CHAPTER 65: OF DUTY AND DEVOURING

The courtyard lay bathed in a pallid glow when Levan arrived. The air was heavy with the tang of iron and burnt incense from the remnants of the sealing. Wind stirred through the open arches, carrying faint traces of salt from the northern sea and scattering dust across the marble in restless spirals.

Two figures stood near the railing. The first was Captain Harken, his armour dulled from long duty, one gloved hand resting on the pommel of his sword as though the stillness itself might strike. The other stood beside him, tall and unmoving was a man dressed in ceremonial black, his tunic pinned with the crest of the royal bloodline.

Neven.

Levan’s steps echoed lightly as he approached. The two did not notice him until his boots met the edge of the marble path, each step swallowed by the breeze before falling sharp again. The air between them carried the weight of a conversation already half-finished. Levan glanced at Leroy behind him, and the boy obediently vanishes back into the corridors after the brief escort.

"Your Highness," Harken greeted, bowing quickly, relief flickering in his eyes like a candle catching draft upon seeing the crown prince.

"Captain," Levan returned the gesture with a curt nod, his gaze fixed on him as if the other presence did not exist.

The man straightened at once and began to relay his report. "We confirmed the source of the earlier disturbance to be linked to the Blithe."

"Explain," Levan nodded.

"The wardstones along the river perimeter have weakened again," Harken said, his tone grim. "The inscriptions are fading faster than expected, some nearly hollow. We attempted reinforcement at dawn, but the corruption has already spread through the roots beneath the soil."

"How far?"

"Farther than we anticipated," the Captain admitted. "The grasses near the western slope have begun to wilt. The rot seeped into the nearby farms; the villagers reported their crops blackening overnight. By morning, even the river had started to recede."

Levan’s expression hardened. "A drought?"

"A sudden one, my prince. The riverbed dried almost to its stones before sunrise. Whatever is feeding the corruption, it’s drawing life away faster than we can replenish it."

From the side, Levan could feel his brother’s quiet scrutiny. But he ignored the stillness for now and said to the Captain, "You mean to tell me the Blithe has begun feeding through the wards themselves?"

Harken hesitated, uncertain how to define the uncanny phenomenon. "It appears so, though not directly. It’s as if the energy itself has shifted, feeding from something deeper than the outer corruption."

"Have the wardens begun reconstruction?"

"Yes. But the material we need to rebuild the runic lattice is scarce. We’ll need to send for more from the southern vaults."

"Do it," Levan said curtly. "And have the Warden-Marshal survey the perimeter before sunset. If the corruption reaches the aqueduct, we’ll lose more than crops."

Harken bowed low. "Understood, Your Highness."

Levan’s gaze lingered on the Captain for a moment longer before he spoke again, noticing the uncomfortable way his body was shifting. "Was there anything else?"

Harken’s eyes darkened, then he finally nodded. "There is."

He darted a glance toward the silent figure beside the railing, the one who had yet to utter a word, noticing the weird air of calm surrounding him. Clearing his throat, he said carefully to the crown prince, "It concerns the matter of Marianne Lamont and Helena Rutherford."

Levan’s expression did not change, but the faintest pause in the air betrayed his attention. "Go on."

"The investigation reached its conclusion this morning," Harken informed quietly. "The death was indeed a suicide."

The courtyard fell still. Even the wind seemed to hesitate between the arches.

Levan’s gaze sharpened faintly, though his tone remained composed. He was certain there was more to it than mere suicide. "You’re certain?"

"Yes, Your Highness. We recovered her belongings from the old church where she used to serve. The sisters said she had kept a diary hidden, likely for years. It dates back to five winters ago."

He exhaled, steadying himself before continuing. "Most of the entries were ordinary at first, about chores, sermons, the orphans she tended to. But as the pages went on, she started writing about her aunt."

"What did she wrote?"

"Words that conveyed her regret and guilt. It was... obsessive, almost. She believed her aunt’s misfortune was her fault. She wrote that she ’didn’t deserve the mercy she was given,’ and that the voices she heard at night were reminders of what she’d done."

Harken’s tone dimmed. "The last entries grew erratic. Words crossed out, sentences written over each other. But the final page..." He bristled, as if recalling it brought unease. "She wrote, ’Forgive me for choosing silence over penance.’ The ink was smeared as if she’d been crying when she wrote it."

Levan said nothing for a long moment. His stare was distant and unreadable, like he was caught somewhere between calculation and something quieter.

"Five years ago," he murmured at last. "That was before her transfer to the northern ward, and before her aunt’s first affliction."

"Yes. It appears she carried her guilt with her even after the reassignment. The sisters said she’d stopped attending morning prayers at some point. They thought she was ill. But no one reported it, fearing she would be removed from service if they spoke."

Levan hummed faintly, though there was no approval in it. Only a hollow acknowledgment like he had expected it to bend in disappointment. "Convenient, how silence becomes mercy in this place."

For a moment, his gaze drifted past the captain, to the faint lines of the courtyard beyond and the pale gleam of the wardstone embedded in the far wall. A diary buried for years. A woman dead by her own hand. A church showing traces of corruption... all separated, yet orbiting the same rot.

He could almost see the threads aligning. Either someone was manipulating the Blithe’s reach, or the Blithe itself had begun to choose.

But could it?

The Blithe was a corruption of the world, not intent. For it to choose meant it had learned. For it to learn meant it was no longer merely corruption, but something evolving. The thought was absurd, yet the possibility lingered like a chill at the back of his neck.

He turned back to Harken. "What of the church itself?"

"The structure is still warded, but the grounds show residual traces of corruption," Harken replied. "Old and faint, possibly drawn there from her. It’s hard to tell how much she was affected before the act itself."

Levan nodded slowly, eyes lowering to the marble floor. He had no choice but to close the case, another death written off as both murder and suicide. Just another victim of the Blithe again, like it was not something dire anymore. His jaw clenched at the thought.

"Send the diary to the archives," he said finally. "And prepare new accommodations for the members of the church. Seal the building before we claim any more victims."

"Yes, Your Highness." Harken bowed deeply and stepped back, leaving the two princes beneath the pale gleam that washed the courtyard in muted gold.

For a long time, silence lingered between them. The wind bore the distant chime of a bell, hollow and steady, its sound unraveling into the breath of the breeze. The tension was so thick it could cut through the air, but none of them moved.

Neven was the first to break the silence. "You’ve grown rather fond of handling what isn’t yours to command," he said mildly, his voice low and even almost bored, but carrying a weight that made the air colder.

Levan did not turn to face him. "The wards fall under my jurisdiction when the northern boundary is involved."

"That boundary," Neven murmured, his gaze drifting toward the horizon, "was built under the Northern Lord’s name. You seem to forget which bloodline sealed it first."

Levan swept his gaze towards his brother, assessing the way he stood there like he had just reclaimed something sacred. He said, "And I am the one keeping it from collapsing now. Forgive me if I choose not to let history decide who dies next."

A faint, humourless smile curved Neven’s lips. "Ever dutiful. You always did enjoy wearing the weight of the world on your shoulders like it would make the crown any lighter."

"At least one of us remembers what duty feels like."

The wind stirred again, tugging at Neven’s robe, scattering ash from the braziers nearby. His eyes, pale and unreadable, caught the fractured daylight as he tilted his head, smiling without mirth. "Careful, brother. Duty has a way of devouring the ones who mistake it for purpose."

"And indifference," Levan countered, looking at him like he was not having the conversation, "has a way of doing worse."

Neven’s expression barely shifted, but the faintest curl of disdain tugged at his lips. "And here I thought you were better than the King," he said softly, almost idly.

"Turns out you only learned how to mimic his righteousness, not escape it. Tell me, brother, does it comfort you to think your mercy makes you different? Because from where I stand, it only makes you slower to admit what needs to be done."

Levan’s eyes flickered, knowing damn well what he was talking about; what he should have done, but he said nothing.

Neven stepped closer, the light glancing off his collar pin, eyes sharp as glass. "You wear that calm like armour, but you’re just like him. Pretending to save what you’re too afraid to break. And in the end, both of you will call it duty when it’s really just cowardice."

Neven’s gaze lingered, studying him. "You’re trembling at the edge of something you can’t control, younger brother. You just don’t realize it yet."

The younger prince’s composure did not waver, though his voice dropped colder when he spoke, "Then pray I don’t learn it the way you did."

There was a long pause between them. The space that stretched from one heartbeat to the next felt like a chasm, the kind carved not by time, but by what time had failed to mend.

Ever since the day Levan was named crown prince, their conversations had withered into this brief, sharp exchanges that began in civility and ended in quiet hostility. They no longer spoke like brothers, nor even rivals, only two men orbiting the same throne, bound by blood and divided by everything else.

Every word between them seemed to bruise something old. And every silence felt heavier than the last.

Neven’s smile faded completely, the faint curve of his lips dissolving into something harder. His gaze, once distant, sharpened with quiet finality as he took a step back. The air around him seemed to still, as though even the wind knew to keep its distance.

And with that, he turned, the hem of his robe whispering against the stone as he walked toward the archway, vanishing into the light that bled from the corridor. Levan stood alone for a while longer, staring at the space his brother left behind.

The wind carried the faint scent of ash and salt, and beneath it, the unshakable weight of things left unsaid.