The festival's last day dawned quieter than the two before. Birmingham 's square, once bursting with music and laughter, now bore the weary calm of celebration spent. Tattered ribbons fluttered from beams, the scent of smoke and spilled mead hung heavy in the air, and villagers moved sluggishly as though every muscle remembered the revels too well.
Darrel sat on the wooden steps of his family's home, chin resting on his knees. The wooden sword leaned beside him, scarred and splintered from yesterday's duels. His siblings passed by without a glance, still gloating about their own victories in games of strength and wit. He should have felt proud—he had bested Marcus twice, won respect in contests, even silenced the laughter that had haunted him for years.
But the pride was hollow.
Every cheer, every gasp of astonishment, felt like an echo of Marcus's voice. The commands had seeped into him so deeply that he no longer knew which movements were his and which belonged to Marcus. He remembered the way his body had obeyed without question, as though his will had been locked away.
And worst of all, he remembered how good it had felt.
The thought made him shiver.
"Brooding already?"
Darrel looked up. Marcus leaned casually against the fence, arms crossed, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips. He looked untouched by the festival's exhaustion, as though energy thrived in him while others waned.
"I was thinking," Darrel said quietly.
"Dangerous habit," Marcus teased, stepping closer. "Come on. There's something I want to show you."
Darrel frowned. "What is it?"
"A game," Marcus replied, voice light, but his eyes gleamed with something sharper. "Not the kind the villagers play. Something better."
They left the square behind, following a narrow path that cut through the fields. The sun had begun its climb, spilling light across rows of stubbled stalks where the harvest had already been gathered. Crows wheeled overhead, cawing as they searched for scraps.
Darrel walked in silence, unease curling in his chest. Marcus's tone lingered in his ears—casual, playful, yet threaded with an intensity that made his skin prickle.
"Where are we going?" he asked at last.
"To the river," Marcus said. "I saw something there yesterday that gave me an idea."
Darrel stopped. "An idea for what?"
Marcus turned, walking backward now, his grin wide. "Trust me."
Darrel swallowed hard, then followed.
The river lay at the forest's edge, its waters glinting silver as they wound between rocks and reeds. Children often played here, skipping stones or wading in the shallows, though this morning the banks were empty.
Marcus led Darrel to a fallen tree that jutted over the water. From his pouch, he drew two smooth stones, each painted with a crude symbol: one a circle, the other a jagged line.
"A new game," Marcus said, tossing the stones from hand to hand. "We take turns throwing these into the river. But not just throwing—we aim for the ripples, the currents, the hidden eddies beneath. Whoever makes the bigger splash wins."
Darrel raised an eyebrow. "That's it? Just throwing rocks?"
Marcus's grin sharpened. "Not quite. The trick is, you don't throw with your arm. You throw with your will."
Darrel frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Close your eyes."
Darrel hesitated, but Marcus's gaze brooked no refusal. Slowly, he obeyed.
"Picture the stone in your hand," Marcus murmured. His voice was low, steady, curling into Darrel's thoughts like smoke. "Feel its weight. Feel the way the river pulls at the earth. Now imagine your strength flowing into the stone. Not muscle, not bone—something deeper."
Darrel's grip tightened unconsciously. Heat coiled in his chest, a strange energy stirring beneath his ribs.
"Good," Marcus whispered. "Now throw."
Darrel's arm snapped forward. The stone flew, striking the water with a crack that sent spray leaping higher than it should have. He staggered, breathless, staring at the widening ripples.
"What—what was that?"
Marcus's eyes gleamed. "Power."
Darrel's pulse hammered. He looked at his hand as though it no longer belonged to him. "That wasn't me. It couldn't have been."
"Of course it was you," Marcus said smoothly. "But you needed me to show you how."
He tossed his own stone, the circle-marked one. It struck the river with an even greater splash, droplets raining down on the reeds. Marcus turned, grinning like a wolf. "See? We're not like them, Darrel. We're meant for more."
Darrel's breath came shallow. A thrill coursed through him—part fear, part exhilaration. The stone had leapt from his hand with a force he couldn't explain. It felt as though he had touched something vast and unseen, something that had always been waiting.
"Again," Marcus urged.
Darrel obeyed.
By the time the sun dipped low, their hands were empty of stones, and the river's surface churned with ripples. Darrel's arms ached, though not from the throwing. The strange energy still hummed in him, restless and wild.
"What was that?" he whispered.
"A game," Marcus said lightly, though his eyes burned with something fierce. "A game that proves what I've always known. You're stronger than they'll ever be, Darrel. And this—" he gestured to the river, to the scattered stones "—is only the beginning."
Darrel swallowed, torn between awe and dread.
"They'll laugh again," Marcus continued softly, almost as if to himself. "Your family. Marcus. All of them. But soon they won't laugh. Soon, they'll kneel."
Darrel flinched. "Marcus—"
Marcus turned sharply, his grin returning, disarming once more. "Don't look so grim. It's just a game, remember?" He clapped Darrel on the shoulder. "But promise me something."
Darrel hesitated. "What?"
"When the time comes, you'll trust me completely. No doubts. No hesitation. Promise me."
Darrel's chest tightened. The words pressed against him like iron shackles. He wanted to say no, to push back, to claim his own will—but Marcus's eyes locked onto his, and the command was already coiling inside.
"I… promise," Darrel whispered.
Marcus's smile widened, satisfied. "Good. Then the games of innocence are over."
They walked back toward the village as dusk fell, shadows stretching long across the path. Darrel's steps felt heavy, each one sinking deeper into something he could not yet name. The river's ripples echoed in his mind, the thrill of power, the weight of Marcus's gaze.
For the first time, Darrel wondered if the bond he had sworn to—the brotherhood he had trusted—was leading him not toward glory, but toward something far darker.
And though he told himself it was just a suggestion, a game between friends, a whisper deep within warned that it was the beginning of his undoing.