Heirs to the throne

***

Whispers began in the palace before the king had time to cough. The rumours had no form — they were the breath of the corridors, the glances, the sudden silence when someone entered the halls. They said that winter would be harsh. They said that His Majesty’s health was as fragile as glass. And they said, without looking Ilya in the eye, that the crown needed someone who knew how to wait. Shane Hollander knew how. At the Council, he sat closer to the throne. His father turned to him more and more often, as if testing the sound of his name. The king’s voice trembled, his breath broke into a dry, painful cough, and each time the courtiers froze, as if afraid that the next breath would be his last. — Patience is the most important quality of an heir, — said the king, looking at Shane. — Power does not tolerate the hasty. The last words cut sharply into Ilya’s heart. When he spoke, he was interrupted. When he objected, he was not listened to. His ideas were called harsh, his proposals reckless. The king frowned wearily, and that was enough to end the conversation. Shane remained silent. He did not defend. He observed. It was worse than an open attack.

***

The task given by the king seemed flawless. The House of Reimarov had not appeared at court in person for a long time — too old a family, too many grievances, too independent lands. That was why the king, struggling to suppress a coughing fit, entrusted the negotiations to Rozanov: a gesture of trust, a sign of recognition, almost a public elevation. — It’s good for you to learn how to talk to those who don’t bow their heads, — he said then, without looking up. — Shane already knows how to deal with them. Holland remained silent. Ilya sensed something was wrong even on the way there. Reimarov’s response came too quickly. They agreed too readily to accept him without intermediaries. The tone of the letters was too emphatically polite — not respectful, but cautious, as if every turn of phrase had been agreed upon in advance with a third party. The negotiations took place in an old hall — stone, cold, decorated with symbols of ancient legends. Lord Reimar was courteous, but he did not speak directly, constantly straying from the topic of the meeting. He asked questions that already contained accusations and paused where he expected concessions. — You are demanding more than what has been agreed upon by the crown, — he remarked, leafing through the documents. — Or should I consider this your personal initiative? Ilya felt the net slowly closing around him. If he refused, he would be accused of weakness and insignificance. If he agreed, he would be accused of exceeding his authority and encroaching on the throne. If he asked for a delay, they would say he was not ready for power. He understood: they were leading him to make a mistake, to say something that could be taken out of context and turned into a weapon. He spoke sharply, almost rudely, abandoning diplomatic niceties. He reminded Reimar of old obligations, of debts, of the fact that the crown’s patience was not infinite. It was a risk — but a controlled one. Lord Reimar narrowed his eyes. — You speak too boldly for a man without a crown. — I speak boldly enough for a man who will have one, — Ilya replied. And at that moment, he knew he had won. Not completely — but enough to escape the trap unscathed. When the negotiations ended, the tension did not disappear. It merely changed form.

***

It was dark in the castle gallery. Too quiet. Rozanov had taken a few steps before he noticed the slender figure by the window. Shane. He stood there as if he had been waiting for this moment. He didn’t intervene. He didn’t warn him. He didn’t try to take the initiative. — You knew, — Ilya said, not asking. Shane turned slowly. — I suspected. — They tried to frame me. — Yes. — And you let it happen. Holland took a step closer. His voice was even, almost cold. — I let you show that you don’t break, — Shane replied calmly. — There’s a fundamental difference. — You think I’ll be grateful to you for that? — No, — Shane replied honestly. — But I hope you’ll remember it. He moved closer. Too close. His gaze was attentive, calculating — like that of a man who had long since weighed everything up. — No one saves anyone in power, Rozanov. Here, you either survive on your own or become a pawn. — So I’m a pawn? — Ilya asked quietly. — Oh no, — Shane tilted his head slightly. — You’re a real threat. And that’s much more dangerous. A thick, almost physical tension hung between them. This was no longer just rivalry. It was the realisation that they were playing the same game, but understood the rules differently. Ilya took a confident step closer. It was not a gesture of tenderness or devotion. It was an invasion. He deliberately, almost provocatively, violated the distance between them, forcing Shane to either retreat or accept the confrontation. And at that moment, he realised: it wasn’t the Reimars’ conspiracy that was dangerous. It wasn’t the Council that was dangerous. It was the man standing opposite him, looking as if he could already see his weaknesses. — You’re too confident, — Ilya whispered. — You think you can calculate everything. — Almost everything, — Shane replied. His voice did not waver. And then Ilya did something that could not be calculated. The kiss was sharp, sudden — like a blow, like a challenge. There was no softness in it, only tension and rage accumulated over too many long weeks. A wilful gesture of power, an attempt to break the balance. Shane froze in amazement, foolishly obeying Rozanov’s aggressive attack. His hand, trying to resist, lingered for a moment on Ilya’s collar, neither pulling him closer nor letting him go. Then it traced his face, his temples, and finally buried itself in his tangled curls, deepening the kiss. That touch was enough to make the air heavier and his lungs feel empty. Time stretched on forever. When they pulled apart, silence hung between them. They looked at each other with burning eyes, not fully understanding what had happened. Shane was the first to come to his senses. He pushed Ilya away and hit him on the shoulder. — This is a mistake, Rozanov. — Perhaps, — Ilya replied. — But now you’re not so confident, are you? — Go away. They looked at each other, lost for words. — Get out, — Hollander finally whispered. Ilya winked playfully and disappeared from the room, leaving a hot, passionate mark on Shane’s lips. Where is your dignity, Crown Prince? Where are your manners? What kind of behaviour is this, what kind of words? Is this insolent fool really capable of throwing someone as calculating, calm and balanced as you off balance?