Chapter 3
890 Words
The role of protector was never intended for Valentine Morne.
That role had been carved into Caelum's name before either of them could walk. The firstborn. The heir. The light of House Morne. The boy who recited incantations before he could read. The boy who sat at their father's right hand during councils and training sessions. Even when he did, the boy was incapable of doing anything wrong.
Valentine, on the other hand, was the other one.
The loud one. The reckless one. The one who climbed the manor roof at ten and tried to ride a wyvern at twelve. It was he who, when his powers first appeared, burned the east orchard because he could.
"You must learn control," his father growled that day.
Caelum smirked beside him and whispered, "You must learn to matter."
It had always been like that.
Caelum in the daylight, Valentine in the shadows.
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But the only person who had ever looked at Valentine like he was enough was their mother.
Drusilla Morne was not like other noblewomen. With its roots in protection, blood oaths, and moon rituals whispered in the women's wing of the house, her magic was older and softer. She used to sing to Valentine when he couldn't sleep, tracing sigils on his chest with lavender oil.
"You're not a mistake," she once told him. "You're the storm they fear. One day, you'll see."
He never forgot that.
Not even when Caelum told him the opposite every chance he got.
"You're weak," Caelum said once, just the two of them in the training hall. "All brawn, no brain. No discipline. That's why he'll never choose you."
Valentine gritted his teeth. "Keep talking. One day you'll do it in front of Father."
Caelum smiled, that practiced smile that fooled everyone but Valentine. "Why would I? You make yourself look like a fool without any help."
But in front of their father, Caelum changed.
He'd pat Valentine's shoulder and say things like, "Val's got a good heart, Father. A little wild, but he means well."
He would sit beside him at feasts and raise a toast in his name.
Always a show. Always an act.
And the worst part?
Everyone believed it.
Valentine defeated a war mage from the Order of Brass in a duel in the Capital when he was sixteen years old, knocking the opponent out cold in the process.
His father said nothing.
Caelum said, "Impressive." But his eyes said, It should've been me.
Now, even after years later, Valentine still carried that wound.
And it throbbed the night he overheard their father say:
"The throne cannot be given by birthright alone. I've watched Valentine. The boy has fire. Controlled, at last. He may be the one."
He wasn't supposed to hear that. But he did.
And so did Caelum.
Caelum Morne stood in the shadows of the war room, still as stone, the firelight casting jagged lines across his face. The words echoed in his skull like a hammer striking bone.
"Valentine may be the one."
His father's voice—firm, final.
Caelum gripped the stone column so tightly his knuckles cracked.
Valentine?
The reckless, impulsive, hot-headed second son? The one who disobeyed orders and acted on instinct like a wild beast in a fine coat?
The Morne name, polished, exact, flawless, had been like armour on his back all his life. He wore the family's expectations like a crown of thorns and called it destiny.
He was the Aragorn.
He earned it.
He'd mastered blood sigils by thirteen, tamed his first demon at fifteen, and negotiated with kings before his voice even deepened. While Valentine had been busy getting drunk in village taverns and bedding blacksmiths' daughters, Caelum had been kneeling beside their father, learning how to lead.
And still... it wasn't enough.
He stared into the fire, jaw clenched, chest burning.
His father had been grooming him for this since birth. At least, he thought he had. Every ceremony, instruction, and discourse pertaining to "legacy" and "lineage" was intended for him. For the firstborn. For the one who bled discipline and breathed loyalty.
But suddenly, it wasn't about loyalty. It was about fire.
And his rebellious, unruly brother, Valentine, was full of it.
Chaotic magic. Raw power. And now, apparently, a future.
Caelum whispered to the flames, "You'll give it to him... after everything I've done?"
He thought of the backroom dealings. The rituals he wasn't supposed to perform. The secrets he buried to protect their name. The compromises. The sacrifices.
Every time Valentine did something foolish but magnificent, he had smiled despite the years of praise slipping through his fingers, the jealousy, and the bitterness.
Father always forgave him. But Caelum was expected to be perfect.
A tremor passed through his hand. Not of fear. Of fury.
He could not let this happen. He would not.
Valentine was a spark. Uncontrolled. Dangerous. And he had no business wearing a title built on order.
The protector wasn't supposed to feel more.
He was supposed to command more.
And Caelum would ensure that never changed.
He turned away from the fire.
By dawn, the plan had formed.
A message would be sent in their father's name. A meeting arranged. One that only Valentine would attend.
And when he arrived...
He would be the one holding the blade.
- Writer
