Chapter 13

Malcolm sat on the edge of his bed, his posture deceptively relaxed, though his thoughts were anything but. The flickering light of a nearby lantern cast uneven shadows across his sharp features. He stared at his hands, long fingers entwined, as though contemplating their capability for destruction—and protection. Tonight, in the throne room, he had wielded both.

He leaned back, his gaze lifting to the intricately carved ceiling of his chambers, tracing the swirling patterns of vines and leaves with his eyes. His room was a sanctuary of dark wood and muted luxury, the walls lined with tapestries and shelves of books that had offered him countless hours of solitude. But tonight, the space felt oppressively small.

The scene in the throne room replayed in his mind. Viktor’s seething rage, the defiance in his eyes—it had been a gamble, but one he had to take. Malcolm exhaled sharply, running a hand through his dark hair.

Malcolm closed his eyes. His decision had been calculated, precise—a blade pressed against two throats at once. Giving Amelia to Viktor wasn’t just about punishment or control. It was strategy. Protecting her under the guise of marriage granted her a shield.

Malcolm couldn’t ignore the bitterness that coiled in his chest. Viktor’s hatred was dangerous, a fire that refused to be extinguished. He had stepped out of line too many times, testing the limits of Malcolm’s patience. His youngest brother had always been a tempest—untamable, unpredictable—but Malcolm had learned long ago how to control him.

“Pain binds better than loyalty,” Malcolm muttered under his breath, the words a reminder of the lessons he had learned in the harsh shadows of their father’s rule. Viktor needed to be tethered, his defiance curbed. And Amelia—her presence was the perfect leash

He stood abruptly, pacing the length of his room, the hem of his robe trailing behind him like a shadow. His boots barely made a sound against the thick rug, but the tension in his movements betrayed the storm inside him. He stopped at the tall window, gazing out over the darkened courtyard below. The palace stood in eerie silence, the flicker of torches dotting the grounds like dying stars.

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In the throne room, Viktor stood unmoving, his gaze fixed on the doors through which Malcolm had exited. The room was eerily silent, the air heavy with the tension that lingered in the wake of Malcolm’s command. A cold fury radiated from Viktor’s rigid frame, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

The torches lining the stone walls cast long, flickering shadows, dancing across the banners and marble floors. Viktor’s chest rose and fell with slow, deliberate breaths, each inhale stoking the fire of his rage. Malcolm’s words replayed in his mind, mocking him. Make her yours or I'll have your head. The ultimatum hung like a noose around his neck.

His jaw tightened, the muscles flexing beneath the scar that marred his cheek. He thinks that's a threat. The thought was bitter, almost laughable. Viktor had stared death in the face countless times—on the battlefield, in the unforgiving wilds, even in the depths of his brother’s court. No, he didn’t fear it. What he feared was failure.

Failure to avenge his mother. Failure to take the throne that was rightfully his. Failure to free his people from the iron grip of Malcolm’s rule. And now, this… this mockery of a marriage.

His anger surged anew, hot and unrelenting, as he replayed Malcolm’s smug expression in his mind. His older brother had always been a manipulator, pulling strings with an ease that made Viktor’s blood boil. And tonight, Malcolm had outmaneuvered him once again.

Viktor’s hands flexed at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. He hated the way Malcolm controlled him, the way he always seemed to be one step ahead. But this time, Viktor vowed, it would be different. He would play along, bide his time, and when the moment was right, he would strike.

“I’ll take the throne,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and venomous. “And your head.”

The thought brought him no satisfaction, only a cold, steely resolve. His hatred for Malcolm was a fire that had burned for years, but now it was tempered by a chilling clarity. He couldn’t afford to let his emotions rule him. Not anymore.

He turned on his heel, his boots echoing against the marble floor as he made his way toward the doors. The guards stationed at the entrance stiffened as he approached, their hands instinctively moving to their weapons. Viktor smirked coldly.

As he stepped into the dimly lit corridor, his thoughts shiftted, If Malcolm thought marrying her to him would weaken him, he was sorely mistaken. Viktor would use this union to his advantage, bending it to serve his purpose.

And Amelia? She would suffer.

His steps quickened as he made his way to his chambers, the tension in his body unrelenting. The halls were quiet, save for the occasional flicker of a torch or the faint murmur of distant voices. The palace, with its grand halls and opulent decor, felt more like a gilded prison than a home.

Viktor pushed open the heavy wooden door to his room, the hinges creaking in protest. The space was sparsely decorated, a stark contrast to the grandeur of Malcolm’s quarters. A single bed, a worn desk, and a few shelves lined with books and weapons were all he needed.

He crossed the room in a few strides, pouring himself a glass of amber liquid from a decanter on the desk. The alcohol burned as it slid down his throat, a welcome distraction from the storm raging inside him.

He set the glass down with a sharp clink, his gaze drifting to the window. The night stretched out before him, dark and endless. Somewhere out there, his people waited for him. Trusted him. Believed in him. He couldn’t afford to fail them.

Viktor let out a low, humorless chuckle, the sound echoing in the empty room. Malcolm thought he could control him, bind him with the chains. But Viktor was no one’s pawn.

He would play the part for now, but when the moment came, he would remind Malcolm who he truly was.

What stood in his place was a soldier. A weapon. And weapons didn’t feel. They didn’t forgive.

They destroyed