Love never ends

Chapter two

Cleo grew quickly, so quickly it sometimes felt as though the palace itself could barely keep up with her. One year she was small enough to hide beneath banquet tables and vanish behind the layered skirts of the queen, but before anyone had time to blink, she became a whirlwind of energy and sunlight bursting through every marble corridor the palace had to offer. Servants learned to listen for her before they saw her—that sharp, bright laugh bouncing off the stone walls like a bird in flight, the slap-slap of her sandals against the polished floors, the soft rustle of her skirts trailing behind her. She was a constant streak of motion, a living spark that refused to be dimmed, and no amount of royal training seemed able to slow her down. Even the guards, who prided themselves on discipline, could not hide their smiles when she zipped past them for the third time in the morning, weaving through their ranks like a comet brushing close to earth. Ammon tried to keep up with her, always. He chased after her with the determination of someone who could not bear to disappoint her, even when his breath began to hitch and his legs protested the pace. He was gentle by nature, thoughtful in a way that seemed rare for young boys, and though he was only a year older than Cleo, he carried a sense of responsibility that made every one of her wild sprints feel like a challenge he had to meet. His arms would flail slightly as he ran, his curls bouncing with every step, and though he was always a few strides behind her, he never stopped trying. “You must wait for me!” he called one afternoon, voice cracking with a mixture of frustration and breathlessness as he rounded a corner and nearly collided with a pillar. Cleo spun around mid-run, her hair fanning out behind her like a halo touched by the sun. “Why?” she laughed, hands on her hips in triumph. “I outrun everyone anyway!” She was radiant at that moment—untamable, unashamedly proud, and utterly free—and the sight of her in motion, face flushed with excitement, seemed to brighten the entire hallway. Kamen followed several paces behind them, though not because he was winded or unable to keep up. While they dashed ahead, all chaos and laughter, he walked with a deliberate slowness, his steps measured, his spine straight, his expression carved into the Stoic calm he was already being trained to master. His dark eyes stayed locked on Cleo no matter how wildly she moved, tracking every direction she darted, every twist of her skirt, every shift in her pace. He did not chase her. He never joined her. He watched. He observed. And deep inside his chest, beneath the layers of discipline he wore like armor, something heavy and complicated flared with every sound of her laughter. His lips twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. Even at eight years old, Kamen felt something he didn’t know how to name, something he didn’t dare acknowledge. It was a longing, sharp and painful, something knotted between fear and desire. He already knew what their roles meant. He already understood that one day, one boy would stand beside Cleo as her husband and her king, and the other would not. He understood it far earlier than Cleo, far earlier even than Ammon, and the awareness settled into him like a secret weight he had no idea how to carry. The idea of Cleo choosing anyone—Ammon or himself—filled him with an ache far bigger than a child should have known. And the fact that he cared so deeply, so silently, only made that ache throb harder. But Cleo was blissfully unaware of all of that. To her, life was a series of moments meant to be felt fully and loudly. She liked to climb, to explore, to touch things she shouldn’t. She liked to ignore royal tutors, dodge etiquette lessons, and slip out of the palace gardens to feel the cool morning dew between her toes before anyone woke. She liked to sit on balconies during rainstorms, her arms stretched wide like she wanted to gather the whole sky into her embrace. She liked to talk, endlessly, about everything and nothing. And Ammon—sweet, loyal Ammon—listened to it all. She confided in him the way the Nile confides in the riverbank, spilling pieces of herself without hesitation. She told him about the dreams she had, ones filled with sandstorms and giant cats and glowing crowns she didn’t feel ready to take. She whispered fears she didn’t dare speak to adults, fears about disappointing their mother, or not being strong enough, or the weight that everyone insisted she would carry one day. Ammon listened with wide, empathetic eyes, nodding along with each confession. He wasn’t good at giving advice yet, not with words, but he always responded with unwavering certainty. “You’ll be an amazing queen,” he told her once, sitting side by side atop a balcony overlooking the gardens. “How do you know?” she whispered, legs dangling as she pulled at the hem of her tunic. “Because you already make me brave,” he said, the words tumbling out in a soft rush. Cleo fell quiet, staring at him like she didn’t quite know what to do with something that sincere. Then, overwhelmed in that childlike way that didn’t yet understand the weight of affection, she bumped his shoulder lightly. “You’re weird,” she muttered, before hopping down and sprinting away again. Ammon scrambled after her. Kamen remained where he stood.

He watched.

He listened.

And jealousy coiled in his stomach like a snake waking up. Unlike Ammon, Kamen didn’t show emotion openly. He had learned too early that vulnerability made you predictable, and predictable people lost. But every laugh Cleo shared with Ammon, every secret she whispered into his brother’s ear, scraped against something inside Kamen he could not name. He didn’t know whether he wanted to scream, or to step closer, or to run far away from both of them. Instead, he did the only thing he knew—he buried every feeling deeper, pressing it into the shadows where no one could see it, not even himself. Sometimes Cleo caught a glimpse of something unreadable in Kamen’s gaze, a flicker of intensity that didn’t match his otherwise cold demeanor. Sometimes she sensed the tension between the brothers, though she didn’t understand it. She would tilt her head at them, confused by the way Ammon grew shy when she grabbed his hand, and how Kamen’s jaw clenched whenever Ammon made her laugh. But she shrugged it off. She was too young to understand the pressure building between them, too young to recognize that her very existence tied their futures together in a knot none of them would be able to untangle peacefully. The palace was full of rules—how a princess should speak, how she should sit, how she must behave at ceremonies, how she must not run, must not shout, must not stain her linen, must not question the future laid out before her. But Cleo’s spirit bent every rule placed in front of her. She climbed fig trees in the gardens even when she wasn’t allowed. She waded into the reflecting pool during hot afternoons, laughing as the guards pretended not to notice. She stole honeyed dates from the kitchens and left sticky fingerprints on her scrolls. She snuck into the stables to talk to the horses, insisting she could hear them talk back. Ammon encouraged her rebellions, his worry always trailing behind his excitement. “Cleo, slow down,” he’d whisper, or “If Mother finds out—!” But he followed her anyway, unable to resist her pull. Kamen never encouraged her, but he never truly stopped her either. Not unless she was in real danger. Then he stepped in without hesitation. He pulled her back from balconies that were too high. He caught her wrist when she reached for scorpions she thought were “cute.” He positioned himself between her and any risk, even when Cleo scowled at him for spoiling her fun. And though he never admitted it—not even to himself—every reckless thing she did tied him to her more tightly. Day by day, the dynamic between the three of them sharpened. Ammon’s admiration for Cleo grew like vines reaching for sunlight, soft and open and earnest. Kamen’s feelings simmered beneath his skin, unspoken and burning quietly, a heat he refused to acknowledge. Cleo lived in the center of their orbit, unaware of how their hearts had already turned toward her.

Years were passing.

Childhood would not last forever.

And one day—too soon, far sooner than any of them were prepared for—Cleo would be forced to choose between the brother who lifted her up like she was magic, and the brother who loved her with a silent, dangerous intensity that could topple kingdoms.