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The older boy stands bravely in front of his brother, but cannot completely hide his fear. If Emhyr had to make an estimate he would give the older boy around fourteen years of age, and the younger one perhaps a year or twelve. But he does not need to guess, news of their birth had been announced throughout Nilfgaard and had been received with much joy by its citizens, as his own birth had been a few decades before. Even in the distant forests in the north where Emhyr had been hiding the news had reached when twelve years ago a heir was born to the usurper and when two years later when a second prince arrived. Back then the news had horrified Emhyr like no other news from the capital had.
They do not resemble the usurper, perhaps in the shape of an ear or the curl of his hair. But no, unfortunately they take after their mother. He recognizes the shape of her nose and her eyes in their faces, and they share the same deep brown colour of her hair. Surprisingly, the colour of their eyes is neither his sisters nor the usurpers, but the light brown that Emhyr himself inherited from his father. It is an unpleasant shock. Through all his musings, he had not expected these boys to look like family.
He had pitied his sister when he heard that the usurper had taken her as his bride to give some legitimacy to his tenuous grasp on the throne. They had not been especially close the year the coup happened, their different genders and ages seemingly barriers too large for a close sibling bond. But she had been a sweet elder sister once, who read him stories and taught him how to sneak out to the stables during lessons. When news of her death reached him but three years ago he mourned for her, the last remnant of his family. Except, of course, for these boys.
Did she love them, despite the foul way they were conceived? Did they love her? Perhaps he could…
His eyes flicker to the head of the usurper held aloft by one of his men on a spear. Felled by the son he failed to kill. From today onwards Emhyr will take up his birth right as emperor of Nilfgaard. He will not make the same mistake as that man.
“Cut their throats.”
The boys cry out, but the struggle of two unarmed boys in court clothing against grown men with swords and armour is predictably brief. Emhyr does not look away, theirs is a quick death.
It is strange, to see those familiar eyes glazed over with death.
“Shall we take them to the ballroom your Majesty?” One of his men asks.
The ballroom, to be buried with the traitors? No he can give these unfortunate nephews of his some comfort in death.
“Bury them next to my sister in the tomb of emperors.” He orders. “But make sure no father is mentioned on their epitaphs.”
And may they be reunited with their mother in death’s merciful embrace.