Seven

Defeat.

Regardless of how often you've taken it, the unpleasant taste remains in the back of your throat. It has a strange pressure to it, not only in the body but also in the psyche, something that pulls you down till it seems difficult to stand up straight. 

But shame is a more acerbic emotion than failure. It's the guilt that comes from knowing you're not good enough, not from losing. That in the end, none of the titles, honors, or recognition mattered at all.

A strong slap that sounded like a whip cracking upon stone was heard throughout the room. The force behind it could have made any grown man stumble, but the prince didn't flinch.

It could've been even humiliating if it wasn't so familiar.

The slap wasn't the real pain. The real pain was knowing this was the only language they'd ever spoken to each other—violence and disappointment as discipline. 

The prince didn't flinch, blink, or even lift a hand to his face; instead, he stood there, unmoved.

The king stood over him, panting, as though his son could be crushed by his rage alone. "You dare... You dare to fail me—again? You dare to bring shame to this throne, to this family?" 

"Say something, boy!"

Finally, he raised his head, golden eyes meeting golden eyes. When he did speak, it was quiet and disappointing, a calmness that was more intense than any fire. "Father, is there anything else to say? You've already stated that nothing I do would ever satisfy you."

"Enough of your excuses. You are weak. A crown prince who can't even uphold the dignity of his bloodline—what use do I have for a failure like you?"

The prince chuckled. A weak person wouldn't have returned from the battleground, knowing the storm of humiliation and fury that awaited.

A weak person would've stayed behind, let the battlefield claim them, and spared themselves the backlash.

But no—he had come back. Not for glory, not for praise, but to stand here and bear it all, to take every lashing word and glare because that's what duty demanded.

If this was weakness, then what did strength look like?

"What do you want me to do now?" the prince asked, "Shouldn't you be happy that the kingdom was saved? Or does even that not meet your standards, Father?"

With anger rising from the depths of his gut, the king's eyes narrowed. "Saved?" he spit out in a low, deadly voice. "You refer to this as saving? You believe that your shortcomings are irrelevant because the kingdom survives?"

The king slumped back in his throne. "How did we lose against the duke? How... how did you lose against him?" His hands gripped the sides of the throne as if trying to hold onto his sanity. "You're supposed to be the heir! The one who was supposed to secure our kingdom! And yet... you couldn't even handle him."

"You really want to blame me for that? You're the king, Father. You should know better than to underestimate a man like him." 

"You useless, arrogant—damn you!" the king hissed through gritted teeth.

The prince's eyes narrowed, "I did what you couldn't. I fought and returned, even if it meant facing your wrath. But you know what, Father? You never once gave me the chance to win in your eyes."

The king has always been a man of expectations. He see every failure, no matter how small, as a personal betrayal. None of them—neither sons nor daughter—ever live up to the impossible standard set by a man who never believes in anything less than perfection. 

There is no place for love or diversity in his ambition to rule and dominate every aspect of his realm. Their lack of capability is not the only thing; he believes his children will never be deserving of the position he has.

Rather than being an extension of himself, his own blood, flesh, and bone constantly seems to exist as an example of his problems.

Cedric gives Viktor a sideways glance. "You alright?" he asks, nudging him again, his tone low enough so no one else can hear. "You look like you've been chewing on something sour for the last hour." 

With a stiff jaw and irritated gaze, Viktor looks at Cedric. "Just leave me alone. I'm fine."

Cedric grins, raising an eyebrow as he follows Viktor's every step. "Fine, huh? You sure? You don't look fine. Thought you were about to rip someone's head off back there."

"You want me to do that with you, Cedric? Try me." 

Cedric grins, unfazed. "Well, if you're offering, I won't say no. But I'm not sure you can handle it, Viktor."

Viktor lets out a long, exasperated sigh, running a hand through his hair. "Why did I even bother bringing you along? You're more trouble than you're worth, you know that?"

Cedric rolled his eyes, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Even if you hadn't dragged me here, I'd have come on my own. You know how much I despise these damn banquets. I'd rather be out making reckless bets and pissing someone off."

Viktor exhales sharply, side-eyeing Cedric. "You do realize you're a prince, right? Maybe try acting like one for once instead of a damn street gambler."

Cedric stretches his arms behind his head, grinning like he doesn't have a single care in the world. "Yeah, yeah, 'act like a prince,' blah blah. You sound just like Father." He smirks, tilting his head toward Viktor. "And we both know how well that turned out for you."

In a moment, Viktor grabs Cedric by the collar and pulls him violently forward before Cedric can even respond. The icy edge of a blade, sharp enough to draw blood with the slightest movement, rests on his throat.

Neither of them says anything for a few seconds. Viktor's face is covered in lengthy shadows from the flickering light, and his golden eyes are burning with an unreadable rage, caution, or perhaps just tiredness. "Say that again." 

Cedric, despite the situation, only lets out a breathless chuckle. "Oh? Touched a nerve, did I?"

Viktor's hold doesn't weaken. His blade remains firm against Cedric's throat as his fingers, if anything, dig deeper into the material of his collar. "You think this is a joke?" Even though Viktor speaks quietly, the strain in his voice is terrible. "Do I look like I'm in the mood for your useless chatter, Cedric?"

Even when Cedric swallows, he can't help but smile. "Well, you did pull a sword on me. Seems a little dramatic for just 'useless chatter,' don't you think?" His amused gaze belies a sharp understanding that he is aware Viktor isn't playing a bluff.

Between them, there is a long, tense stillness. The hallways around them are deserted, and the only people watching this confrontation are their shadows.

Viktor then lets out a strong breath and gives Cedric a hard push back, releasing his collar in the process. He lowers his blade, but it does not go back into its sheath. He mutters, "Next time, keep your damn mouth shut," and turns away.

Cedric rolls his shoulders and straightens his coat as if he were releasing stress. "Noted." The smirk, however, slightly disappears when he sees Viktor's back slip back into the darkened hall.

Viktor continues to move, his footsteps ringing more loudly now that there is greater distance between them. Thoughts are flying through his head more quickly than he can process.

He has no idea why he became so enraged. Even though Cedric's remarks were humorous, they hurt him like needles. Perhaps it's the pressure of a life he never wanted, the guilt of the banquet he just left behind, or the never-ending expectations he can't meet. 

Cedric stays for a while, rubbing the spot of his throat where Viktor's blade had struck. A tiny moment of worry crosses his face as he observes Viktor's fleeing figure, but he quickly dismisses it with a scoff. He shakes his head. "Damn temper."

Cedric no longer knows Viktor as he did before. He had already noticed the slight fractures that were concealed by the Crown prince's flawless mask. Now, however, they are spreading and threatening to destroy him.

He doesn't go after Viktor. He is smarter. Viktor needs room to break if necessary, to fracture and crack, to recreate himself however he sees fit.

Cedric has been the one observing from the sidelines, constantly lagging behind and staying just outside of Viktor's storm.