Heirs to the throne

***

The morning began with alarm. The Council Chamber was crowded, noisy, and unusually tense. The councillors spoke in hushed voices, shuffled papers, and exchanged brief glances. In the centre of the table lay a map — a fresh one, with the border lines still clear. The king looked worse than he had last week. His face was gaunt, his hands rested heavily on the armrests, as if every movement required incredible effort. But his voice remained firm. — The Kingdom of Estmark, — he said. — Our eastern neighbour. The king’s finger slowly slid across the map. Estmark had long been a source of hidden tension: trade routes, disputed lands by the river, old treaties that each side interpreted in its own way. In recent weeks, disturbing news had been coming from there — detained caravans, reinforced border garrisons, sharp messages from ambassadors. — They are demanding a review of trade duties and recognition of their rights to the coastal lands, — the king continued. — Otherwise, they threaten to close the passage across the river. A restrained murmur spread through the hall. Hollander listened attentively. He stood straight, his hands clasped behind his back, his face calm. This was how people were used to seeing him. Ilya was on the other side of the table. Outwardly, he appeared detached, almost bored. But his gaze was focused and intense. — We cannot allow an escalation, — said the king. — And we cannot show weakness. He paused. — Therefore, both heirs will go to the negotiations. The silence was instant and thick. The advisers exchanged glances. Some raised their eyebrows, others pressed their lips together. The decision was unexpected — and too transparent. A test. — You will represent the crown, — the king continued. — You will show that we are capable of negotiating. Or defending our interests. Shane bowed his head slightly. — We will not fail you, Father. Rozanov nodded in agreement — briefly, almost imperceptibly. They stood on opposite sides of the table. Cold. Strangers. Almost enemies. And no one noticed how their eyes met for a moment — and a similar, carefully hidden spark flashed in them.

***

Preparations for the trip took only two days. The court was in a nervous frenzy: the retinue was being assembled, the carriages checked, documents, gifts, and seals packed. The grooms prepared the horses, the armourers the guards. In the corridors, everything was discussed — from the possibility of war to which of the heirs would prove himself most worthy. Shane was in charge of the organisation. He was precise and unhurried. He personally checked the lists, gave orders, and received reports. Ilya kept to himself, but he was always nearby — ready to make quick decisions, assess risks, and suggest detours. They did not remain alone. They did not smile. They did not allow themselves a single extra glance in front of others. But as soon as one of the servants turned away, a tension arose between them: brief, dangerous, almost palpable. They hid their excitement particularly carefully. They set off at dawn. The column moved quickly: reconnaissance in front, followed by carriages, guards, and wagons. The horses walked steadily, their hooves beating a dull rhythm on the damp ground. The road first climbed into the hills, then descended to the plain, where the air became heavier and the wind sharper. Shane rode upright, restrained, as if on parade. Ilya kept close, but not too close. Just the right distance. — You always look as if there’s a conspiracy behind every bush, — he said quietly, without turning his head. — It’s called caution, — Shane replied. — I recommend you try it. — I’m not sure it’s useful, — Rozanov smiled. — Otherwise I’ll become as boring as you. Shane glanced at him briefly. — Today you are the heir to the crown, — he said dryly. — Behave accordingly. — Then give the order, — Ilya replied calmly. — It’s easier that way for me. They rode in silence for a few moments. — Estmark will test us at the first turn, — Hollander continued. — They’ll drag their feet, nitpick the wording. — Let them, — said Ilya. — The longer they drag it out, the more they show their fear. — Are you sure? — Absolutely. The strong don’t need to put on a show. Shane nodded, as if noting this to himself. At the halt, they dismounted at the same time. Servants brought water, and someone unfolded a map on the camp table. — Here, — Shane pointed to the river. — They insist on complete control. — And they won’t get it, — Ilya leaned closer, his finger resting nearby. — At most, joint posts. And even that will be temporary. — They will demand concessions. — Then give them the appearance of victory, — Ilya said quietly. — A few nice words, a gesture. Estmark loves flattery. Hollander looked at him intently. — You know them too well. — I know a lot of things, — Ilya replied with a slight smile. — It’s just that usually no one is interested in it. Shane said nothing. He just rolled up the map and handed it to his aide. — On the road. The road again. The steady pace of horses again. — After the negotiations, — Rozanov said, as if in passing, — they will compare us. — Let them, — replied Shane. — It’s inevitable. — And you don’t mind? Shane turned to him a little more than formality allowed. — I only mind when comparisons get in the way of business. Ilya smiled briefly, thoughtfully. — So, we’re agreed. — Already, — said Shane. And they drove on — side by side, but still at that carefully measured distance that everyone around them watched closely, and that only the two of them understood so well.

***

The meeting room in the Estmark fortress was long and cold. The stone here did not just keep the room cool — it seemed to accumulate the cold. The narrow windows let in little light, and the faces of those gathered seemed sharper than they really were. At the head of the table sat Duke Laurent of Estmark — thin, grey-haired, with the sharp gaze of a man accustomed to counting other people’s mistakes faster than his own words. — We are pleased to welcome the heirs to the crown, — he said. — Especially… both of them at once. There was a hint of irony in his voice. Hollander replied first. — The crown values directness, — he said calmly. — That is why we are here in person. He sat up straight, leaning neither back nor forward. His hands were on the table, palms open. A gesture of trust. Or an imitation of it. Ilya took a seat slightly to the side. He did not rush to speak, allowing his interlocutors to examine him, to get used to his presence. — Then let’s begin without preamble, — the duke continued. — Estmark demands a review of trade duties. Your caravans use our river, but pay according to old agreements. — The agreements were signed by both parties, — Shane replied evenly. — And they are still in force. — Times are changing, — the duke shrugged. — And along with them, the conditions. — It’s interesting, — Rozanov interjected, looking up for the first time, — that they always change in one direction. There was a brief pause in the hall. — You allow yourself to be blunt, — remarked one of the Estmark lords. Ilya smiled slightly. — I allow myself to be clear. Shane turned his head in his direction — just enough to make it look like restrained disapproval. — We are not refusing dialogue, — he said, taking the initiative. — The Crown is prepared to consider a partial revision of the duties. Within reasonable limits. — And what do you want in return? — the duke narrowed his eyes. — Free passage on the river, — Holland replied. — No delays. No “technical inspections.” No reinforced garrisons in disputed areas. — This is a matter of security, — the duke said coldly. — Whose security? — Ilya asked immediately. — Your personal safety or the safety of your trade? Several Estmark advisors exchanged glances. — Is that a threat? — asked the duke. Ilya leaned forward slightly. — A warning. Shane calmly placed his palm on the table between them, a gesture almost imperceptible but precise. — My brother means, — he said, — that closing the river will hurt both sides. Our grain supplies are a significant part of your market. — You’re using numbers to pressure us, — said the duke. — These are facts, — replied Shane. The next few hours were tense. Estmark demanded concessions. They tested the limits of what was permissible. They hinted at force. Shane responded with restraint. He yielded where it did not affect the essence, and stood his ground where it mattered most. His voice never rose. Ilya acted differently. — If you insist on a military presence at the river, — he said at one point, — we will be forced to reconsider the size of our garrisons. — That’s too much, — one of the lords muttered. — I am only hastening to assure you of what will follow your insolent stubbornness, — Ilya shrugged. Hollander glanced at him briefly. — We are not here for escalation. — That is precisely why I am speaking plainly, — Ilya replied, without looking at him. The duke watched them closely. — Interesting, — he finally said. — You clearly have differences among yourselves, but you act as one. — We are heirs to the crown, — Shane replied calmly. Ilya smiled. — Or we just calculated well.

***

By evening, the positions had softened. Estmark agreed to joint control of the borders. The river remained open. Customs duties were revised — partially, with a delay. When the last document was signed, the duke stood up. — I admit, — he said, — I expected a different outcome. — So did we, — replied Shane. Rozanov stood up after him. — But you made the right choice. The duke looked at him for a long time. — I hope you both did. On the way out, already outside the hall, Ilya said quietly, — You pulled me back too often. — You spoke rashly too often, walked on the edge, — replied Hollander. Silence. They laughed. — And yet we won. Shane looked at him — for the first time that day without his cold mask. — Yes, exactly.

***

The return journey was quieter. Less conversation, less fuss. The decision had been made, the danger had receded. They returned to the castle at dusk. The stone gate had darkened from the evening damp, the torches were lit — as if the palace itself was drawing them back into its heavy, attentive silence. At the entrance to the castle, Hollander stopped first. For a moment — a very brief one — he turned his head. Ilya was already looking at him. The smile was almost imperceptible. More of a shadow than a gesture. But Ilya responded in kind — just as calmly. No words. No promises. Then each turned in his own direction: one to the bright galleries of the west wing, the other deep into the eastern chambers. The palace once again accepted them as rivals. But now — no longer as strangers.