POV: Adrian
Mark doesn’t notice things the way I do.
He moves through rooms like the walls are suggestions, like nothing could really touch him unless he lets it. I notice everything—how Father’s jaw tightens before he speaks, how silence stretches before punishment, how approval is given in measurements so small you can miss them if you blink.
We’re thirteen, but it already feels like a test we’re both failing in different ways.
“Again,” Father says.
We’re in the inner courtyard this time, practicing forms under the open sky. The sun is bright, almost cruel, reflecting off stone and steel. Sweat drips down my spine, but I don’t wipe it away. That would be sloppy.
I raise my sword exactly when instructed.
Mark does too—but his stance is off. Not wrong. Just… careless.
“Your guard is too loose,” Father snaps.
Mark shrugs. “I had it covered.”
“You thought you did,” Father says. “Thinking gets you killed.”
I correct my footing without being told. Faster. Sharper. Better.
Father’s eyes flick to me. I straighten instinctively.
“Adrian,” he says. “Show him.”
I do. Perfect angle. Controlled breath. No wasted movement. Mark watches me, jaw tight.
“Like that?” he asks.
“Yes,” Father says. “Exactly like that.”
Mark’s grip tightens. “Right.”
We reset.
I hear it then—the faint sound of my own breathing, too loud in my ears. I count silently. One. Two. Three. The way I always do.
Mark doesn’t count.
He swings harder, faster, emotion bleeding into the motion. Father steps back abruptly.
“Enough,” he barks.
Mark freezes. I freeze too, even though I didn’t move.
“What was that?” Father demands.
Mark opens his mouth. Closes it. “Nothing.”
“That was reckless,” Father says. “If this were real—”
“I know,” Mark interrupts. “You’ve said it before.”
The air goes sharp.
Father’s eyes narrow. “What did you say?”
“I said I know,” Mark repeats, louder now. “You don’t have to keep reminding me I’m not him.”
Silence crashes down.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
Father steps forward. “You will not speak like that.”
“Why?” Mark asks. “It’s true.”
“Mark,” I whisper. “Stop.”
He looks at me, frustration blazing. “You don’t get it.”
“I do,” I say quietly. “Please.”
Father’s voice cuts through us. “Leave. Both of you.”
Mark laughs once, harsh and humorless. “Gladly.”
He turns and storms off.
I hesitate.
“Go,” Father snaps.
“Yes, Father,” I say.
I walk away carefully, back straight, every step measured. I don’t look back.
We don’t talk at first.
Mark kicks a stone across the corridor, watching it skitter into a wall.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say finally.
“Do what?” he snaps.
“Say it like that,” I reply. “In front of him.”
Mark turns on me. “You mean tell the truth?”
“That’s not—”
“He likes you better,” Mark says. “Just admit it.”
“That’s not true,” I say automatically.
He laughs. “You’re joking.”
“He expects more from me,” I say. “That’s different.”
“Same thing,” Mark replies.
We stop walking.
I face him. “You think I like this?”
He scoffs. “You thrive on it.”
“I don’t,” I say. “I just… know how to survive it.”
Mark’s expression flickers—something like doubt, quickly buried.
“Everything’s about survival with you,” he mutters. “Maybe that’s the problem.”
“What’s the alternative?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer.
***
That night, I hear Father and Mother arguing through the walls.
Not shouting. Never shouting.
Their voices are low, tense.
“They’re boys,” Mother says. “Not soldiers.”
“They will be kings,” Father replies.
“They will be people first,” she says. “If you let them.”
Silence follows.
I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying the day in my head. Every movement. Every word. Every moment I could have done better.
I wonder what it would be like not to care.
I wonder what it would be like to be Mark.
The next morning, Mark doesn’t come to breakfast.
Father notices immediately. “Where is your brother?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Find him,” Father orders.
“Yes, Father.”
I find Mark in the lower gardens, sitting on the edge of the fountain, boots dangling in the water.
“You’ll ruin those,” I say.
He shrugs. “They’re just boots.”
“You’ll get in trouble.”
He looks up at me. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true,” I reply.
He sighs. “Do you ever get tired?”
I sit beside him carefully. “Of what?”
“Being perfect,” he says.
I look down at my hands. “I’m not.”
“You are,” he insists. “You never mess up.”
“I do,” I say quietly. “I just don’t let anyone see it.”
He watches me closely. “Why?”
“Because someone has to be enough,” I reply.
Mark’s voice softens. “You think if you’re enough, he’ll stop?”
I don’t answer.
He looks away. “I don’t want to be like him.”
“Like Father?” I ask.
“Like you,” he says.
The words sting more than he probably intends.
“I don’t want to be afraid all the time,” he adds.
Neither do I.
***
Later that day, Father calls us both into the study. Mark stands with his arms crossed. I stand straight.
“You embarrassed me,” Father says to Mark.
Mark clenches his jaw. “I’m sorry.”
It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him say that.
Father turns to me. “And you.”
“Yes, Father?”
“You didn’t correct him.”
I swallow. “I tried.”
“That wasn’t enough,” Father says.
“I know,” I reply.
Mark glances at me, surprise flickering across his face.
Father exhales slowly. “Leave.”
We do. As the door closes behind us, Mark mutters, “You took that for me.”
I shrug. “Someone had to.”
He stops walking. “Why?”
I meet his eyes. “Because you’re my brother.”
He studies me for a long moment.
“Idiot,” he says quietly.
But he smiles. For the first time in days, the shadow between us feels thinner. Still there. But thinner.
And I realize something I don’t quite know how to say yet: We’re both standing under the same shadow. We’re just learning how to survive it differently.
Together—or not at all.