Heirs to the throne

The king died at dawn. The grey winter morning was just beginning to seep through the narrow stained-glass windows of the royal chambers when his breath stopped — quietly, almost imperceptibly. His last breath left his chest with a long, rough sound, like wind passing through an old organ. His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something — a name, a command, a blessing — but no air returned. Outside the window, frost on the balustrade slowly melted. Somewhere in the distant courtyard, a gate creaked. The room became strangely quiet — not the usual silence, but a dense, almost tangible one. The court physician was the first to lower his eyes. The chaplain crossed himself. One of the servants sniffed quietly — too loudly for etiquette, but too human to be reprimanded. Shane stared at his father’s body. He kept waiting for the next breath. It never came.

***

The king was laid out in the Great Cathedral on the third day after his death. Servants brought large copper basins of hot water. Steam rose in thick clouds, filling the stone chamber with the pungent aroma of herbs. Myrrh, dried rosemary, bitter wormwood, and a few drops of expensive oriental oil were added to the water — a final luxury for a king whose body no longer felt warmth or smell. A silver cross and a sword, symbols of faith and power, were placed on his chest. His hands were folded on the hilt. The royal robes were heavy: dark blue velvet with gold embroidery, a fur collar darkened by time. The folds of the fabric still carried the smell of smoke from previous parades and winter reviews. The body was washed in a stone chamber beneath the chapel. This was the ancient custom. It was always cold here, even in summer. The stone walls retained damp, and the narrow windows let in almost no light. The torches hissed in the humid air, casting flickering shadows. The senior archdeacon personally removed the sovereign’s nightshirt. The king seemed smaller without his robe. He was no longer so tall. His shoulders were narrow. His skin was thin, almost transparent, with a bluish network of veins. His ribs protruded more sharply than Shane remembered. Without his crown, without his rings, without his heavy boots, he was just an old man. Few people were present in the chamber: the archdeacon, two priests, a physician, a chamberlain, an old squire who had served the king for forty years — and the heirs. The squire stood clutching his gloves. The physician studiously avoided the king’s face, as if afraid to see reproach there. One of the young priests kept looking down, blinking too often to hide the tears welling up in his eyes. The news of the death had already spread throughout the palace. In the corridors, the servants whispered without raising their eyes. In the city, shops opened later than usual. In the square, women pressed handkerchiefs to their lips, men removed their hats. Some cried sincerely. Others cried because it was the proper thing to do. Yet all faces reflected the same thing: fear of the unknown future. Holland stood at the head of the bed. Three days and three nights. He did not sit. He did not lean against the wall. His fingers turned white with tension, clasped behind his back as if at a reception. His face grew sharper, almost marble-like. Dark shadows lay beneath his eyes. Ilya stood apart. Not close. Not by the coffin. He lingered near a column, letting the shadow hide his expression. The stone behind him was cold, but he hardly felt it. He could not bring himself closer. He could not look for too long. Everything fought inside him — resentment, unspoken words, anger over years of alienation, and some childish, unexpected grief. His father was gone. Now he was alone. The only one in the whole world. He caught himself wanting to remember his father’s features — the curve of his nose, the line of his chin — and at the same time not wanting to see him like this: motionless, powerless. When the archdeacon wiped the king’s chest with a cloth, Ilya clenched his teeth. When the squire sniffed quietly, he turned away. They watched as their father’s body was stripped of the last signs of life — warmth, smell, weight. — Now he is ready, — said the archdeacon. Ready. The word hung in the air, heavy and cold. No one said what he was ready for.

***

Candles smoked. Wax dripped in thick drops, forming small frozen puddles on the marble floor. The smell of incense settled heavily in the lungs, leaving a bitter taste on the tongue. Outside the windows, bells rang slowly, with long pauses between strokes. Each toll seemed to sink into the chest and remain there. On the second night, Shane staggered slightly. It was momentary — a faint shadow of weakness. His fingers relaxed. His shoulders dropped. Ilya noticed. He stepped forward — almost instinctively, without calculation, without thought for propriety. For a second, something open, human, unmasked flashed in his eyes. But he stopped. Shane straightened on his own. He lifted his chin. His gaze became cold and focused again. He did not even look in Ilya’s direction. There were only a few steps between them. And a whole chasm.

***

On the day of the funeral, the city was shrouded in fog. The procession stretched from the cathedral to the tomb outside the city walls. The bells began tolling before dawn. Slowly. With long, hollow pauses. The coffin was carried by six knights in black cloaks with silver trim. Their steps were synchronized — heavy, measured. Monks walked in front of them, singing psalms in Latin. Their voices were low and drawn out, as if the earth itself were groaning. Behind the coffin walked Shane. Without his crown. Without his robe. In a black mourning doublet, buttoned to his throat. Rozanov walked on the other side of the procession. The people stood silently along the streets. Some cried. Some crossed themselves. Some watched with quiet concern. All that remained was the crunch of snow underfoot, the heavy breathing of horses, and the cold seeping under their cloaks. When the coffin was lowered into the stone crypt, Shane looked down for the first time. The archbishop intoned: — Dust to dust. The crown to the legacy. The soul to judgement. The earth fell on the coffin lid with a heavy, dull sound. Ilya stood opposite his brother, across the open pit of the tomb. It was not only the depth of the stone pit that separated them. They did not look at each other. They did not dare raise their eyes. When it was over, the courtiers began to disperse. Some whispered about the future. Others spoke of succession. Shane stayed for a moment longer. Ilya too. But neither took a step toward the other.

***

After the funeral, the palace became different. Unusually quiet. Unfamiliar. The corridors seemed longer, the echo of footsteps louder. The portrait of the king in the gallery was covered with black cloth. A cypress funeral wreath hung on the doors of his chambers. Shane moved into his father’s study. Now it was his study. The table was littered with unfolded maps. Seals. Letters from the south. Reports of possible rebellions. A list of the treasury’s debts. Next to it lay a silver letter opener — the very one his father had once used to eagerly slit envelopes. Shane did not allow any of his father’s belongings to be removed. He worked until exhaustion. He wrote short orders. He signed them. He affixed seals. He reread reports. He corrected figures. He stared at the border lines as if he could hold them in place with the power of his gaze. The light in the office burned late into the night. — Your Highness, — the chancellor said cautiously, standing in the doorway, — you must eat. — Later. — You haven’t slept at all. — Later. The chancellor hesitated, choosing his words carefully. — Your Highness… you should rest. Holland did not even look up. — The state does not rest, — he replied dryly. His voice was even. Without intonation. Without warmth. The playful irony, liveliness, and lightness had vanished from his words. He no longer leaned back in his chair or squinted mischievously. He sat straight, taut as a drawn string. Too straight. Too motionless. Sometimes, when he raised a hand to rub his nose, a sharp, almost painful fatigue slipped into the gesture. But he immediately lowered his palm and became stone-faced again. In the evenings, he did not return to his chambers — he fell asleep right in his chair. His cloak slipped to the floor. His head fell onto the armrest. The candles burned down, leaving a heavy smell of wax in the air. Papers lay scattered at his feet. Once, a servant found him like this — with an ink stain on his cuff and an unsealed letter in his hand. His face looked almost childlike in sleep. Helpless. Ilya learned of this from the servants. They spoke in low tones, with that particular expression of sympathy that now appeared whenever Hollander’s name was mentioned: — His Highness… sleeps in his chair. Often. Ilya nodded — too quickly, as if it concerned someone else. He himself was hardly ever in the palace. He left at dawn — to the provinces, to his vassals, to minor lords who were already beginning to grow nervous. His cloak smelled of the road and the smoke of other people’s hearths. Dried mud clung to his boots. His hair smelled of wind. He was running. From whom? From what? From morning till night — meetings, conversations, cold town halls, heavy handshakes. He listened to complaints, answered questions, persuaded, made promises. His voice sounded firm, even authoritative. He stood straight, sharply. So that no one would see how everything was falling apart inside. — The people are worried, — said the mayor of a northern city. — Who will be king? Ilya looked calm. — The kingdom will not be left without a ruler. But there was no familiar mocking lightness in these words. They sounded like a commitment. Like an oath made not only to the people, but to himself. Shane lost his father — and gained the throne. Ilya lost his father — and gained nothing. No power. No right to weakness. He did not even have the right to openly mourn. During the funeral, he stood motionless, as if carved from stone. Not a single muscle moved. But when the coffin was lowered into the ground and the earth struck the lid with a dull thud, something in his gaze became hollow. Since then, that emptiness has not left him. At night, in strange inns, he lay awake for hours. On a narrow bed, hands tucked beneath his head, he stared into the darkness. He heard the wind beating against the shutters. A horse snorting in its stall. Someone crying quietly behind a wall — perhaps a child, perhaps a woman. And suddenly, unbearable pain would rise. Something inside him screamed and struggled. He remembered his father’s voice — not the meaning of the words, but the intonation. The heavy hand on his shoulder. The rare, restrained praise that had meant more than anything else in the world. It was gone. Irrevocably. And with it, the feeling of support vanished, as if the last solid plank had been pulled from under his feet, leaving him standing defenseless in the wind. Sometimes, as he drifted toward sleep, he could almost hear someone calling his name — short, stern. And in that moment, his chest tightened so fiercely that he had to turn onto his side, so that no one — not even the walls — could see him suffocating. By morning, he was composed again. Cold. He did not return to the palace only because of business. The palace held too many sounds: the creak of the steps his father had taken down the hall; a muffled cough behind a closed door; heavy footsteps echoing in the corridors. And every time he passed by the office, Ilya caught himself waiting for a moment — now the door will swing open. But the door no longer swung open. And there was something final about this absence. Something that could not be dismissed with a joke, an action, or a journey. He had lost more than just his father. He had lost his last home.

***

One evening, Ilya returned to the palace after all. The snow crunched so loudly under his boots that it seemed to betray his presence. The sky hung low, grey and starless. The palace loomed ahead — dark, austere, alien. The windows glowed with sparse lights, and there was no cosiness in those lights. He had only been away for a few days. But it felt like years. The corridors greeted him with coldness and the smell of polished wood. Heavy tapestries muffled the sound of his footsteps, but each step still echoed in his chest. The servants bowed too low, too cautiously. Their eyes darted around and then immediately dropped. Now, in this palace, everything was measured not by words, but by pauses. Ilya walked slowly. He knew where he was going, and at the same time wanted to delay the moment. At the turn to the king’s office, he saw him. Shane was coming out of the door, holding a folder of documents under his arm. The parchment was covered with his new, strict handwriting — neat, without a single extra stroke. The hand clutching the papers seemed thinner than usual. His face was pale. There were shadows under his eyes that could no longer be hidden. But that glassy stare — he wasn’t looking at the corridor, or at Ilya — he was looking further away, through the walls, through time. They froze, facing each other. There were only a few steps between them. Ilya felt something ache in his chest. He suddenly wanted to just go up and hug him — abruptly, without words, like before. But now there was something insurmountable, frightening between them. — You’re back, — Shane said. Without reproach. Without joy. As if he had noted a line in a report. Ilya nodded. — Yes, — he replied. His own voice sounded hollow. Alien. A pause hung in the air, heavy and tense. — How are the northern lands? — Shane asked. Ilya looked at him and saw that he was holding on with all his might. His shoulders were tense. His fingers gripped the folder too tightly. His lips were pressed together as if he wasn’t allowing himself a single extra breath. — Calm, — Ilya replied. Calm. As if there wasn’t a destructive void raging inside him. As if he didn’t wake every night feeling like he had lost something irreplaceable again. Another pause. Before, they would have started talking right away. About anything but business. Shane would have smiled. Ilya would have interrupted him. They would have taken a step closer — simply because it was natural. Now — silence. Palpable. Heavy. Unbearable. Shane nodded slightly. — Okay, — he said. And that “okay” didn’t sound like relief. It sounded like duty. He took a step forward. And walked past. Ilya felt the edge of his cloak brush against his arm for a moment. A light touch of fabric — almost nothing. But that “almost” was everything. Warmth. Memory. What they were losing with each passing day. He almost grabbed his sleeve. Almost. But his hand didn’t rise. He remained standing. He heard footsteps receding. He heard the office door close quietly. The click of the lock sounded particularly clear. Ilya lowered his head. He wanted to say — it’s hard for me. He wanted to say — I lost him too. He wanted to ask — are you eating anything? Are you sleeping? But his heart screamed — don’t do this alone. Don’t push me away. But the words got stuck somewhere under his ribs. Where pain doesn’t turn into sound. He suddenly realised that if he spoke now, his voice would break. And he had no right to break down. Not here. Not in front of him. Pride? Fear? Or just a habit of always being stronger than necessary? Something broke — quietly, without a crack. It didn’t shatter. It didn’t collapse. It just weakened. Like an old beam that had held up the ceiling for many years — and one day could no longer bear the weight. And in this silent, invisible break there was so much pain that if it had taken shape, it would have torn the whole corridor apart. But it remained inside. And Ilya, straightening up, walked in the opposite direction.

***

A week later, the Grand Council was convened. The throne room was transformed as if winter itself had entered and remained there to live. Black velvet banners with silver coats of arms hung from the arches in heavy folds, muffling the sound of footsteps and whispers. The candles burned evenly, almost motionless. The flames were long and thin, like funeral pyres. The air smelled of incense, cold stone, and something metallic — as if death itself had dissolved into the very space. The throne stood empty. It seemed larger than before — too tall, alien. Above it, under a glass case, rested the crown. Silver and dark stones cast cold reflections, and it seemed that it was not a decoration, but shackles, neatly displayed for all to see. The councillors took their places. The bishops — with downcast eyes. The military leaders — straight as spears. The clan chiefs — in furs and heavy rings, whispering in low voices. Shane stood at the foot of the throne. He was impeccable — black mourning uniform, silver chain of the order on his chest, hair neatly combed back. His face was calm, bright, almost marble-like. He stood straight, but there was no tension in this straightness — only a kind of weary resignation. Ilya stood to his right, slightly behind him. Before, they had stood shoulder to shoulder, so that they could accidentally brush against each other’s sleeves and exchange a brief glance, unnoticed by the others. Now there was an invisible, undeniable line between them. — The kingdom cannot remain without a sovereign for long, — the chancellor began. His voice was dry and even. He pronounced the words as if he were placing pieces on a chessboard. — By right of primogeniture, Prince Shane Hollander is the heir. — A murmur of agreement swept through the hall like wind through dry leaves. Shane did not raise his head. He only took a slightly deeper breath. Ilya caught that breath. — However, — the chancellor continued, — the situation is unstable. The southern lands demand confirmation of the union. The north threatens to break away. It is necessary to strengthen our power. — Each word fell heavily, measuredly, inevitably. The silence became thick. It pressed on his temples. In this silence, you could hear the secretary’s pen scratching on the parchment. Someone shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. Ilya’s heart beat too loudly — and then again. — The Council has decided, — the chancellor’s voice became official, almost solemn, — that in order to preserve the unity of the kingdom, Prince Shane must enter into a dynastic marriage with Lady Rosaline de Varenn. — The words fell like stones into water. And there was no splash — only an abyss. At first, there was silence. Shane did not move. He seemed to have turned to stone. His face remained unchanged, but his fingers tightened slightly around the folder of documents, so that his knuckles turned white. The paper beneath his fingers crumpled ever so slightly. For a moment, something flashed across his face — not protest. Not fear. Emptiness. The kind that appears when a blow is too precise to feel the pain immediately. As if the decision had been made for him long ago. As if he had only now heard aloud what he already knew. He nodded slowly. The movement was almost imperceptible — a slight tilt of the head, barely noticeable. — If that is the will of the Council… For the good of the kingdom… — he said evenly. — I obey. — His voice was calm. Clear. Not a crack in it. Only Ilya knew how much such composure cost. Voices of approval rippled through the hall. Someone coughed contentedly. Someone nodded approvingly. The policy had worked. The kingdom would be saved. Alliances would be secured. Ilya did not look at him. He looked ahead. Into nothingness. His jaw was clenched so tightly that his teeth ached. His shoulders were tense, as if he were wearing armour, which he was not. He felt his fingers trembling under his gloves and clenched them into a fist. He knew it was right. Politically flawless. Necessary. And that was precisely why it was unbearable. It became so quiet inside that he could hear his own breathing. He remembered the bonfire in the northern forest. The warmth that came not only from the fire. The laughter, the closeness, and the freedom. Back then, everything seemed simple, the world seemed vast, and their secret seemed like just a part of that world, not its sentence. And in that moment, he clearly felt Shane slipping away from him. Not with a step, not with a word, but with fate itself.