarch Kind's western campaign brought thousands to kneel before the Imperium."

Aeron glanced over at his brother Tomas, who wore a similar glazed expression of boredom. How was any of this useless history supposed to help Aeron rule as emperor? He already struggled with his studies of philosophy and statecraft under Priestess Ceils and Mage Deron. Rimes' endless battle lectures only muddled Aeron's weary mind further.

Noticing Aeron's eyes starting to droop, Tomas discreetly kicked his leg under the table. Aeron jerked upright, shooting his brother a grateful look. Tomas gave him a subtle wink.

"The Imperium's military supremacy remains unquestioned," Rimes boasted. "When the Imperial Houses unite under wise Thorneborn guidance, all resistance is futile."

"Seems like crushing rebellions only breeds more dissent," Tomas remarked casually.

Rimes arched an eyebrow. "Mind yourself, whelp. The Imperium's authority comes directly from the Formless themselves. Only traitors dispute it."

"He means no offense, Sir Rimes," Aeron interjected quickly, seeing Tomas bristle. His brother's protectiveness was understandable if unhelpful.

"Of course not," Tomas replied with obviously false pleasantness. "We only wish to learn the source of past unrest so wise Emperor Aeron can avoid it."

Rimes scowled but could not really rebuke such pious reasoning. Aeron shot Tomas a subtly grateful look. However, provoking his methods, Tomas' courage heartened Aeron. He would need that fire as emperor.

For now, Aeron just had to endure these tedious lessons until he might actually put his new wisdom into practice. With Tomas watching his back, perhaps he could get through this without completely losing himself. Aeron offered a tired smile to his brother. Together, they would muddle through somehow, finding a way forward amidst these swirling undercurrents of ambition and intrigue.