Chapter 8: Resentment

Chapter 8: Resentment

Min Ye Kyaw Htin sat in the royal chambers, his face a mask of calm dignity as he listened to yet another report from the royal chamberlain. The scent of sandalwood filled the room, mingling with the faint aroma of tea cooling on the table before him. To anyone observing, he exuded an aura of quiet strength and composure befitting the Crown Prince of the Pagan Empire.

But inside, a storm raged.

He had learned long ago to bury his true emotions beneath a facade of unyielding decorum. It was a necessary skill, one honed in a court rife with intrigue and betrayal. Yet, no amount of control could silence the simmering resentment that had burned within him for years—resentment toward his father, toward the concubine who had so ensnared the king's heart, and most of all, toward his half-brother, Aung.

To the outside world, Aung was a pitiable figure—a prince without a proper title, born of a commoner's bloodline, and thus unworthy of full recognition. Tradition dictated that only the children of noble or royal lineage could hold a full royal name, and so Aung was left an anomaly: a prince in status but a shadow in the eyes of the court. Yet, for reasons Min Ye Kyaw Htin could never comprehend, their father, King Narathu, doted on Aung as if he were the heir to the throne.

The Crown Prince's fingers curled into a fist beneath the table, his nails biting into his palm. His father's favoritism had always been a source of humiliation, a stain on his pride. The king had lavished Aung with affection during his childhood, granting him freedoms and indulgences that Min Ye Kyaw Htin had never known. While he was raised to embody discipline and duty, Aung was allowed to laugh freely, to explore the palace gardens with his mother—Concubine Thida Davi—and to bask in their father's undivided attention.

It wasn't just favoritism that stung; it was the audacity of it all. Thida Davi had been a commoner, a woman whose beauty had captivated the king but whose bloodline was unworthy of courtly reverence. Her presence had thrown the balance of the royal household into chaos, her charm and kindness a sharp contrast to the rigid world of nobles and titles.

Min Ye Kyaw Htin's own mother, Queen Ratha, had maintained an air of neutrality during those years. She had neither scorned nor embraced Thida Davi, preferring to focus on her duties as queen. But her silence had felt like betrayal to the young prince, who had watched his father's love shift toward another family while his own achievements were met with cool acknowledgment.

When Thida Davi died, the court had whispered that the king might finally return to his senses. Instead, King Narathu had plunged into a deep grief, withdrawing from governance and leaving much of the kingdom's day-to-day management to the prime minister and the royal chamber. His love for Thida Davi had been absolute, and with her death, a part of him had died as well.

That grief, Min Ye Kyaw Htin knew, was what had kept his father from granting him full authority. The king feared what he might do if given unchecked power—feared, perhaps rightly, that the Crown Prince would see to it that Aung followed his mother into the grave.

The thought sent a flicker of satisfaction through him, though he kept his expression neutral as the chamberlain finished his report and bowed. Once the room was empty, he allowed himself a moment to relax, his carefully controlled posture softening.

His hatred for Aung had only grown as they reached adulthood. Aung's very existence was an insult, a reminder of his father's betrayal of tradition and loyalty. And while Aung had been relegated to a lesser status due to his bloodline, his presence in the court still carried weight. The nobles might not see Aung as a true prince, but the king's affection for him was well known, and it shielded him from the kind of scrutiny and scorn Min Ye Kyaw Htin wished to heap upon him.

The hunt had been an opportunity—a perfect chance to rid himself of the half-brother who had plagued him for so long. The forests were treacherous, their rocky terrain and dense foliage rife with danger. A misstep, a startled horse, an unfortunate accident—there were so many ways to frame it, so many ways to make it look natural.

But the moment had slipped through his fingers.

The image of Aung being carried back to the palace, unconscious but alive, was burned into his mind. The Crown Prince's jaw tightened as he recalled the smug expressions of the courtiers who had looked on, as if they believed the young prince's survival was some divine intervention. It had taken every ounce of self-control not to betray his fury in that moment.

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the gilded ceiling of the chamber. His father's illness had only worsened since the hunt. The once formidable King Narathu was now a shadow of himself, a man consumed by memories of a lost love and the guilt of neglecting his kingdom. The Crown Prince found no sympathy for him—only disdain. His father's weakness had left the empire vulnerable, its governance fragmented between the prime minister, the royal chamber, and a host of self-serving nobles.

Min Ye Kyaw Htin had no choice but to bide his time. To the court, he presented the image of a loyal son and a capable leader, a crown prince ready to take the throne when the time came. But behind the mask, his mind was a whirlwind of schemes and calculations. Aung's survival might have delayed his plans, but it hadn't derailed them. There would be other opportunities—other hunts, other moments of vulnerability.

And when the time came, he would ensure there were no mistakes.

For now, he needed to maintain the facade. He needed the nobles to see him as the rightful heir, the steady hand who would lead the Pagan Empire into a new era. He needed his father to believe, even in his weakened state, that the empire would be safe in his hands.

But most of all, he needed Aung to remain unaware of the hatred that simmered beneath the surface. Let the boy believe they were brothers, that the Crown Prince harbored no ill will toward him. It would make his eventual downfall all the sweeter.

Min Ye Kyaw Htin rose from his seat, his expression hardening as he walked to the window. The capital stretched out before him, a labyrinth of temples, markets, and homes. It was his city, his empire, and soon it would be his to rule.

His grip on the windowsill tightened. "One day," he murmured, his voice low and venomous. "One day, you'll fall, little brother. And when you do, I'll be there to watch."