Blood Between Brothers

The chamber burned with tension. The fire snapped in the hearth, its light twisting across steel and sweat. Nicholas stood framed in the doorway, the glow painting his young face in amber and shadow. The resemblance struck me again, my eyes, my jaw, the same spark of pride. My son, forged from stolen blood, standing before me like judgment given flesh. Behind him, the corridor still rang with chaos: shouts, boots, the muffled clash of steel as my men battled the castle guard. Yet here, in this room, time seemed to bend and still. The moment stretched thin, trembling.

“Nicholas,” Isabella breathed.

Her voice broke on his name. The girl in her lap whimpered, sensing the storm that had entered the room. He didn’t look at his mother. His eyes never left me.

“You’re him,” he said, his voice low but steady. “The pirate. The monster from every story told to frighten children.”
I smiled slowly. “Stories, are they? Then they forgot to tell you how they end.”

He raised his sword. His stance was practiced, disciplined, trained by soldiers, no doubt, but his hands betrayed the faintest tremor. A boy wearing a king’s title. A cub thinking himself a wolf.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he said.
“Shouldn’t I?” I stepped closer, my boots heavy on the stone floor. “This is my kingdom, boy. My blood built it. My name carved it into the bones of the sea.”
“My father built this kingdom,” he snapped.

I laughed, a deep, rolling sound that filled the room.

“Your father?” I turned my gaze toward James, who stood silent by the window, his sword still half-drawn, his face lined with fear and guilt. “That man stole everything that was mine, my ship, my crown, my bride. You,” I pointed the tip of my dagger toward Nicholas,“you are the child born of his lies.”
Nicholas’s eyes flickered toward James, just for an instant. Doubt cracked the mask of his composure, but pride stitched it shut again. “Then you’ve come for vengeance,” he said. “You’ll not have it here.”

He lunged. Steel met steel. The sound rang sharp, like thunder cracking open the sky. He moved fast, faster than I expected, but I had lived my life by the sword. I turned his strike aside with ease, the force sending a shiver through his blade. The boy recovered quickly, stepping back into stance, his breath harsh through his teeth.

“Good,” I growled. “Show me the fire that stole my throne.”

He attacked again. Our blades danced through the air, sparks flying where they met. He was skilled, yes, but raw. Every strike was strength without control, heart without the weight of hate. I had both in abundance. I drove him backward, forcing him to the edge of the hearth. His boots skidded on the rug, his balance faltering. The sword trembled in his hand as I pressed forward, the dagger in my left hand flashing toward his chest. He barely parried in time.

“You fight well, for a boy,” I snarled, twisting his sword aside. “You lack one thing.”
Nicholas met my eyes, breath ragged. “What’s that?”
“Ambition.”

I slammed my shoulder into him, sending him sprawling to the floor. His sword clattered across the stone. The little girl screamed. Isabella rose from her chair, clutching the child, her face pale as bone.

I advanced, blade raised for the killing stroke. “Your father took everything from me. I will take everything from him.”

Nicholas was not done. His hand shot out, grabbing a fallen poker from the hearth. He swung it wide, catching me across the ribs with a burst of hot pain. I staggered, the impact knocking the breath from my lungs. Before I could recover, he was on his feet again, sword reclaimed, eyes blazing.

“Then take it,” he said through clenched teeth. “You’ll bleed for it.”

We clashed again. The fire roared higher, throwing our shadows against the walls like dueling specters. I felt the Heart of Shadows pulsing at my chest, its power whispering through my blood, fueling my strength. Every strike I dealt drove him further to the brink. Then, he slipped past my guard. Steel kissed flesh. Pain flared white-hot across my arm. I looked down to see blood dripping from a shallow cut, running down my sleeve in dark rivulets. The boy had drawn my blood.
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Even the fire seemed to still. Nicholas’s chest heaved, his sword trembling in his grip, but his eyes held steady on mine. Defiance.
For the first time, I saw not a child, but a king.

My rage broke like a wave. “You dare!” I roared, driving forward with a fury that shook the air.

Our blades locked once more, sparks flying as I bore down on him. The strength in my arms was monstrous, fed by fury, by the magic burning beneath my skin. Slowly, inexorably, I forced him back. He stumbled, his heel catching on the edge of the hearth. The firelight painted his face in gold and shadow, the reflection of myself staring back through the generations.

“You have her eyes,” I said through gritted teeth. “My blood.”
He spat blood onto the stone. “It’s your curse that ends here.”

I laughed, a sound like a storm breaking, and swung. The blow sent him crashing to the floor, his sword skittering from his grasp. He clutched his shoulder, blood seeping through his tunic where my blade had grazed him. Not deep enough to kill. Just enough to remind him who his father was.

I stood over him, my breath harsh, my shadow falling across his face. “Now you see,” I said quietly. “You see what kind of man made you. You see what kind of blood you bear.”

Nicholas stared up at me, pain flickering in his eyes, but beneath it, something colder.

Behind me, Isabella’s voice rang out, sharp and desperate. “Stop!”

I turned. She stood at the edge of the room, the child still clutched to her chest. Tears streaked her cheeks, though her gaze burned with fury. “He’s your son!” she cried. “He is yours, Blackthorn! You’ve spilled enough blood for one lifetime,”

Her words were cut short as I raised my hand. The Heart pulsed beneath my coat, its power thrumming through my veins. Shadows coiled around my fingers, black tendrils of smoke and hate.

“I am not a man of mercy,” I said. “I have no sons.”

The little girl whimpered, burying her face against her mother’s shoulder. Isabella’s arms tightened around her, her sobs breaking into silence. I turned back to Nicholas. He had pushed himself to one knee, his sword arm trembling, his face pale from blood loss. Still, he met my gaze.

“Then you’re not fit to be a father,” he said.
I smiled faintly. “I never claimed to be.”

Then, before I could bring my blade down to end it, another voice cut through the tension.

“Enough.”

The single word froze the air. It came from the window. James stood there, his sword drawn now, the firelight glinting along its edge. His eyes, so weary, so haunted, met mine across the smoke-filled chamber.

“This ends tonight, Elias,” he said.

I turned to face him fully, my grin spreading slow and cruel. “So the coward finds his courage,” I murmured. “Tell me, brother, are you ready to die for it?”

The air between us crackled, thick with the weight of years, of sins, of blood yet to be spilled. The Heart pulsed once more against my chest, its beat matching the rhythm of the storm gathering beyond the windows. Lightning flashed, casting the chamber in white fire. there, between thunder and silence, two brothers faced each other again, one born of vengeance, the other of guilt. The storm had only begun.