POV; Sebastian
They are thirteen, and already they stand like soldiers.
I see it the moment I enter the training yard—Adrian with his shoulders squared too tightly, chin lifted in practiced restraint; Mark a half-step looser, weight shifted to one leg, eyes tracking movement instead of command. The swordmaster snaps instructions. Steel flashes. The boys move when told.
Too well.
“Again,” the swordmaster barks.
Adrian complies instantly. Mark hesitates a breath—only a breath—then follows.
I stop at the edge of the yard, hands clasped behind my back, crown absent, authority present all the same. The men straighten when they notice me. The boys don’t turn. They already know I’m here. They always do.
“Hold,” I say.
The command cuts through the air. Both boys freeze, blades angled down, breathing controlled. Sweat darkens their collars.
“Mark,” I say. “Your footing is sloppy.”
He shifts, corrects. “Yes, Father.”
“Adrian,” I continue. “You anticipate instead of responding.”
“Yes, Father,” Adrian replies, immediately stiller.
The swordmaster looks between us. “Your Majesty—”
“That will be all,” I say.
He bows and retreats, relief poorly hidden.
The boys lower their swords. Mark glances at Adrian; Adrian doesn’t look back.
“Adrian,” I say. “Why did you move before the signal?”
“Because I knew it was coming,” he answers.
“And if it hadn’t?” I ask.
He hesitates. “Then I would have failed.”
“Yes,” I say. “You would have.”
Mark shifts beside him. “He was just trying to do it right.”
I turn to Mark. “And you were just trying not to.”
“That’s not what I said,” Mark replies, jaw tight.
I look at both of them. Thirteen. Still boys. Already bracing.
“Discipline,” I say, “is not instinct. It is control.”
Adrian nods. Mark exhales.
“Go,” I tell them. “Wash. We dine at the seventh bell.”
“Yes, Father,” they say together.
They leave without another word. Adrian straight-backed, Mark kicking dust as he goes.
I remain where I am, staring at the place they stood.
Too young to carry this weight.
Too old, perhaps, to be spared it.
Dinner is quiet in the way that pretends to be peaceful.
Evangeline sits across from me, posture composed, eyes attentive without being intrusive. The boys flank her—Adrian to her right, Mark to her left. Servants move silently, refilling goblets we don’t empty.
“How was training?” Evangeline asks lightly.
“Acceptable,” I answer.
Adrian straightens. Mark pokes at his food.
“You say that like it’s a verdict,” Mark mutters.
I look at him. “You have something to add?”
He lifts his eyes. “No, Father.”
Evangeline’s gaze flicks between us. “Mark.”
“I said no,” he repeats, quieter.
Adrian clears his throat. “Training was fine.”
“Fine is not the standard,” I say.
Evangeline sets her fork down. “Sebastian.”
I meet her eyes. “They need clarity.”
“They need supper,” she replies calmly.
Mark bites back a smile. Adrian does not.
I inhale, slow. “Eat.”
They do.
After the meal, Adrian rises immediately. “May I be excused to review tomorrow’s lessons?”
“Yes,” I say. “See that you do.”
He bows his head slightly—too formal—and leaves.
Mark lingers.
“Father,” he says. “Can I—”
“Go,” I tell him.
He looks at Evangeline. She nods.
He leaves without bowing. The doors close. Evangeline waits a beat. Then another.
“You’re doing it again,” she says.
“Doing what?” I ask.
“Speaking to them like they’re already grown,” she replies. “Like they won’t break.”
“They won’t,” I say. “Not if they’re trained properly.”
She tilts her head. “And if they break anyway?”
“They won’t,” I repeat.
“That’s not an answer,” she says gently.
I stand. “It’s the only one that matters.”
Later, I find Adrian in the study, books spread neatly, notes aligned to the edge of the desk.
“You didn’t need to leave dinner so quickly,” I say.
“I wanted to prepare,” he replies.
“For what?” I ask.
He hesitates. “For you.”
The words land heavier than they should.
“You don’t prepare for me,” I say. “You prepare for the crown.”
“Yes,” he agrees.
I study him—his careful posture, the way he measures every breath.
“Do you enjoy this?” I ask.
He blinks. “Enjoy?”
“The work,” I clarify.
“I do what is required,” he says.
“That’s not what I asked.”
He looks down. “I don’t dislike it.”
“Answer me,” I say more sharply than intended.
He flinches. “I want to do well.”
I close my eyes briefly. “That wasn’t the question either.”
Silence stretches.
“Go to bed,” I say finally. “We’ll continue tomorrow.”
“Yes, Father,” he replies, relief flickering across his face before discipline smothers it.
When he leaves, the room feels smaller. Mark is harder to find.
I discover him in the gallery overlooking the gardens, leaning against the balustrade, staring at nothing in particular.
“You skipped your review,” I say.
“I know,” he replies without turning.
“Is that defiance?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “Just tired.”
“Tired of what?” I demand.
“Of being watched,” he answers.
I stiffen. “You are watched because you matter.”
He turns then, eyes bright with something I don’t like. “Or because you don’t trust us.”
“That’s not—”
“You never talk to us,” he interrupts. “You talk at us.”
I step closer. “Careful.”
“Why?” he challenges. “You going to yell again?”
The words sting because they’re accurate.
“I discipline because I care,” I say.
“That’s what you say,” he replies. “It doesn’t feel like it.”
I open my mouth. Close it.
He looks past me, toward the doors. “Adrian thinks if he’s perfect, you’ll look at him. I think you won’t either way.”
“That’s not true,” I snap.
“Then prove it,” he says.
I reach for command. Habit. Instinct.
And stop.
“Go to bed,” I say quietly.
He studies me, then nods once and leaves.
***
I return to my chambers late.
Evangeline is already there, seated by the window, book untouched in her lap.
“They’re afraid of you,” she says without looking up.
“That’s not—” I begin.
“They respect you,” she continues. “But they’re afraid too.”
“They should be cautious,” I say.
“They should be children,” she replies.
I pace. “The world will not spare them.”
“No,” she agrees. “But neither should you be the one who teaches them fear.”
I stop. “You think I want this?”
“I think you don’t know another way,” she says softly.
I turn to her. “My father—”
“I know,” she says. “You’ve told me.”
“He believed pain made men,” I say.
“And did it?” she asks.
I think of Alexandro. Of Evangeline kneeling on stone. Of boys standing like soldiers.
“I survived,” I say.
She rises, crosses the room, and takes my hand. “Survival is not the same as living.”
I look at the door—the one that leads to our sons.
“They are watching you,” she says. “They will become what you show them.”
I exhale slowly.
“I don’t want to lose them,” I admit.
Her grip tightens. “Then don’t.”
Silence settles, not accusatory—inviting.
For the first time, I consider the possibility that command is not the only language a king can speak.
And that maybe—just maybe—being their father must mean more than making them strong.
It must mean teaching them how not to be afraid of the man who loves them.