While Mikhael stood in the courtyard, gripping a grimoire he had earned by kneeling to the Duke, Lionel was already in the fields. He had earned nothing by kneeling, only beatings.

  The soil was stiff with frost, each breath a cold sting down his throat. He moved slowly, every step a reminder of the day before. The welts on his back had not scabbed yet. The shirt clung where it had bled through. The pain was sharpest in the morning, before the muscles remembered how to survive it.

  He had not cried when they woke him. Not anymore. He had no tears left to spare. They had not let him sleep much the night before. Every twist on the straw sent fire up his spine. When he closed his eyes, he heard the whip again. Not just the sound, but the voice. Mikhael's voice.

  "I am not your brother."

  The words echoed louder than the crack itself.

  He wanted to hate him. Gods, he tried. But he could not make sense of it. Mikhael had always protected him, starved for him, lied for him, even stood between him and their own father. What had changed? What had they done to him? Or had it always been a lie?

  A new taskmaster walked past, one Lionel had not seen before. He did not speak, just stared at Lionel's face like he was trying to decide whether this one was worth a name. Then he moved on.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Lionel went back to work. Digging. Hauling. Sorting. Every movement was a decision: breathe here, flinch there, do not cry out.

  The other fieldhands said nothing. But they noticed. One of them, an older man with ash-white stubble and a bent posture, passed Lionel a strip of cloth soaked in water when the taskmaster was not looking. Lionel took it without speaking. He did not trust kindness anymore. Not even silent kindness. Not when it could turn into cruelty the next day.

  Not when your own brother could become your punishment.

  He squeezed the cloth and dabbed it lightly down his collar, biting against the sting. The blood had dried too tight, and the skin beneath it felt split and raw.

  The woman beside him muttered without turning, "If you can move by tomorrow, you're better off than most."

  He did not answer. His own voice had become a stranger to him. He had not said a word since the whip. Not to the guards. Not to the others. Not even in sleep.

  But in his head, Lionel still spoke. A storm of questions, spinning and useless.

  "Why did you do it, Mikhael? Was it real? All those years? Were you ever my brother? Was it just easier to hurt me than protect me?"

  A part of him wanted to believe it was a lie. A trick. That Mikhael had whispered an apology after. That it had all been for show.

  But Mikhael had never looked back. He had just walked away.

  Lionel pulled another root from the frozen ground, teeth clenched. The sun was barely above the trees. He had a full day ahead.

  And no more illusions left to lose.