Before He Became My Enemy

Cyren and I were not born brothers.

My father found him in the snow.

That was the family story.

The old general had gone hunting in the northern woods and returned with a half-frozen child wrapped in his cloak.

The boy had been abandoned near a shrine, dressed in rags, crying so loudly even wolves kept their distance.

My father said only a child with that much lung power deserved to live.

He named him Cyren.

“Cyren Vale,” Father said. “Your brother now.”

I was seven.

I remember grabbing Cyren by the collar the moment Father set him down.

He stared at me with huge frightened eyes.

A white rabbit brought into a wolf house.

I studied him for a long time.

Then I grinned.

“Good,” I said. “Now I have someone to share sweets with.”

From that day, I gave him half of everything.

Half my cakes.

Half my toys.

Half the blame whenever Father caught us sneaking out.

Cyren could not fight.

Father tried to teach him swordwork, but the blade wobbled in his hands. He bruised easily and hated the sound of steel.

But he could read a battle map at eight.

At ten, he beat Father’s captains in strategy games.

At twelve, he argued state policy with visiting scholars and left them sweating.

I had the sword.

He had the mind.

People called us the Twin Stars of Valdoria.

Father laughed whenever he heard it.

Pride made him look ten years younger.

He did not live to see what his twin stars became.

When I was seventeen, Father died in an ambush.

Cyren and I had waited outside the city gates for his return.

Instead, we saw white funeral banners.

I collapsed.

When I woke, Cyren was gone.

They told me he had knelt before the king for an entire day and night, begging for troops to avenge Father.

No one in court dared speak.

No general wanted to march.

I found him still kneeling, face bloodless, back straight.

I ordered servants to take him away and knelt in his place.

The young king came out furious.

“You too, Aeron? Are you here to force me?”

He threw a blank royal order at my feet.

“Fine. Tell me who you want to send. I’ll write the name.”

I looked at the empty space on the parchment.

Then I said,

“Me.”

Silence.

“Your Majesty,” I continued, “let me take command.”

The king stared.

I was seventeen.

Too young.

Too angry.

Too much my father’s son.

But the army needed a Greyvale.

So he wrote my name.

I left before Cyren woke.

With one thousand soldiers, I raided the enemy supply lines, burned their night camp, and killed the commander who had ordered my father’s death.

At dawn, I knelt in mud and blood, unable to tell which belonged to whom.

I thought I was dying.

Then Cyren found me.

His face was white with terror.

He dropped to his knees and caught me before I fell.

“Brother,” he choked.

I tried to push him away.

“I’m dirty.”

He held me tighter.

“I don’t care.”

Back then, Cyren never cared if I was covered in blood.

Back then, he touched me like I was precious, not shameful.

I looked at him sitting outside my cell now, his face turned away from my corpse, and wondered when blood had become too much for him.