The Prince is furious.

Always, it happens. He finds a place; he deems it worthy of him. Precious. Covetable. And somehow his passions become knowledge for common filth, and he is powerless to stop the flood of swine that inevitably washes away his claim. It happened in his Meadow; it happened in the Cavern’s Pool; it happens now. Every time the darkling colt returns to this place, an alcove alight with some ancient beauty, it grows messier, smellier, with the stink of a horde. Someone lives here. Some group has made this place their sanctuary, and the vinegar of Reginald’s claim has well and truly dissipated. His tongue is sour with the idea of it.

He approaches, seething. Shadows loom amongst the multicolored glass. Reginald recognizes his womb-mate with a jolt; large and regal in his power, Abraham stalks the marble of the rotunda’s pillars, the arch of his neck grand, the bend of his knee robust, the bulge of his chest blowing away the illusion of his elder brother’s health. Reginald sees Abraham, and his heart flutters in his chest; he remembers that now.

Other things flutter within, however. He does not know what courses through him, seeing his brother walk the stones that Reginald himself saturated in his urine. He is angry, yes, but his twin is not the source; his stomach lurches with an unfamiliar sensation, his throat is coated with an unidentifiable mucus—for Reginald does not recognize relief, does not quite comprehend what worry is. He knows his mother worries—she says so all the time whenever he frequents her hip—and yet he does not know what it is for him to worry, for he’s not a mother and does not know what she feels. So lives his confusion, gazing at his dual-eyed sibling, his younger brother he escapes, leaves at his mother’s teat, thoughtless, usually, of his wellbeing. He is strong—strong enough for a dragon. Surely he can take care of himself. And yet the Grey Eye’d Prince worries.

He thinks it’s their father who stands with Abraham. It is not. He comes closer and sees the difference in mass, in coloring and marking; he smells the brute’s stench, and his anger flairs, for it matches the reek of the rotunda. This is the culprit, the usurper of Reginald’s kingdom. Dragons fly above the arching, rainbow-glassed roof, cheerful, carefree—Reginald pays them no mind. He approaches with eyes of fire, venomous fangs, a long, searching glare of arrogance that scrutinizes this behemoth. Reginald studies the stallion's face and receives the final insult: this brute has grey eyes.

“Abraham,” Reginald spits, his eyes still boring into the stallion; he hears the poison laying on his tongue, listens to the harshness of his brother’s name spilling passed his teeth. He blinks; he tears his gaze away from the interloper, looking upwards into his brother’s eyes. He must be in control. He is softer with that unidentifiable sensation. “Abraham,” he says again, a whisper, “how did you find this place? Loretta didn’t follow you, did she?”



[*SHOTS FIRED*]

”Watch for Circe.”