Charles and Shane stopped beneath a crooked tree some distance from camp.
It stood alone where the desert began to loosen into rough ground, its branches thin and stubborn against the warm breeze. Behind them, the campfires glowed like small red eyes. The voices of the soldiers had faded into a low murmur.
Shane stopped first.
"What?" he asked.
The word was short, impatient, and cold.
Charles stood a few steps behind him, armor's cloak shifting gently in the wind. His face remained composed, but his silence lasted too long to be casual.
"Do you truly hate me that much?" Charles asked.
Shane turned halfway, his expression flat. "You brought me out here to ask something you already know?"
Charles caught a falling dried leaf.
"Still impatient as always." Then drop the leaf to the ground.
"And you knew why." Shane gave a quiet, humorless breath. "When I look at you, I see the person I hate most."
Charles did not flinch.
Only his hand moved, fingers curling slightly before relaxing.
"I know," he said.
For a moment, the wind filled the space between them.
Then Charles' gaze softened, almost against his will.
"When I look at you," he said, "I am reminded of the person I loved most."
Shane's expression tightened.
Charles looked at his brother's face—the same blood, the same shape of eyes, yet carrying an entirely different wound.
"Fate is cruel," Charles continued quietly. "We were born twins, yet I did not inherit Mother's face."
Shane stared at him.
Then his mouth curved with bitter amusement.
"With your temperament and attitude?" Shane said. "Father's face suits you better."
Charles' eyes cooled again. "Is that so?"
"You would ruin Mother's image if you had her face."
Charles gave a soft, dry breath. "As if you have preserved it."
Shane's smile faded.
For a moment, they stood beneath the tree with years of resentment between them, old enough to feel like another person.
Charles spoke first.
"Stop provoking the devil, Shane."
Shane's eyes narrowed. "That is vague, even for you."
"You know who I mean."
"The Warhogs?"
Charles' silence answered.
Shane turned fully toward him now. "Did Eason order you to say this?"
"No," Charles said. "This was my decision."
Shane raised a brow. "That is new."
Charles stepped closer, his tone controlled but heavy. "The Warhogs are dangerous. Not merely through wealth, influence, or political reach. The Duke is dangerous because power gathers around him and remains there."
Shane folded his arms. "You mean the Shadow of Hallosbel."
Charles' gaze sharpened. "You know of it."
"I do," Shane said. "An old monster bound to no bloodline, no family affection, no sentimental oath. His loyalty is not to the Warhog's name. Nor De Vedre's."
He paused, and his smile returned, dark and thin.
"Only to the title of Duke."
"If you know that," Charles said, "then why continue?"
Shane looked toward the dark horizon.
"Because Sebas already taught me the method."
Charles' face hardened.
Shane's voice lowered. "He purged the De Vedres by stripping them piece by piece until their name could no longer protect them. I only need to do the same."
"Shane—"
"I will strip him of the title," Shane said. "Then I will kill him with my own hands."
Charles stared at him. "That is not a plan. It is a lifetime of poison."
"Good," Shane replied. "I have my whole life."
Charles' restraint cracked slightly. "And what remains after revenge?"
Shane did not answer at once.
His gaze drifted back toward the camp, toward the distant fires and the men preparing for tomorrow.
Then he said, "Silence."
Charles' expression tightened. "That is all you want?"
"That is more than I have now."
The answer was quiet, but it struck harder than shouting.
Charles lowered his gaze. "Father died in duty. He died for what he believed in. Mother died from illness."
"No," Shane said sharply.
Charles looked up.
"Mother died from loneliness," Shane said. "Sebas Warhog led Father to death and left Mother to drown in grief."
"Father didn't die because of the battle...he perished because of the Duke's pride," he continued. "He deprived our father of treatment...because his damn dog lost."
His eyes grew colder.
"And you were not there when she needed you."
Charles stood very still.
The accusation landed where armor could not protect him.
"I know," he said.
His voice was quieter now.
"I have regretted it every day. I regret not seeing her one last time. I regret arriving too late. I regret standing in that room after her warmth had already left it."
For a brief moment, Shane's face shifted.
The anger did not vanish, but something beneath it stirred.
Grief, perhaps.
Then it was gone.
Charles lifted his head again. "But regret does not justify destroying yourself."
Shane's mouth curved faintly. "You call it destruction because you are afraid."
"I call it destruction because I know what waits at the end of it."
"You chose your enemy," Shane said. "The monster that wounded Father. Tomorrow, I will help you kill it."
Charles said nothing.
Shane stepped closer.
"Can you do the same for me?" he asked. "For Mother and Father?"
Charles closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them, the answer was already there.
"No."
Shane's expression went still.
Charles continued, voice low. "I will not help you walk into that abyss."
Shane let out a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it.
"Coward."
Charles' jaw tightened.
"If refusing to lose my brother to revenge makes me a coward, then call me one."
Shane studied him for a long moment.
Then he turned away.
He walked several steps before stopping beneath the edge of the tree's shadow.
"Tomorrow," he said without looking back, "I will still help you achieve your goal."
Charles remained silent.
Shane looked over his shoulder.
"After that, I will ask again."
His voice softened, but only slightly.
"Not as an ally. Not as a noble. As your brother."
The wind moved through the thin branches above them.
"For Mother and Father," Shane said. "I hope you will support me."
Then he walked away, leaving Charles alone beneath the crooked tree, with the campfires burning behind him and the old grief standing beside him like a ghost.