calypzo
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“General Ivan, from now onwards, you are here to serve this kingdom,” the prince said, his voice a thing too calm, too clean, as if it had never tasted the iron of command. His gaze did not waver, though it flickered once-like a candle uncertain in a draught. “Make do, General.”
Ivan’s eyes narrowed, not in defiance but in quiet study. This one did not stink of sovereignty. He’d seen rulers—blood-slicked, spine-straight, drunk on the sound of their own names. They did not blink when they killed. They did not tremble beneath the weight of silence.
But this prince? He wore his title like borrowed robes.
Ivan was meant to kneel. A general, lowered before the prince. However, he didn’t move.
“Of course, your grace,” he said, low and slow, each word a blade unsheathed. But the bend of the spine was absent.
Ivan bowed to no one. Especially not to boys dressed in silk and pretending not to flinch.
//
Where a prince walks with ichor flowing through him and a general stands unbowed-a prophecy writes its requiem in blood and kisses.
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Childe paints for his survival.
Scaramouche paints to keep living.
They meet in The Chalk’s Corner—a cheap paint tube, lingering stares, a rivalry born in hues of indigo and crimson.
Fate does not tell, but it has never been kind to starving artists.
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Two artists. Two fading dreams. One competition that could rewrite their endings.