Kael Valerius was forged in fire long before he ever wore the red cape of a crown prince.
At thirteen, he slit the throat of a foreign assassin with his bare hands.
At fifteen, he survived the poisoning of the entire imperial court by drinking from his father's cup.
At seventeen, he was already commanding armies.
And yet — nothing prepared him for Lucien.
No, not Lucien.
Whatever that thing is now.
He sat alone in the Iron Sanctum, a private chamber buried deep beneath the palace — forbidden to most, unknown to nearly all. The walls pulsed with ancient runes. Only those of royal blood and cursed lineage could enter. And Kael had both.
On the altar before him, a mirror made of obsidian. It didn't reflect light. It reflected truth.
He stood in front of it, shirtless, muscles coiled tight with tension.
The mirror swirled — not with Lucien's image, but a fractured reflection. Faces layered over each other: Lucien's… and beneath it, another face — sharp-jawed, dirt-smeared, laughing in the dark.
A thief.
A dead man.
Kael's breath caught.
"He's possessed," he whispered. "Or worse."
He turned from the mirror, grabbed a silver blade from the altar, and smashed it into the wall. Sparks flew.
He couldn't allow this.
He wouldn't.
And yet— he could still feel the phantom heat of Lucien's breath on his cheek, the way he said "Make me cry."
Gods help him.
He wanted to.
---
Suddenly, a whisper curled through the runes in the room.
Not a voice from the outside. But from the choker — the curse seal that now bound Lucien.
It echoed with magic:
"If you desire him… you will destroy him."
Kael turned to the sigil-etched wall.
"If I let him live," he muttered, "he might destroy us all."
---
But deep inside, in the place he kept locked beneath duty and pride, a single memory replayed:
Lucien's first laugh.
That stupid bright laugh. Back when they were boys, before politics, before blood, before fate twisted everything.
Kael pressed a hand to his scar.
This time, if he kissed Lucien again…
He wouldn't stop.
And that terrified him more than any war.
---
His scar — the long one slashed diagonally across his torso — was still there. Faintly glowing. A reminder of a night Lucien had almost died, two years ago. The same night Kael had broken every rule of the royal code.
The night he kissed his brother.
Or rather — the one who wore his brother's face.
He clenched his jaw. That wasn't supposed to happen. Lucien had been bleeding, delirious, and Kael had stayed behind when the healers fled. He held him. Tried to silence his crying. And then Lucien had whispered:
"Why do you look at me like that?"
And Kael had answered with his mouth, not his words.
It hadn't gone further. He hadn't allowed it.
But it had changed everything.
---
Now?
Lucien was back.
But he wasn't Lucien.
The way he moved. The way he spoke. The dangerous ease in his seduction. The mockery in his eyes. Lucien had always been bold, yes — but soft. Vulnerable. Easy to shatter.
This one?
He was made of glass wrapped in poison.
And the worst part?
Kael was still drawn to him.
---
He walked to the obsidian mirror and placed his palm on the cold surface.
The runes lit.
"Reveal him."