Taimur sat atop his horse with two hundred men spread behind him, facing the small village ahead.

  The Drunk Killer, they called him. Not his real name — but no one remembered that anymore.

  Every door in the village was shut. No voices. No movement. It felt like a place already dead. Even the animals were silent.

  The day was brutally hot. A dry wind rolled through the empty streets, carrying dust and the smell of baked earth. Sweat clung to skin, armor burned to the touch.

  Taimur didn’t care.

  He wanted blood.

  He stood nearly seven feet tall — a massive figure even while mounted. His warhammer rested easily in one hand, its iron head scarred and darkened from use. The weapon looked heavy enough to break stone, yet Taimur handled it like a club.

  His face was bare of beard or mustache, broad and blunt, giving him a strangely youthful look that only made the violence in his eyes more unsettling.

  He wore no armor.

  He didn’t need it.

  One of his men approached on foot, cautious, careful not to step too close.

  “My lord,” the soldier said. “The king ordered us not to attack this village. We’re not certain they’re sheltering rebels. Your younger brother is coming on the king’s behalf. We should wait for him.”

  Taimur turned slowly.

  The fury in his eyes was so sudden and raw that the soldier took five steps back without realizing it.

  “Fuck my brother,” Taimur said.

  He spat into the dust.

  “And fuck the king,” he added, voice thick with contempt.

  A tremor ran through the ranks as Taimur's voice, a guttural rumble like grinding stones washed over his men. "Kill everyone. Take no prisoners. Burn the bodies," he commanded the order leaving no room for conscience. "But bring me the women. Whoever drags the most beautiful young thing before me to sate my appetite will have a purse of a thousand gold." A cruel smirk twisted his lips. "Remember, these are traitors to the realm. If any of you hesitates my Warhammer will find your skull. Now ... LET'S KILL!"He spurred his massive destrier toward the village. The great beast shuddered under his weight, muscles straining--it was said the "Drunk Killer" forbore armor on horseback lest he cripple the animal. His men followed like a tide of shadows.

  They met no resistance. The village was a silent tomb, its people hiding behind bolted doors. The soldiers began their work. Torches touc thatch and timber, and soon an inferno raged,an orange hell against the dusk. The air filled not with the clamor of battle, but with the high desperate screams of women. the roars of men and the piercing cries of children. The sounds were a chorus to the flames

  Taimur did not burn. His pleasure was more intimate. The crunch of his Warhammer finding a door, then finding bone. He kicked his way into one hovel to find a cowering old man, his wife, and their grandchild

  "What ugly rats," Taimur spat, his eyes scanning the dark corner. "Is there nothing in this piss-hole village fit for a man's pleasure?"

  Only whimpers answered him. What followed were not screams of terror. but raw, wet sounds of obliteration- a sickening, pulpy rhythm that ended in abrupt silence

  He emerged moments later. Fresh blood, dark and thick, coated the head of his hammer soaked his tunic, and spattered his brutish face like grisly war paint. In his other hand, he clutched a sloshing yard of ale.

  "At least the bastards had a good brew," he grunted, tilting the vessel back,. Ale and blood mingled at the corner of his mouth. A deep, humorless laugh erupted from his chest as he drained it, then cast the clav aside to shatter Wiping his mouth with the back of a bloody hand, he turned, his gaze already settling on the next door.

  The air in the camp was thick, a stew of woodsmoke, roasting meat, and the raw, sweet stench of spilled wine. It clung to the back of the throat. Embers from the burned village still whispered into the sky a few miles away, a dying echo against the cold stars.

  At the centre of it all was Taimur. He was a mountain of furs and muscle, swaying on his feet, his tunic stained with victory and vomit. He’d just finished heaving against a tent-post, the sour contents of his gut splattering the ground. Wiping his mouth with the back of a hand, he’d lurched towards a girl trembling near the fire, grabbed her face in a meaty paw, and planted a wet, wine-soaked kiss on her lips. Then, with a great, hiccupping convulsion, he’d vomited again, this time all over the front of her dress and upturned, terrified face.

  The laughter that erupted from him was a landslide of sound. He stumbled back, pointing, tears of mirth in his bloodshot eyes. His men laughed too, a forced, jagged chorus. They danced, pounding the hard earth in a clumsy circle, but their eyeswere never still. They watched him. They remembered. The legend of the Drunk Killer had begun years ago, at his own father's name-day feast, when a young Taimur, in a similar fugue of drink and rage, had seized a minor lord by the throat and crushed his windpipe bare-handed for a perceived slight. The celebration had frozen, then quietly ended. The memory never did.

  Now, Taimur’s gaze, bleary and possessive, swept over the five cowering women his men had dragged from the village ruins. His for the night. A prize. “You! And you!” he bellowed, pointing at two of his captains. “Gold! Double shares! For you brought me good sport today!” The men cheered, the promise of loot momentarily drowning their unease.

  Swigging deeply from a new skin of wine, Taimur turned, ready to drag his chosen prize towards his command tent. The music, the dancing, the shouting—it all ceased. Not gradually, but as if severed by a knife.

  He blinked, his great head swinging around.

  Standing just inside the ring of firelight, at the very entrance of Taimur’s own tent, was his younger brother, Jalal.

  He was a man of twenty-seven, but moved with the quiet, unsettling grace of a predator who had never known a clumsy youth. Of the three princes, he alone never rode to war. He was considered the most dangerous precisely because of the mind that worked behind his sharp, observant eyes. His weapon was not a sword, but a thought, held back until it could strike with maximum effect.

  Stolen story; please report.

  And he dressed the part. Tonight, he was a vision in layered blue silk, from his from his soft boots to the elegant tunic to the flowing outer robe. It was a tapestry of wealth, loaded with rubies that caught the firelight like droplets of blood and diamonds that glittered like chips of ice. His curly black hair, forever making him look younger than his years, fell in a careless wave over his forehead, framing a face of sharp angles: a blade of a nose, and eyes so dark and watchful they seemed to absorb the light around them.

  The camp was utterly silent. The onlysounds were the crackle of the fire and Taimur’s own ragged breathing.

  Jalal’s thin lips curved, not into a smile, but into an expression of cool assessment. His voice, when it came, was like a wire drawn tight—thin, clear, and impossibly commanding in the hush.

  “Brother,” he said, the word devoid of warmthYou are having the time of your life, it seems.”

  Taimur’s face, flushed with drink and fury, contorted. He worked his mouth and spat a great gob of phlegm and wine onto the dirt between them. The sound was obscenely loud.

  The firelight guttered, casting long, dancing shadows. Taimur, swaying like a great oak in a storm, felt a sudden wave ofsodden affection for the cool, clean figure of his brother.

  "Come, little brother!" he boomed, his voice slurred with ale and victory. He lurched forward, his massive arms spreading wide—a hug that promised to engulf, to smother with the stench of sweat and smoke and sour wine.

  Jalal did not retreat. He became utterly still. As Taimur's shadow fell over him, he raised his right hand. It was not a block, but a pristine, vertical barrier. His palm faced Taimur, fingers together, the gesture of a priest halting a profane thing. The fire caught the deep blue of a single sapphire on his finger.

  "Brother," Jalal said, his voice a shard of ice in the drunken heat. "I would not wish to ruin my clothes."

  Taimur's lurch stopped. His arms hung in the air. He blinked, his bloodshot eyes trying to focus on the delicate, unyielding hand. The laughter died. With a brute's curiosity, he reached out. His own hand—scarred, its nails black with dirt and dried blood—enveloped Jalal's. He did not crush it. He marveled at its cool smoothness, and gently, ponderously, pushed it down to Jalal's side. He stared into his brother's face, searching for a joke. He found only polished calm.

  Then, he grunted. He lifted his other hand and brought it down in a heavy, meaty pat on Jalal's silk-clad shoulder. The blow would have staggered a lesser man, but Jalal only absorbed it, the fine fabric whispering.

  "You," Taimur said, shaking his great head, his voice thick with bewilderment and contempt. "You care about these stupid things too much, my little brother. Let's enjoy! We killed a lot of traitors today."

  Jalal carefully brushed an invisible speck from his shoulder where the hand had been. "We were not sure if they were traitors, brother," he corrected, his black eyes performing a slow, damning inventory of the filth around them. "We were not sure." His gaze returned to Taimur, cold and final. "We better talk alone."

  He turned his head a fraction, his command slicing through the night. "Leave us."

  The few lingering men-at-arms—captains who had shared in the day's slaughter—froze. Their eyes darted to Taimur, unsure where authority now resided in this silent clash of princes.

  Taimur’s face darkened. The confusion on his face curdled into rage at his men's hesitation. His voice erupted, raw and furious, making the flames shudder. "You heard him! GET OUT! All of you!" They scattered like leaves before a gust.

  Taimur, his energy sapped by the outburst, slumped toward a looted wooden chest. He eyed the five terrified girls huddled nearby, a predator reminded of postponed prey. "You better make it quick, Jalal," he grumbled, grabbing a half-empty skin of ale. "I have business to attend."

  Jalal gave a minute, precise nod. With the fastidious care of a cat, he surveyed the ground. He stepped over a puddle of something dark, sidestepped a smear of vomit, and located a campaign stool that seemed relatively intact. He inspected its surface, then lowered himself onto its very edge, his back rod-straight, his blue silks pooling around him like a deep, still lake amidst a swamp.

  Taimur half-sat, half-collapsed onto the chest opposite, the wood groaning under his weight.

  "You are a Crown Prince of Hind, brother," Jalal began, his tone that of a tutor stating a fundamental, neglected principle. Try to behave like one."

  Taimur's head snapped up, his eyes bloodshot slits. "Don't teach me this!" he snarled, spittle flying. "I don't want to be a princeling. I do what I like." He took a savage gulp from the skin . "Now. Why are you here?"

  Jalal absorbed the outburst without a flicker. "Our elder brother, the King, sent mestop this massacre." He paused, letting his gaze sweep once more over the charred remains of celebration. "But I think I am already too late."

  That you are," Taimur grunted. "Whatever. Even if you were on time, you couldn't have stopped me."

  "You were not to attack any village without solid proof they were working with the rebels," Jalal stated, a judge reading a law from a clean, distant scroll.

  Taimur waved a dismissive hand. "They were working with them in our father's

  rule. That's proof enough for me."

  "But it is not proof enough for the King."

  Taimur shrugged, a massive heaving of his shoulders. "Our brother is weak. Turning out just like Father." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, drunken growl. "How many times have I told him? Let me go into that forest, locate the rebel camp, and kill them all. Rape their women and kill their children. He always stops me."

  Jalal's gaze was impenetrable. "You know why he does that, brother. Think. Use the mind our father gave you." He leaned forward slightly, the firelight making the rubies on his chest gleam like predatory eyes. "They are not creating enough trouble for us. They are merely looting some small, insignificant villages. That is enough. It gives the people a villain to hate. We send soldiers, they clash, the rebels kill a few peasants… and the people's loyalty shifts. In our father's rule, the commoners whispered support for them. Now, they curse their name. They are a controlled fire. A useful one. They give us a shadow to blame for every… inconvenient thing."

  He gestured minutely toward the smoldering horizon.

  “What you did tonight was careless,” Jalal said. “You burned the village. You turned quiet suspicion into open flames.” His voice never rose, but it sharpened with each word. “But now, we have the traitors.”

  He folded his hands behind his back.

  “The story will be that they were harboring rebels. Feeding them. Hiding their wounded.” His eyes flicked briefly toward Taimur. “That when royal men arrived to question them, the villagers turned on us—steel in hand, loyalty already sold.”

  A thin, bloodless smile touched his lips.

  “The brave Prince Taimur rode to restore order,” Jalal continued softly. “But treachery spreads faster than horses. By the time he arrived, the traitors had already doomed themselves.”

  He exhaled, almost content.

  “A purge, then. Not a massacre

  Taimur stared into the middle distance, his great mind struggling through the ale-fog to grasp the elegant, poisonous architecture of his brother's planHe understood the shape of it, and it bored him. He grunted, a sound of profound disgust. "I don't care about these stupid politics, brother. You failed to stop me. So be on your way."

  "You are not understanding," Jalal said, his voice dropping to a tone of unarguable finality. "You are to come with me to the capital. Our brother departs for Irania on a royal progress. You are the eldest after him. You will be his face while he is gone. You will sit on the Sun Throne in his stead."

  "Fuck that!" Taimur roared, the words tearing from his throat. He surged to his feet, the stool clattering away behind him. "I am not going to that city of slaves! I am a warrior, not a… a statue for courtiers to bow at!"

  But the violent motion was too much. The world spun. The solid earth turned to liquid beneath him. His legs, pillars of strength a moment before, became water. He staggered, clutched at the empty air, and with a wet, heavy crash, fell backward—not onto the ground, but into the cold, reeking puddle of his own earlier vomit.

  He lay there, stunned, his breath coming in ragged gusts, the fight and the fury suddenly extinguished, leaving only a spent, soggy heap.Jalal looked down at his fallen brother. He did not smile. He did not gloat. A faint, cold sigh escaped his lips, the only sign of his disdain. He rose smoothly, not a single wrinkle daring to form in his perfect silks.

  "I guess you are, brother," he said, his voice devoid of triumph. It was a simple, clinical observation.

  He did not bend to help. He would not soil his sleeves. He simply lifted his chin and called, cleanly and clearly, into the darkness beyond the firelight.

  "Servants. The Crown Prince is unwell. See that he is washed and prepared. We depart for the capital at first light."