Hector- Dura

“I’ll make this easy for you,” his brother said quietly. He put his hands on Hector’s shoulders, the grip tightening. “You’ll renounce your claim to the throne.”

“And if I don’t?”

Vincent squeezed hard, digging thumbs and fingers through the material of Hector’s gown. The magister saw dark, russet hairs emerging from his brother’s sleeves, spreading over his broad hands as he gripped. He bared his teeth, snorting, forcing his brother down. Hector felt his knees give, legs buckling as he dropped to the floor. Vincent held on, his twin kneeling in his shadow. Vincent’s chest heaved now, his breath hot and labored as his ribs cracked and shifted. Hector listened, horrified, to the bones of his brother’s head popping and grating. Hector had never learned to control his therianthropy; the fact that Vincent had mastered it was news to him.

“I shall have the throne of Redmire, Hector,” said Vincent, the teeth of his lower jaw jutting from his mouth—the tusks of the Boar. “There are two ways this can happen. You step down like a good boy, or I claim it as the only living heir.”

He released his grasp, sending Hector headlong into the fireplace. His brow hit the brickwork, splitting instantly. He looked up as Vincent stepped over him to join his men. This wasn’t the boy Hector had grown up with. He wanted to cry—for his father, for Redmire, even for Vincent. Hector scrambled to his feet, head streaming with blood as he staggered from the hall. Grabbing the handles of the great doors, he threw them open, nightclothes flapping, and slipped and stumbled into the gardens beyond.

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