Love never ends

Chapter Three

Ammon was the boy everyone expected to be kind, patient, and cautious—almost too perfect for the role he had been born into. From the moment he could walk, the palace tutors praised his gentle nature, calling it a rarity among heirs and rulers. He read scrolls beneath the shade of date palms in the outer gardens, always seated neatly with his legs crossed, absorbing lessons about diplomacy, ethics, and leadership with a quiet dedication that made the scholars adore him. He asked thoughtful questions, not to challenge authority, but because he genuinely wanted to understand how to be good, how to be fair, how to protect the people he would one day serve. Servants approached him without fear; children in the palace grounds flocked to him instinctively. And Cleo—wild, stubborn Cleo—had loved him from the moment he first smiled at her with that soft, unshakable warmth that made even her fiercest storms calm for a heartbeat. Still, for all his discipline and study, Ammon never treated Cleo as a burden or an obligation. He treated her as an equal even though the law said she would one day wear the crown. When she begged for sword lessons, it was Ammon who took her hands and taught her how to hold the blade without cutting herself. When she swung too wildly, he gently corrected her, placing his palms over hers, guiding her elbows into a stronger stance. He was steady, patient, and warm—as if he believed she was capable of anything so long as she had someone willing to teach her. Cleo laughed through half the lessons, often tripping over her own enthusiasm, but Ammon never lost his calm. He simply caught her by the wrists, steadying her, whispering encouragement that soothed her stubborn pride instead of challenging it. “You are stronger than you think,” Ammon told her one bright afternoon, the two of them barefoot in the training yard, the sand warm beneath their toes. Cleo’s hair was tied back messily, strands sticking to her temples as she panted from exertion. Ammon reached out to fix her grip again, his fingers brushing lightly over her knuckles. She looked up at him, eyes shining with defiance and admiration all at once. “And you,” Cleo announced proudly, planting her fists on her hips, “are too soft.” Too gentle to rule anyone.” Even as she teased, her voice lacked cruelty. It was simply the truth as she saw it—Ammon was gentle. Everyone knew it. Cleo knew it best. Ammon only smiled in that quiet, serene way that made her chest feel warm without her understanding why. He reached forward, brushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek, his fingertips lingering a heartbeat longer than they should have. “Gentleness,” he said softly, “is not weakness. It is strength that lasts longer than force.”

Cleo stared at him, caught between confusion and curiosity—between wanting to laugh and wanting to lean in closer to understand the subtle gravity of his words. At ten years old, she didn’t yet understand love. But she understood comfort, and Ammon had always felt like comfort. Like sunlight in winter. Like warm water after a long day. Like a promise she didn’t fully know she was keeping.

From the arena gates, Kamen watched them. His arms were crossed over his chest, the muscles in his jaw tight enough to ache. He leaned against the stone archway, half-hidden in shadow, looking like a carved statue—a figure of discipline and unyielding restraint. His lessons had taught him something very different than Ammon’s. Power was not soft. The power was not warm. Power demanded fear, demanded respect, demanded control. And Kamen, even as a child, learned to shape his emotions into cold steel. He was sharp where Ammon was gentle. He was silent where Ammon was kind. And yet, for reasons he struggled to understand, Cleo always ran to Ammon first. Kamen hated sword lessons—not because he disliked fighting, but because that was the one place where Cleo looked at Ammon differently. She listened to him. She trusted him. She glowed beneath his praise. Rage and longing churned inside Kamen like a storm contained in too small a space. It wasn’t fair. Nothing about it felt fair. He loved Cleo—he knew it deep in his bones—but he had no idea how to express it without revealing the parts of himself he had been trained to hide. His language was sarcasm, impatience, and rare flashes of protectiveness he couldn’t fully stop. Ammon gave Cleo warmth. Kamen gave her walls. And every time Cleo leaned into Ammon’s gentle encouragement, it cut deeper than any blade. He watched the two of them laugh together, watched Cleo beam proudly when Ammon told her she had improved, watched the way Ammon’s hands steadied her shoulders with casual familiarity. Kamen’s chest burned—not with hatred for his brother, but with a suffocating sense of inadequacy. How could he compete with someone so effortlessly kind? How could he show Cleo he cared when every instinct in him was to keep his feelings hidden behind layers of discipline, pride, and biting remarks?

He didn’t know how to give softness.

He only knew how to give himself—fully, fiercely, and silently.

And in moments like this, he feared it would never be enough.

Kamen stepped closer to the training yard, the torchlight casting long shadows across the sand. Cleo noticed him first. Her face lit up instantly, though she tried to hide it by standing straighter, trying to look more impressive than she was. “Kamen!” she called, lifting the wooden practice sword above her head triumphantly. “Look! Ammon says," I’m getting better.”

Her smile—bright, wide, proud—hit him harder than any weapon ever had. Ammon turned as well, offering Kamen a nod of greeting, completely unaware of the emotional battlefield happening between them. “She’s a quick learner,” he said with brotherly pride. “She’ll surpass us both one day.” Kamen’s heart clenched. Of course, Ammon believed in her. Of course, he encouraged her. Of course, Cleo admired him for it. Kamen forced a smirk he didn’t feel. “She trips over her own feet every third step.”

Cleo gasped, scandalized. “I do not!” “You do,” he said flatly, though the corner of his mouth twitched with a suppressed laugh.

Ammon shot him a warning look, but Cleo was already stomping towards Kamen, jabbing her wooden sword at him in mock offense. “Say that again,” she dared, narrowing her eyes. “I bet I could beat you one day.” Kamen leaned down, meeting her fiery stare with a slow, dangerous smile—the kind only Cleo ever coaxed out of him. “When you can hit my knee without falling on your face,” he murmured, “I’ll start to worry.” Cleo threw her hands up dramatically. “You are impossible!”

She stormed away in exaggerated frustration, but she wasn’t furious. She was smiling, and Kamen saw it—even if she tried to hide it behind loud sighs. That smile, subtle and special, struck him like lightning. It was the kind of smile she never gave Ammon. It was just for him. But even that small victory didn’t chase away the fear tightening around his ribs.

Because deep down, Kamen knew one truth with painful clarity:

Ammon’s gentleness was precisely what made him dangerous. And Cleo loved it—not in the way of a queen choosing a husband, not yet, but in the way of a girl trusting the safest person she knew. Kamen had only silenced and suppressed the longing to offer her.

And as much as he tried to deny it, he feared that in the end…that would never be enough.