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“Why should you be kind?” Satun scoffs.
Ouken makes a noncommittal noise. Satun is sitting at his desk looking over the report Ouken had compiled for him during his last trip into town - the people are still miserable, the people are still starving, the people are still dying. The sheaf of papers looks tiny in Satun’s clawed hand, even though they’ve been penned on the extra-large size. The crown glimmers golden atop his head.
“It’s probably your brothers putting that idea in your head.” Satun says, leaning one elbow on his desk, his chin lazily propped up on his palm. A posture that Desha adopts often. Ouken wonders how a father and son can be so different. “You don’t need to listen to them.”
“Hmm.” Ouken says. He’s in his late teens. He tries to deal with his father as little as possible. He’s not a child anymore. He’s old enough to know love and also to know hate.
Satun doesn’t know about the murmurings in the dark. The hiss of unease in his own castle. Even his godly insight can’t help him. That’s the problem with children - they’re ungrateful for the things they inherit.
“You can go.” Satun says, waving in Ouken’s general direction. Ouken leaves.
--
“Kindness?” Desha says, frowning. Ouken is still breathing hard from their last spar, but Desha barely looks like he’s broken a sweat. Ouken feels something again in his breast - a quiet flickering, a desire for strength. His sword feels like liquid in his hand. He knows it - he - can do more. He can sense it. The sword speaks to him. Desha seems to be considering his question awkwardly, as though he’s not sure how to respond. “There’s no need specifically to be.”
“You only say that because you’re naturally kind, Anija.” Ouken points out.
Desha scoffs. His sharp teeth glint through his lips. He does, Ouken thinks privately, look very much like their father. Even though their personalities couldn’t be more different.
“I’m not that nice, Ouken.” Desha says.
“You’re just humble,” Ouken says, smiling.
“Hmph. Take up your sword again and we’ll see who’s kind.” Desha huffs, tapping his wooden blade against the ground.
“How is the recruitment going?” Ouken asks, and Desha’s expression goes grim. His skin has a greyish cast similar to Satun’s. No amount of physical activity will make him look more human. Even when a flush comes to his face it’s more purple than red.
“Well enough.” Desha murmurs. He looks at the slate tile beneath their feet. “It’s as we suspected. Much of the common folk are ready for a change, and there are mercenaries for hire skulking in every shadow we look. Drawn to the scent of a country’s rotting corpse like carrion birds.”
“Despa-nii is always right about these kinds of things, isn’t he.” Ouken says contemplatively. Desha scowls. Ouken smiles.
--
“Of course it’s important to be kind, Ouken!” Despa says. They’re in Despa’s personal study, having tea. Despa had been eating a macaron in a rather flashy manner - he settles down now, his eye on Ouken sharpening a little, going keener. “I bet Anija told you there’s no need for it. He really has no way with words.”
“Well, I understood what he was really trying to say.” Ouken laughs. “It’s because he’s softhearted.”
“Hmph. I don’t know how you can describe that brute as softhearted.” Despa huffs.
“Are you still mad he ate your pudding?” Ouken asks.
“It was a real hassle to get that imported, you know.” Despa mutters.
“You hold grudges for too long.” Ouken says, smiling. “He made you cake to make up for it. The kitchen maids had a real fright when he stormed in. Anija in an apron covered in flour was a funny sight.”
Despa rolls his eyes.
“Right, right.” He says. “What brought on the question, anyways?”
“About the pudding?” Ouken asks.
“No, about kindness.” Despa replies. He’s no stranger to beating around the bush, but his inquiry this time is direct, curiosity tinting his voice.
Ouken shrugs.
“It was just something I was thinking about.” He says.
--
Ouken dreams.
Someone is stroking his hair. It’s bright. His eyes are closed. His head is laid on something soft - his body feels warm, as though he’s basking in sunlight.
A strand of hair tickles his nose. He opens his eyes slightly, slowly - the first thing he sees is a pool of gold, strands of it glittering in the light.
“Despa-nii?” He says, squinting, trying to make out the person’s face. For some reason his eyes won’t focus. The person lays a hand over his eyes, gently coaxing his eyelids back down with soft fingers. Their hair is too long for it to be Despa, but it looks very much like him.
“Ouken.” She says - it’s a woman, and Ouken has the feeling he knows her.
“Yes, Mother.” He says. For some reason he speaks in a child’s voice.
“You’re very strong.” His mother says. Her voice is gentle. Her hands slowly pass over his hair, smoothing it away from his forehead. “Just as strong as your father. Maybe even moreso.”
“Stronger than Father?” Ouken says, giggling. “Not possible.”
“You are.” She says, and she sounds a little bit more serious now. “You will be. And when you become strong, you must be very careful. Be careful, Ouken.”
“Careful of what?” He asks.
“Of the thing that he seeks,” his mother says, and a chill breeze skims over the ground around them, raising goosebumps on Ouken’s skin. “Be careful, Ouken. Be kind. Follow your brothers.”
“Alright,” Ouken says, even though he doesn’t really know what she’s talking about.
He blinks. The hand on his hair is gone. He’s laying on his pillow. It’s very dark. He can’t see a thing. For some reason the darkness feels foreboding. He has a sudden feeling of being trapped.