THOUGH THE LISIANTHUS garden had never grown back after being burned, Ladislas still went to sit in its charred midst when he longed to be alone. It was absolutely torturous to see burnt petals crumbling whenever the breeze was strong enough to sweep them away, but sometimes he craved the torture that such a sight enkindled.

       Ofttimes, he thought about how easy it would be for someone to find him sitting alone in the garden and slit his throat, skewer his heart or steal his soul. He was not afraid of such an occurrence; in fact, he welcomed the possibility more than he should have, considering he would likely be condemned to Hell if everything he'd ever heard was true.

As he became more and more lost in his thoughts, the clouds shifted and allowed sunlight to pour over him. The flowers were not the only things that had burned—the foliage of the trees was gone as well, leaving the prince without shade. He looked up at the charcoal branches sadly until he felt a fluttering sensation against the back of his hand.

He looked down to see that yet again, a butterfly had landed on him. He kept very still so as not to disturb it or damage its fragile wings—and for a moment, he wished to be a butterfly instead. Instead of this.

       This abomination of a man who wallowed in self-pity.

       This unloved sinner.

       If he told anyone what he was and who he lusted after, he would lose everything. His father would want him executed. His mother would be disappointed in him. His brothers would be disgusted by him. The triplets—once they grew up in this wretched world and were moulded into people who could think for themselves—wouldn't accept him. Not even Thaddeus, who had fled after their kiss, had been able to accept him.

Following this thought, the butterfly perched upon his palm flew away and took his heart with it.

       He was utterly alone.

It was not often that he felt this way. The dead lisianthus garden did this to him, provoked these thoughts and made his mind become dizzy with despondency. It might've been the tantalizing smell of smoke from the red flames that still lingered, along with an odd sweetness that almost pulled his eyelids down.

The red flames...

       Ladislas shot to his feet, swayed and nearly collapsed from exhaustion and delirium. Suddenly, it made sense. Something evil remained in this garden from months prior, when it had been burned. Whatever it was dulled his senses and made him think terrible thoughts. It was in the air, in each of his inhalations, caught between the blackened tree trunks and beneath the blanket of petals turned to dust.

       He knew he needed to leave.

       His knees wobbled as he stumbled away from the garden, taking a breath of fresher air only when he was far from his charred oasis. Almost instantaneously, his crestfallen demeanour faded away. He gazed up at the sky, only to see that the sun was beginning to set. Heading for the palace, his eyes remained locked on the forming moon until he could no longer see it.

       When he entered the dining hall, his father was the first person he saw. It was undeniable that King Warrenus had a grandiose presence that had not been inherited by any of his children thus far. He was not a handsome man, nor was he particularly tall. He merely possessed an aura of regality.

       The prince squinted as he approached and saw that Ixidor and Raolet were standing before the king. Upon entering, he could sense from the tension in his brothers' stances that something was wrong. When Ladislas's eyes flitted towards the subject of their attention, he saw Queen Roswina standing on the king's right—and Milady de Nova on his left.

His stomach dropped, feeling as though it were plummeting through the marble floor.

       Nevertheless, he bowed before his king.

"Ah, son, you've arrived just in time," drawled King Warrenus, his face remaining as stoic as ever. He barely looked at Ladislas as the boy moved to stand beside Ixidor. "I was about to send someone to get you. There is something of import that we must discuss."

       Ladislas's heart contorted as he looked at his brothers for some sign of reassurance.

       None came. They appeared to be just as terrified as he was.

       "Yes, my lord?" the queen said eloquently, turning to face her husband. The display of tranquility on her face—which he knew must have been a mere façade—surprised Ladislas. As did her steady voice, the undertone of curiosity hidden in her words. "What might that be?"

       Then he saw it: the look the king gave his mother. It was a look of absolute disdain, disgust—hatred, even. It was all conveyed through a contemptuous smile, but Ladislas knew his father well enough to know what it meant. A shiver ran through the prince's spine again, just as it had the last time he'd set eyes on Milady de Nova. He turned to look at her; a smirk had broken across her face. One that she made no attempt to hide.

       "There is treason in our midst," King Warrenus said, a nefarious grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. He did not look away from his queen.

       Ladislas's hands clenched into fists at his sides. He couldn't bear to tear his eyes away, even though he already knew what it was. He could feel his heart jump to his throat; blood rushed through him at such a quick pace that his own veins, bulging from his neck, threatened to choke him.

       The king had to have found out about the queen hiring a spy without his knowledge.

       The muscles in Roswina's throat visibly clenched as she swallowed nervously. Still, her tone remained as calm as ever. "Treason, my lord? Committed by whom?"

       Warrenus was silent, but it was an eerie and unsavoury silence. He took a step forward, then another, until he was in front of his three sons. His back was to the queen and the mistress. He pressed his lips together and the colour left them. "Did you know," he began, dragging the words out purposefully, "that your mother is a whore?"

Ladislas froze.

       Raolet glared.

       Roswina sucked in a sharp breath.

       But it was Ixidor who had the valiance to step up to their father. Ixidor, whose shoulders shook with anger. Ixidor, who spoke with such force that his words resounded throughout the hall with the echo of a threat. "Don't you dare talk about my mother that way, you filthy coward," he snapped. "She has never been anything but loyal to you, even when you're parading around with a bitch for a mistress—one who should've died seven years ago. If anything, you should be the one pegged as a whore."

There was a part of Ladislas that wanted to reach out to his brother, yank him back and tell him to keep his mouth shut so as not to provoke King Warrenus; but he couldn't move. He was frozen in place and found himself wishing with all of his heart that he could have his brother's courage to defend their mother.

Warrenus simply laughed in response to his son's insults, as though they had not affected him in the slightest. "Oh, Ixidor, it certainly is a good thing you weren't the first born. You never did have what it takes to be king. With your demeanour—your mouth—you might've been killed."

       "Was that a threat?" Ixidor shot back. He leered at Warrenus, fearlessly stepping so close to him that armed guards were suddenly flanking him.

       Then, he did something so outrageous that it elicited gasps from everyone in the room: he spat in the king's face.

       It all happened in the blink of an eye. Three guards held Ixidor back, grabbing him by the forearms as he struggled against their iron grips. Roswina surged forward, commanding the guards to let him go—but it was useless, for it was not she they answered to.

       "My lord!" Milady de Nova cried out dramatically as she rushed to the king's side and handed her lover a handkerchief to wipe his face with.

       As Warrenus did so, he spoke directly to the guards. "Beat him. Beat him right here, in front of his brothers, for they must see what is done to those who do not behave themselves."

       "No!" Roswina screamed shrilly, trying to snake her way between her son and the men holding him.

       But more guards appeared, seeming to melt right out of the shadows. They held Roswina, Ladislas and Raolet back so that all they could do was watch as Ixidor took strike after strike to the face, the stomach and the chest. He began bleeding from somewhere on his face, but Ladislas could not tell where because his eyes had filled with tears. The youngest boy gritted his teeth, struggled harder to escape. Beside him, he could feel Raolet doing the same.

It was Roswina's voice that pierced the air.

The king strode towards her as the merciless beating continued. Ladislas's entire body trembled. He couldn't breathe.

He couldn't breathe.

Then, without warning, Warrenus seized Roswina by the throat and closed his hand over it. "ADMIT THAT YOU'VE SLEPT WITH THE GUARD MATHEUS AND I WILL LET OUR SON GO!" he bellowed, his face nearing her paling one. "ADMIT WHAT I ALREADY KNOW TO BE TRUE! ADMIT TO BEING A TREASONOUS SLUT!"

"I—slept with—him—" Queen Roswina choked out without hesitation, her cheeks now turning purple with the struggle to breathe.

       For a moment, the king's grip did not waver.

       Then he released her. She inhaled once; when she exhaled, a strangled sob escaped her parted lips.

       "That's enough," the king called to the guards, who ceased their assault of the prince. Ladislas watched in horror as Ixidor, bruised and bloodied, struggled to remain standing. "You have a new duty. Find the guard by the name of Matheus. He is to be broken upon the wheel. His bones are to be shattered—his arms, then his legs, then his back. He is to suffer long before he dies."

       Half of the guards in the room left, with the exception of two detaining Roswina, one holding Ixidor upright and three more keeping Ladislas and Raolet in check.

Roswina screamed again and sobbed harder, her chest heaving through the corset she wore.

Seeing his mother and brother in pain hurt Ladislas more than anything else.

"And she," the king began, turning again to the queen, ponderation swimming in his eyes, "will be dealt with appropriately by me." Once more, his face loomed close to hers. "Did you love him, Roswina?" he hissed mockingly.

"With every breath," she ground out through gritted teeth. Resilient with every fibre.

"Hm," he hummed in response, clearly attempting to mask the surprise at her blunt response. "What a pity you won't be able to see him again. Or perhaps—perhaps you will."

This time, when his fingers wrapped around her neck, they did not slacken. She sputtered and choked over and over again. As the light left her glazed green eyes, she looked over at her sons. She died in the arms of guards, with her husband's hands in a place he should've kissed instead.

       Everything else became a blur.

Ladislas could hear screaming, but he didn't know where it was coming from, nor did he care. All that mattered was Roswina, his caring mother, who had loved too deeply and lost too much. All that mattered was that he would never feel her hug again, never press his lips to her cheek, never even have the chance to tell her that he had fallen in love. The triplets would never know their mother, and she would never know them.

       He wanted to fall to the ground, to die with her, because he did not blame her for sleeping with Matheus. In fact, he was grateful that someone had been able to give her the love that she deserved.

       In that moment, he had never hated someone as deeply as he hated the king for taking something so precious from him. Through the despair he felt, there was also a spark of rage.

"RAOLET!"

Ladislas snapped out of his delirious daze, glanced in Ixidor's direction and realized what he had done: from the belt of the guard restraining him, he had drawn a sword. Not having the strength to use it himself, he threw it into the air. Raolet reached up and caught it clumsily by the hilt. The king didn't have time to reach a weapon. As the oldest prince, the heir to the throne, swung the sword, it sliced through the air—and then through Milady de Nova's neck.

Her head tumbled to the ground and hit the marble floor with an ominous and hollow sound, but Raolet was not finished. It only took one additional second for him to take aim and throw the sword with expert precision and in such a way that it could not be blocked.

The blade found its mark in King Warrenus's stomach.

       "I suppose it was a horrible idea to teach your sons how to handle a sword, Warrenus!" Raolet roared.

By that time, there were only two guards remaining in the room. Though Ladislas was dizzy and could not recall how, Raolet had somehow fought the others off. The two guards both rushed to the king's side to ensure that he was alive, but the three princes had no time to waste. They had no time to cry, no time to look back at the corpse of their dead mother, no time to see if Raolet had succeeded in murdering the King of Naryllitsa.

They ran.

With the oldest brother leading them, they ran as fast as their legs—weakened with fright and sorrow—could carry them. The princes stormed through corridor after corridor, up staircase after staircase, until they reached the queen's bed chambers. The governesses were there, but the three brothers disregarded them and headed for the infants that lay their cribs.

Their goal was evident: they needed to leave the palace immediately. Each picked up a child—Ixidor did so with a groan due to his bruised ribs. Just how he was able to keep fighting when his body and face were so damaged was a mystery, but he somehow found the strength.

       Ladislas looked down at his arms to see that he was holding the triplet swathed in burgundy—Kharmion.

       Raolet lingered in the bed chambers for a moment while Ixidor and Ladislas rushed to the door and the governesses, who knew not of the events that had just transpired, glared at them in outrage and inquisition.

       "Raolet, we must go!" Ladislas ordered, impatience colouring his words as they left quivering notes in the air.

       But the oldest boy darted across the room, reached for a painting on the wall and grabbed it with his free hand. It was the painting Ladislas had made of Lysanios, Iristain and Orithyia.

       It was then that Ladislas remembered the other paintings he'd created, depicting his own sinful desires, and he was soon running down the hallways towards his own bedroom to retrieve them. He could hear his brothers protesting and calling after him, but he ignored them and dashed onwards. He threw the door of his room open and dove underneath his bed, pulling out the stack of canvases and balancing them on his own free arm.

"LADISLAS, WHAT COULD POSSIBLY BE SO IMPORTANT—"

"SHUT UP, IXIDOR, SHUT UP!"

Ladislas instantly felt guilty for snapping at his brother when he looked at his swollen, bloody face, but neither Ixidor nor Raolet would understand, and it was all too much. He now had tears streaming down his face, and a part of him wanted to collapse right there and let the king do his worst; but he had promised Roswina.

Promised to protect the triplets.

Always.

Thundering through the palace, the princes manoeuvred through only the corridors they found to be empty. When, at last, they had left the confines of the castle and felt the sting of cool night air upon their skin, Ixidor bolted for the stables and the other two followed. Though he was limping, he surged forward and kept his arms wound tightly and protectively around the baby he was holding.

It was dark. Not a single shred of light fell upon them; for that, they were grateful. They pulled themselves onto the first horses they found, ignored the protests of the stablehand and rode off at top speed.

Every bit of their lives, with the exception of each other, had been left behind.

Ladislas continuously turned back to see if they were being followed, but they were not—and, oddly enough, despite the hammering of his heart and the quivering of his limbs, it was an otherwise calm night. It was like any other. The sky—as it always did—showed the stars, for even their wretched kingdom's downfall was not powerful or significant enough to be reflected by the galaxy.

Though they knew the horses would tire fast, the princes could not yet risk slowing their gallops, even as they reached a river. Instead, they urged the horses to leap over it. As his own horse was doing so, Ladislas allowed the stack of paintings in his arms to fall into the rushing water. Tears still prickling his eyes and slipping freely down his cheeks, he turned back to watch the current carry his masterpieces away.

He hoped they would all be destroyed and that no one but he would ever be able to lay eyes on them. He had gazed unto them, crafted them lovingly and poured his heart into their creation. That was all he'd really needed.

Throughout all of the turmoil, the babies didn't cry. However, though they remained as silent and acquiescent as ever, Ladislas could feel Kharmion squirming in his arms—as if she knew.

Perhaps she did.

Perhaps all three did.