The snow drifted lazily down to the earth, the white specks blending in with his white hair as he ran. Warm blood dripped from the wound on his side, leaking through his wool tunic and onto his thin coat. His breaths came in cacophonous rasps and the cold air stung his lungs.
They'd caught him unprepared and now they'd dragged him into the winter darkness to kill him—if given the chance. He wasn't planning on giving up any time soon.
He slipped, falling into the snow at the base of a large fir. His blood colored the blanketed earth red, dots of it blotting a trail directly to him. A horse whinnied in the distance and he scuttled back to his feet.
Keep moving, he thought, keep going or you're dead.
His boots slipped as he ran forward, the bleached stone walls of Boar's Keep appearing from the snow. There were men talking now, dogs howling and barking in chase. Why didn't they just let the dogs after him?
They were afraid of him, they were afraid of the power he might wield against such majestic beasts. So was he. It was the power in his veins that dethroned him. It was the same power that caused a royal guard to stab him through with a longsword. That power… he'd never asked for it and now, if they had their way, it would destroy him.
He pressed his hands against the wound, his dull fingers warming with the blood that leaked from his body. How much blood had he lost? How long had he been out in the cold? Exposure could kill as easy as a knife and the fingers of his unbloodied hand were beginning to turn red and numb. At one point they burned, but now they were just numb—a sign of hypothermia. His breath floated above his head like a whispered prayer as he lowered his head and stumbled on.
Keep going. Aslaug will be there for you. She will save you. Any who defy her will die. He repeated the chant to himself as he pushed forward through the ankle-deep snow.
He reached the stone walls of Boar's Keep, letting them take his strength as the horses grew louder. There was a howl of dogs and then a man screamed. "He's this way! Look at the tracks! Come on!"
He cursed under his breath, forcing his frozen legs to move faster. His trousers were doing a poor job at keeping out the cold and his body felt numb from the elements and blood loss. His teeth chattered together as the voices grew nearer. What would he do when they caught up? Fight them? With what? They had him powerless, completely and utterly powerless.
There was the shrill cry of horses and more shouts of men as he dragged his bleeding corpse through the snow. His hands splashed red against the white-washed stones that blended in with the snow. He could see the gap in the wall leading into the castle. Just a little farther, he convinced himself, pushing forward.
He slipped to his knees again as the first horse came into sight. The rider dismounted quietly upon seeing him and took a broadax from his saddle pack. A pin on his coat distinguished him as a royal guard—not the one who had initially run him through, but of the same motive. His icy eyes stared forward, unnerved by the bloody boy.
"Ketil Østberg, as it is written so it shall be."
The other riders filed in around him, tightening their circle of glossy hooves and flaming torches. Ketil straightened up, his heart leaping. He slipped his red hand out of his coat and lifted it. He was shaking from the cold and blood loss.
"I am unarmed." The words hurt and he found himself gasping a little. He slouched, lowering his hand in an attempt to stanch the flow. He coughed up a thin film of blood, grunting from the pain. "You cannot—" he gritted his teeth, "—kill me. I am the Emperor's son."
The man straightened his posture, throwing his wolfskin cloak over his shoulder. He lifted the axe with both hands. The newly forged blade shined in the dull light. Tradition mandated an unused blade to kill a batræ.
So they would kill him. Ketil swallowed down his fear and a fair amount of blood, pressing his back against the wall with a moan. Where else could he go? What else could he do? There was nowhere to run, no way to fight.
More guards filtered in, holding back heavy set wolf-dogs who growled and snapped at him, straining against their chains. Slobber dripped off open jowls as the sturdy men holding them back strained, one willpower fighting against another.
The snow filtered down through the evergreen needles, covering all of them and concealing the bloody tracks he left behind.
"Your father is dead," the royal guard said in a monotone voice.
Ketil nodded, eyes looking upward. He knew what it meant, but they couldn't possibly follow the Elder Laws. "You can't—"
He took a step forward, snow crunching under his boots. "The crown should lay upon your head, but your blood has been contaminated."
"I don't want the cr—" He lifted the axe even more and Ketil slipped to his knees, head bowed and hands gripping his wound uselessly. He was to die and no amount of batræ power could stop this.
"It was written at the dawn of the Polarian Empire that any child of the Emperor who showed signs of batræ power, must be extinguished upon the death of the crown. I have pledged my life to the Østberg family and to ending any threats upon it. Your existence threatens the Empire."
Ketil wrapped his arms around his middle, looking up as the guard raised the axe over his head. He didn't beg—no, he was an Østberg and the royal house didn't beg for mercy. He narrowed his eyes, gritting his teeth together in a snarl. He would go out with bared teeth, not a bent head.
"Stop!" A woman ran into the circle, both hands raised in placation. Her white cloak billowed around her as she stepped in front of the royal guard, one hand on Ketil's head, the other raised as if to block the axe.
"Empress Aslaug," the royal guard immediately fell to his knees, axe dropping from his hands. He looked up to her as her gloved hands touched Ketil's face. He breathed a sigh of relief.
"Are you alright, brother?"
Ketil nodded, hoping the pallor of his face and the blood leaking from his body answered her question.
"What is going on here?" She shifted her shoulders back, holding herself as a proper Empress. She demanded attention and power. "Did I commission this party?"
"No, my Empress," the royal guard said with a bent head. "The law demands—"
"I know the elder laws." She bent down, her knees sinking into the snow. She pressed her hand to Ketil's side and he lifted his head to look into his twin's blue eyes.There was a fire there, but safety as well. "Brother, do you know the law?"
"It says I must die because of my blood." His chest heaved and his bloodied hands grasped her cloak. He coughed up more blood, grunting as a new stab of pain ripped through him. She quickly slung her cloak off and wrapped it around his shoulders.
"This will keep you warm,"
He didn't feel any warmth, just pain and fear."You have to—" he wheezed with pained breath, "—help me."
Her white hair fell into his face and she took off her gloves, pressing her fingers against his face. She kissed him on the cheek. "Goodbye, my brother."
And then there was a pain in his chest, a stinging and new spurt of blood. His breath caught in his chest and he let out a pained cry. His hands curled up into fists in Aslaug's cloak as she lifted his head to stare into her eyes.
He looked down at the knife wedged into his chest. Her delicate hands curled around the bone hilt, twisting it slightly as blood leaked down his chest.
"I'm sorry, brother."
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