POV: Maximilian
They keep me in my father’s study after the guards leave.
The door closes with a sound that feels heavier than iron, a finality that settles into my bones. The room smells of old leather and ink and the faint bitterness of medicine. The fire in the hearth has burned low, embers pulsing like a heart that refuses to stop.
My father does not offer me a chair.
He stands behind the desk, hands braced against its edge, shoulders squared as if he is preparing for war. Perhaps he is. Perhaps I am the battlefield.
“You will listen,” he says.
“I have listened,” I reply, my jaw aching where he struck me. “For years.”
He exhales slowly, deliberately. “Then listen once more.”
He moves around the desk and gestures toward the tall map mounted on the wall. I follow his gaze despite myself. Astoria sprawls across parchment—rivers like veins, cities like clustered hearts, borders inked thick and unforgiving.
“This kingdom is not a room you can lock,” he says. “It is not a tower you can ward. It is people. Nobles who watch for weakness. Houses that will tear each other apart the moment they smell blood.”
He taps the map once, sharply. “If you renounce the crown, the council fractures. If the council fractures, the dukes arm themselves. If the dukes arm themselves, the borders burn.”
“You’re assuming the worst,” I say, though my voice lacks conviction.
“I am assuming what history teaches,” he replies. “Astoria has survived because the line of succession has never broken. The moment it does, we return to chaos.”
I swallow. “Then don’t make me choose.”
His gaze hardens. “You already have.”
He turns from the map and faces me fully. In the firelight, he looks older than I remember. Not weaker—older. A man who has carried the weight of consequences long enough to recognize them on sight.
“Celeste cannot remain,” he says.
My chest tightens. “She can be protected. Hidden, if that’s what it takes. I can—”
“No,” he cuts in. “She has grown too strong. The wards strain. The reports worsen.”
“You read reports,” I snap. “I see her.”
“Then you see how dangerous this becomes,” he counters. “You see what happens if she is discovered. Panic. Riots. Religious uprisings. Blood in the streets.”
“You’re afraid of ghosts,” I say.
“I am afraid of inevitability.”
He steps closer, lowering his voice. “If you refuse the crown—if you choose her—there will be no mercy. The elders will not tolerate a living symbol of chaos once you step aside. They will erase her.”
The word lands like a blade.
“Erase,” I repeat.
“Execution,” he says flatly. “Or something quieter. A disappearance that leaves no questions.”
My breath catches. “You’re threatening her.”
“I am stating fact,” he replies. “And if you think I can stop them once you renounce your claim, you are wrong.”
I stare at him, my thoughts splintering. “So my choice is an illusion.”
“No,” he says. “Your choice determines who dies.”
The fire pops, sending sparks skittering across the hearth.
“You will have one night,” he continues. “At dawn, you will declare your decision before the council.”
“One night,” I echo.
He nods once. “Spend it wisely.”
I take a step toward the door. My hand shakes as I reach for the handle.
“You may not visit her,” he adds quietly.
I freeze.
“If you go to the tower tonight,” he says, “the elders will know. And they will act before dawn.”
The room feels smaller, the air heavier.
“You would use her as leverage,” I say hoarsely.
“I would use reality,” he replies. “This is the price of the crown.”
I open the door and leave before he can say anything else.
***
Night falls without ceremony.
I walk the palace until my feet ache, until the corridors blur together into a maze of stone and memory. Guards bow as I pass. Servants avert their eyes. No one speaks to me unless spoken to, and I am grateful for the silence.
Every path leads me back to the tower.
I stop at the base of the stairwell and stare up at the darkened steps. My body moves on instinct, one foot lifting, ready to climb.
I force myself to stop.
If I go to her, they will kill her.
The thought beats in my skull, relentless. I grip the stone banister until my knuckles whiten, then turn away.
I spend the night in my chambers, pacing, sitting, standing again. I try to read. The words blur. I pour wine I don’t drink. I press my forehead to the cold glass of the window and stare out at a city that sleeps, unaware of how close it is to tearing itself apart.
I think of Celeste at seven, sitting stiffly at breakfast while glass cracked around her. I think of her at ten, whispering stories in lantern light, clinging to hope like it was oxygen. I think of her standing in the tower doorway when I was crowned, eyes bright with belief.
When I become king.
I was king.
And I did nothing.
The guilt coils tight in my chest, squeezing until breathing hurts.
If I choose her, the kingdom burns.
If I choose the crown, she is erased.
There is no choice that does not kill something.
Hours crawl past.
Near dawn, I stop pacing and sit heavily on the edge of my bed. My hands tremble. I press them together until they still.
I see the map again in my mind. Rivers. Cities. Borders. Millions of lives that depend on stability they will never notice unless it shatters.
Celeste is one life.
A voice in my head screams at the cruelty of that thought. Another, colder voice answers back.
One life can ignite a thousand deaths.
I hate myself for hearing it. I hate myself more for understanding it.
When the first gray light creeps through the window, I make my decision.
I do not go to the tower.
I do not knock twice and once. I do not whisper her name through iron. I do not bring books or bread or promises I cannot keep.
I stand alone and choose the crown.
Not because I want it.
Because if I don’t, Astoria bleeds.
Because civil war will devour children who have never heard Celeste’s name.
Because my sister’s existence has been turned into a weapon, and the only way to dull it is to step fully into the role they forged for me.
King before brother.
I close my eyes and let the weight settle.
When the bells ring for council, I walk to the chamber with my spine straight and my face set. I speak when spoken to. I do not falter. I do not look toward the old wing.
Inside, something fractures.
I tell myself I will make this right one day. That once the kingdom is secure, once fear cools, once the elders age and die, I will undo what they have done.
The lie comforts me just enough to survive the moment.
As the council murmurs approval and the crown’s weight presses down, I understand a truth I will carry for the rest of my life.
I have chosen the kingdom.
And in doing so, I have abandoned my sister without saying goodbye.