REIGN

Chapter 9 'Son of no man'

BRAHAM

The gentle echo of footsteps in the bathing hall grew louder as Marcus appeared through the other entrance, just as Irene slipped out, her face still flushed from the intimacy she’d just shared—or thought she’d shared—with her husband. Marcus watched her go, an eyebrow raised, a slight sneer twisting his mouth.

“So,” he murmured, a trace of contempt in his voice as he approached the edge of the bathing pool. “The daughter of the cursed King of the North.” He shook his head, a mocking smile playing on his lips. “I would have expected someone… stronger. There’s nothing about her that says ‘queen.’”

Braham shifted in the water, creating space beside him without a word. As Marcus removed his clothing and sank into the warm pool, he dipped his hand into the water, smoothing it over Braham’s shoulders. They didn’t speak for a moment, the steam rising around them, as Marcus’ fingers slipped into Braham’s hair, slowly washing away the grime from his hunt.

After a while, Braham broke the silence. “Perhaps you’re right. She’s… more delicate than I expected. But what does it matter?” He shrugged, leaning back against Marcus’s chest, savoring the feel of the younger man’s warmth against him. “I don’t need her to be strong. She only has to survive. Her father’s support is all I need to secure the North, and if Irene remains pliant, that power remains intact.”

Marcus ran his fingers through Braham’s hair, carefully pouring water over his head. He chuckled softly, his breath warm against Braham’s ear. “And I suppose you think she’ll survive?” His voice was laced with mockery. “She has the spirit of a sparrow, Braham. All she’s done is look at you like a lost lamb and turn her eyes away at the first sign of blood.”

“She’ll do as she’s told, Marcus.” Braham’s tone turned cold. “If I wanted a warrior beside me, I wouldn’t have taken her.” He stretched, sinking further into Marcus’s embrace, the heat from the water and Marcus’s body soothing him. “Besides,” he continued, voice softening again, “survival, I’ve found, is less about strength and more about cunning.”

He let his eyes close, losing himself in the steady, familiar rhythm of Marcus’s heartbeat beneath him. To anyone who saw him now, Braham was a picture of dominance and power, but he knew his strength had been hard-won, a struggle fought tooth and nail. His mind drifted, back to where it had all started—a life of toil and despair in the fields, the son of a nobody, of a drunkard farmer who did little more than sow his suffering in the soil.

“I imagine,” Marcus said, a mischievous glint in his eye, “your dear queen would be horrified if she knew how much her mighty husband despised his own father. The pathetic farmer, Reginald. What a fate that would have been for you if you hadn’t fought to escape it.”

Braham let out a short laugh. “A man who is content with dirt and ale is no father,I am the son of no man” he said, voice laced with contempt. “If it weren’t for my mother… Well, I’d have been another shadow lost in the dirt.” His face darkened. “But even she knew how to seize her chance when she saw it. After she left him, she married Josiah, the commander of Vhega’s first army. He was a true man of ambition.”

Marcus’s fingers stilled for a moment, before he leaned forward, resting his chin on Braham’s shoulder. “And what about you? I imagine you didn’t gain his favor with just a show of loyalty.” The question hung in the air, laced with knowing intent.

Braham gave a low chuckle, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. “Loyalty is rarely enough, Marcus. My mother married Josiah after my father’s ‘untimely’ death. And Josiah… well, he found my talents useful. He saw potential, and I made sure to please him, in every way.”

Marcus smirked, his hand slipping down to trace lazy circles over Braham’s chest. “In every way?” He looked at Braham’s face, but Braham’s gaze remained calm, unflinching.

“Yes,” Braham replied simply, his tone matter-of-fact. “He came to rely on me at his side… and in his bed. War has a way of stripping men down to their basest selves, and I knew how to use that. And when he died, who else would the great King of Vhega turn to but his trusted ‘son’?”

Marcus’s eyes held a glint of both admiration and envy. “You’re truly ruthless, Braham. More than anyone knows.” He leaned in closer, pressing his lips to Braham’s shoulder. “So tell me, then—why not tell your fragile little wife about us?” His tone was teasing, but his fingers tightened slightly on Braham’s skin.

At this, Braham grabbed Marcus’s wrist, his grip firm, an edge of warning in his eyes. “Don’t be foolish, Marcus. You know why. There is no ‘us.’” His voice was cool, each word deliberate. “You are here to please me. Nothing more.”

For a moment, the silence hung heavy between them, the steam thickening in the air. But Marcus’s gaze flickered, the earlier defiance in his eyes dissolving. He swallowed, his tone shifting into something more deferential, more submissive. “Of course, my lord,” he murmured. Then, slowly, he trailed his lips down Braham’s chest, surrendering himself fully.

Braham let his head fall back, his eyes closing as Marcus’s touch consumed him, allowing himself, just for a few minutes, to forget the weight of his responsibilities, his ambitions, his throne. When he finally opened his eyes again, his face was serene, the hunger and anger in him sated, if only temporarily.

There was a knock at the door—a firm, urgent knock that shattered the stillness.

Braham sighed, motioning for Marcus to retrieve his robes. “Come in,” he called, his voice regaining its edge of authority.

Archelles stepped into the room, his face grim. “My lord, forgive the interruption, but we must speak.”

Braham rose from the bath, Marcus draping his robe over his shoulders as he stepped out. “Go on,” Braham said, his voice steady as he fastened his belt, his mind shifting back to the ever-present matters of state.

Archelles hesitated, as if weighing his words. “You asked me to hunt down Geraldine’s remaining sons. I… regret to inform you that they’ve managed to escape. Every single one.”

The news hit Braham like a blow. His jaw tightened, his fingers curling into fists. “How?” he asked, his voice a low growl. “How did they escape?”

Archelles bowed his head. “My lord, they must have had help. There are sympathizers everywhere—some even within the castle walls. And Geraldine’s sons… they are as cunning as he was. They’ll no doubt try to rally support and reclaim their lands.”

A dangerous light sparked in Braham’s eyes. He stepped forward, his voice cold as steel. “We cannot allow that. If they succeed in gathering forces, everything I have fought for, everything I have built, will be threatened.”

“Yes… perhaps you’re right. Archelles, I want every sympathizer found. Root them out. And if any of them attempt to flee, remind them that there is no sanctuary beyond these walls.”

Archelles nodded, his gaze unwavering. “As you command, my lord.”

After the soldier left, Braham turned back to Marcus, his face a mask of determination. “These fools think they can take Valais back? They have no idea what they’re dealing with. My reign will spread beyond these lands. Soon, I’ll have the North, the South… every kingdom will kneel.”

Marcus’s lips curled into a smile as he slipped his arms around Braham. “And I’ll be here to witness every conquest, my lord. To serve you in all ways.”

Braham’s expression softened, just slightly, his fingers tracing along Marcus’s jaw. “Good. Then know your place… and don’t forget it.” He let go, the moment of intimacy as fleeting as it had come, his focus already back on the throne he intended to secure.

As he walked from the bathing hall toward the throne room, his mind raced with the plans that had brought him this far. He’d clawed his way up from the dirt, used every advantage he could seize, and he had no intention of stopping now. Let Geraldine’s sons try to reclaim what they thought was theirs. Soon, every piece of this land would be his, as inevitable as the changing tides. And woe to anyone who dared to stand in his way.