Crowned in Crimson Cinders

Chapter 50: The Breaking Point

Brock was dead.

The words echoed in my mind, a desolate, unbelievable truth. The only person who had ever truly seen me, truly cared. The only one who believed in me. It was too much.

His hands, when I reached for them, were cold as ice. How long had he been gone? How long since the assassin had slipped into his room and slit his throat? I prayed it hadn't been painful. Yet, the scene screamed of a struggle. Brock had enough time to notice his attacker and use his powers against them. After looking closer at the tracks left on the sand and dirt, it seemed as though there could have been several assassins, not just one.

As much as I wished Brock could have had a silent and sleeping death, instead of this gruesome scene splayed before me, the evidence of a painful struggle was evident. He was clearly awake. How many assassins had there been to overpower Brock?

The room was silent, save for the ragged, tearing sound of my own sobs. I had no awareness of Brylee or Bri, only the crushing weight of Brock's death, an irreplaceable void tearing through my soul.

Forever.

Somehow, Brock's death crushed me more than the weight of my other three brothers combined.

At some point, a hand touched my arm, a fleeting attempt at comfort, and then footsteps rushed away from the room. I didn't know who it was or why they left. I didn't care. But whoever remained with me slowly, gently, tried to pry my fingers from Brock's. I hadn't realized how tightly I clung to his icy hand until I finally let go and wrapped it back around my own.

My mind was on a constant spinning wheel, replaying all the moments I've had with Brock and all the seconds I had that could have saved him. I remembered his comforting smile and his arms around me as he crushed me in a strong embrace. I remember the letters—long lost now—that he used to write to me from the fronts while he fought. His handwriting was always a hurried scribble, as if he was writing in the few spare moments he had. Those minutes were spared to write to me. He had cared and remembered when no one else had.

He always talked about how he wanted to be just like his older brothers. He'd always spoken of becoming like them, striving for Sebastian's commanding presence and the sharp tactical minds of Tristan and Clifton. To me, he was already perfect just as he was. Now, though, they were all the same, united in death.

Minutes later, the hurried footsteps returned, accompanied by two strained breaths entering the room. "Over here," a voice whispered, and I recognized Brylee. Who had she brought back?

Someone crouched beside me, a presence, and gently turned my head, forcing my gaze away from Brock's still, lifeless form. I met familiar black hair and blue eyes. Darian. A wave of raw relief washed over me that he was here, a tiny anchor in the swirling chaos of my grief.

"Bri," he said, turning to her, his voice low and steady. "Can you please cover his body? A blanket, a towel, anything. Just... cover it. Please."

Bri stayed silent, but obeyed. I heard her footsteps retreat, searching, and assumed she would grab a blanket from Brock's bed.

Darian tried to help me to my feet, but I resisted, refusing to leave Brock, even in death. All I could think of was my failure. He had always been there for me, through Amora's insults, through every low. And now, when he needed me most, I hadn't been there. The least I could do was remain by his side, even now.

"What on Earth is going on here?"

My body seized, every muscle tensing. My parents. The thought slammed into me. Brock was their last male heir. Coronation was agonizingly close, and now... no male contenders remained. I would bet anything they'd choose him.