Harren slaughtered the kitchen servants out of boredom and pure hatred of his brother’s staff. He never had any say in their hirings or their duties, and he always hated that. He believed himself to be the king already, flooded with murderous thoughts for Godwin. He wanted the crown, and he was tired of pretending he didn’t.

  Young women hung on meat hooks in the place of pigs and boars, their blouses torn open at their chest, exposing them to the prince, in which he pleasured himself multiple times whilst waiting for King Godwin to make an appearance.

  Most the maidens were already dead, but some struggled for their lives, the hook pierced through their shoulder instead of the back of their neck. They pleaded with the prince, and he struck a bargain with them—pleasure for life. After each time the desperate women finished the prince onto the bottom of their blouses, he would cut their throat with the sickle attached to his stump and claim the death a tragic accident. The other servants saw this, yet they still took his offer, foolishly believing that they would be the lucky soul he decided the spare. He was never limp, only getting stiffer with each release. Not even the gods could explain how or why Harren could go that many times without fatigue.

  For the men, he divided them. Half of them he tortured through cruel methods—cooking them in fire; amputating their arms to make them match his stump; bashing their heads with stools; using forks and cleavers to slowly end their lives; some hung from the chandeliers above, impaled on the iron candlesticks; some were stuffed into cauldrons, their bodies broken just to fit; Harren’s favourite kill was a lad of fourteen, the youngest servant in the whole of Keep Blacksteel—he’d strung the boy up to the wall by his legs, using the boys torso as practice for knife-throwing. He’d carved his own name into the boy’s flesh and riddled every visible patch of skin with scratchings of the letter H.

  For the other half, he gave them a chance for freedom. He made each butcher knife blunt by smacking the edge into the rims of iron pots until they were sharp no more, then gave a challenge that made him laugh while explaining: a cock for your life. The servants would fight amongst each other with the goal of castration, the final man with his sausage intact would be granted mercy.

  But of course, Prince Harren’s word was worth less than horse shit. He separated the victor and killed the rest, feigning celebration for the winner before cutting the man from balls to throat with an upward slice of his godsteel weapon.

  “My brother thinks he can kill me,” Harren mumbled. “Just wait until he finds my gift to him! I will be the king. I’ll be a god! I’ll be a name feared for generations! I’ll kill that little bitch Bianca too… then I’ll force that traitorous dog into submission! I’ll chain him in the godsteel cell with his arse facing the bars, let the hounds make him their bitch. I’ll feed him nothing but rat droppings and piss into his water bowl. I’m the king. Not Godwin. Me.”

  He marched around the kitchens, kicking the corpses. “You want to punish me? I’m King Harren, who can do so? I’ve butchered dozens and look who challenges me? Nobody!”

  A loud boom shocked him from outside the kitchens. He snuck to the great hall of Keep Blacksteel, peeking through the doors. He puffed his chest, waltzing into centre and examining the staircase.

  “Hello?” he yelled. “If there’s a servant hiding, I’ll find you. If you try to flee the keep, I’ll hunt you down with the Sentinels. Come out and I’ll let you live.”

  He heard a second boom come from a locked door as if it were struck by a battering ram. Rivers of red worms crept under. The prince pressed an ear to the wood and heard what sounded like a giant worm being snapped in two. Screams fell silent. Something walked to door, scraping their nails against the other side, violently rattling the knob. He heard the clicking of a tongue, the growl of a wild animal followed by a wheezing breath that sounded like a faint cry of agony.

  “What the fuck,” Harren whispered. “Is there a hyena loose in the castle walls?” He slowly opened the door after sliding the lock open. A Valan Guard’s corpse made the prince struggle. The corridor was dark, filled with ravage carcasses of Valan guards ripped in half. Something stood in the middle of them, a figure in a red dress—Harren saw the glow of white eyes in the darkness. It saw him, limping towards him with twitchy arms and pained groans.

  The prince slammed the door shut and locked it fast.

  “I wouldn’t bother yourself with her,” Stroke said. He rested upon the grand chandelier of the grand hall, spinning slowly. “That whore changed sides the moment I put my fingers inside her. You should know that whores are disloyal, brother.”

  “Where is Godwin?” he snapped. “What have you done?”

  “What have I done?” Stroke said, offended. “You’ve killed the kitchen servants, you murderer. I listened to their screams. I listened to your perversion.”

  “Get down here. I want to kill you myself.”

  “Try not to blink.” Stroke’s godsteel sickle cut through the chain of the chandelier like air. It smashed to the floor, making Harren shut his eyes and cover his face from the quick cloud of dust and fire. Stroke used his gift to sit in the middle of the grand staircase. “I have to thank you for killing the servants. I was going to do that too. Doing what must be done is much easier without multiple pairs of eyes on me.”

  “Kneel,” Harren demanded. “I am the king. Godwin shall fall to me when I find him.”

  Stroke was amused by Harren’s bold claim. “You have the power of a God Arm, yet you’re barking orders like a desperate pup.” A calm rage filled Stroke’s determined eyes. “Do you really think Godwin is your threat? Do you even know how strong I am? Of course you don’t. Father once took me to the mountains when I began to best him with a sword. He intended to humiliate me, as our father loved doing. He couldn’t hit me once, and he had the full power of the God Arms, not half. It was the only time I ever saw him with fear in his eyes, when I put a knife to his throat and told him never to use the God Arm against me again.”

  “Am I supposed to be scared of a tale that didn’t happen? Father is dead. Mother is dead. There’s no one to back up your claim.”

  “Then I’ll show you.”

  Stroke entered a sprint down the staircase with sickle in hand. Harren smirked, lunging with a punch. Stroke ducked under and kneed Harren in the stomach, forcing him to blink. When the prince recovered from the blow, he found Harren leaning against the far wall.

  “I’ve always pitied you,” Stroke said. “I want you to know what I think about you before you die, brother. I always admired your recklessness. The way you assume you’re stronger than everyone else simply because of the Valan name… it was strange, but I had some respect for it.”

  “Fuck you,” Harren moaned. “Little shit.” His stomach still hurt from the blow. “I’ll kill you.”

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  “It’s my fault for feeding your delusions,” Stroke continued. “I let you think you were strong and worthy. That blow was the last of my patience, I could’ve killed you then and there. I won’t weaken my punches any longer. You have never won a fight against me. I have let you win, and win, and win—when you stabbed my thigh, that was my pity on you. I let you do it. Do you want to know why I did it? Because it made you happy. I tried to understand why it did so; enjoying it that much must’ve come from something. It was the only way for someone to notice you, right? Godwin had the title of heir, I had Runaya. What did you have?”

  For once, Harren had no response.

  “Nothing to say? That’s because I’m right. You’re an envious, spineless, cowardly soul who feeds on pain because not one person has ever loved you, not even our own mother.”

  “That’s not true,” Harren hissed. “I was her favourite. I was her favourite child. She told me.”

  “I’m sure she did,” Stroke said softly. “That’s the kind of person our mother was. You took it too far. It’s time for me to be happy. I’ll only be happy when you’re dead.”

  “Today is the day you die, little brother.”

  “We shall see.”

  Harren brought the God Arm to his stumpy side and ran for his little brother. He wouldn’t make it very far—the window of red stained-glass smashed open with a beam of fire, the Sentinels rang out with a deafening screech at Stroke’s command, more beams piercing through the stone walls and barraging Harren from every direction. Harren’s skin turned black from the heat, but he endured the scorch through screams—tentacles of bloody mist crept out from the flames like fingers and wrapped around Harren’s limbs, stretching him.

  Then it stopped, all of it sucking back into the Sentinels at the command of Harren. The God Arm healed the prince’s skin back to a healthy colour, sealing any cuts, but some damage was forever permanent. A rush of blood filled both of Harren’s eyes and ears, deafening him and making his vision stained with a pink blur.

  With his next blink, Stroke closed the gap and swung a fist into his brother’s jaw, the silver ring on his finger split in half and broke his mandible.

  Harren swung his stump blindly, obviously missing. The young prince kicked Harren’s leg, snapping it like a twig and relentlessly beating his face into a swelling of plum-coloured lumps.

  The fire of the Sentinels came back at Harren’s command, but they diverted at the last moment, setting fire to the castle. Stroke applauded the attempt with a clap. “Worship the Sentinels, and they too shall worship a calm mind. I—”

  Harren struck Stroke in the ribs with the full power of the God Arm. His bones cracked against his neckless, his shoulders aching as his back hit the high ceiling. Dazed, he fell into Harren, who caught his brother in the thigh with his weapon and threw him into the staircase with a hard throw.

  “Finally, I can’t hear your voice,” Harren shouted. “Peaceful. I never thought I could feel peaceful.”

  “Just shut the fuck up,” Stroke groaned. “Your strike was weak. The God Arm only hits as hard as your will is able. Weak-willed scum like you bring dishonour to the God Arm. I wasn’t prepared.”

  Harren didn’t hear a word. He jumped for Stroke, blinking, his punch connecting with the staircase instead of his brother, destroying the steps from the pure power.

  “Pussy!” Harren yelled. “You should be like Runaya and take your death like a good bitch!”

  “Kill him,” Stroke heard Runaya say. “Kill him now.”

  “Huh?” Harren said. “Who the fuck was that? Runaya?”

  “He hears her too?” Stroke whispered. “She must be real. She must be. I can’t stall this fight any longer.”

  Stroke ambushed Harren from behind and cut his heels with the sickle, then opened his innards with a slice to the stomach. Harren gasped, holding in his organs, trying to end his brother’s life with a lung from his stump. Stroke’s counterblow further amputated the prince’s arm, cutting it to the shoulder. The God Arm moved to Harren’s other side, and Stroke cut that arm off too. He slammed his head into the bridge of Harren’s nose and knocked him over.

  The power of the God Arm converged in Harren’s chest, desperately trying to repair his arm before the damage couldn’t be undone.

  “Give me the God Arm,” Stroke demanded. “And you can live.”

  Harren puffed out his chest. The God arm’s power struck Stroke in the leg and broke his foot. However, this didn’t matter. The lumps on the prince’s face had swelled too much, blocking his vision and blinding him completely. The God Arms were too busy repairing his arm to even consider his eyes, and this meant Stroke could do whatever he wanted. He brought the godsteel sickle onto Harren’s cock, pushing it deep into his groin. He shoved a hand into the open wound in his belly, ripping out the kidneys and liver. Each time the God Arm came to the prince’s aid, Stroke moved the other side with his own gift.

  Harren’s full arm repaired, and he didn’t summon the God Arm to it. He tried to push his brother off him with the strength of a man, a word stuck in his tight throat. Stroke stopped to listen.

  “Yield,” Harren managed. “Yield. Yield.”

  “Give me the God Arm or I’ll cut it from you!” he yelled back. “Surrender it and you can live.”

  “Yield. Yield.”

  Harren couldn’t hear Stroke’s request, he realised this. He knelt by his brother’s side, panting from exhaustion, tapping a finger on the centre of his chest, where the God Arm’s runes rested.

  “Yield, yield,” Harren repeated. “I yield.”

  The God Arm left Harren’s soul and transferred to Stroke through a finger. He tensed the muscles of his arm, the Valan armour cracking little brittle clay and leaving his arm bare. He felt powerful, worthy, and… sad.

  Harren was crying. Crying. He’d never seen his brother cry, not even when he lost his arm. He put a palm to Harren’s chest and gently pushed the healing power into him. His face fixed, his stump coming back, his entrails sucking back into his body and sealing without a scar. Harren did another thing Stroke had never seen him do, a genuine smile.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll leave Vatanil. I yield.”

  Stroke stood over his defeated brother, expecting to feel filled. Was it enough to exile Harren and never see him again? He came to the kitchens intending to find a man who would never surrender, but found a coward. This wasn’t the brother he once tried to love… the unfamiliar peace of victory felt pointless.

  Stroke chose pain. Harren was his brother no longer, and he told him that before his next action. He beat Harren’s face bloody with the God Arm, then shattered each of his ribs with one blow to his chest. The stone floor cracked from the blows, and the whole of the city felt the rumble beneath their feet. He beat Harren within an inch of his life, ripping out his tongue so he couldn’t beg.

  In the kitchens, Stroke dragged out the largest empty cauldron he could find. He took the iron candlesticks of the fallen chandelier and put them inside; he took godsteel helmets from statues and put them inside. He took his own godsteel ring, and put it inside, then stuck his hand inside with the power of the God Arm, smelting all the metal to a thick, molten bowl of orange.

  He grabbed Harren by the scruff and dragged him to it. Harren did not fight well against Stroke, missing his swings, and the ones that did land felt weak.

  Stroke pushed his brother closer to the cauldron. Harren gripped the edges, resisting, his flesh melting against the hot iron.

  “Do it,” Runaya said. “End him.”

  Stroke cracked the back of his brother’s skull and pushed his head into the cauldron. The blistering heat melted Harren’s neck and decapitated the prince. Then, Stroke dunked his own hand into the mixture, pulled out the skull, his own hand unscathed. He cooled it with the power of the God Arm, looking upon his brother’s skull, now coated in black steel with a hint of godsteel red.

  “Godwin next,” Stroke whispered. “The God Arms must be re-joined. They must be symmetrical.”