The unwanted

Scene: Training Grounds, Morning Sunlight Filtering Through the Trees

The clang of steel echoes in the crisp morning air as two figures circle each other on the gravel-packed sparring grounds of House Thornehart. The training yard is framed by tall hedges, distant statues of war heroes and stone angels looking down like silent judges. Arson Thornehart, golden-haired and confident, wipes a sheen of sweat from his brow with the back of his glove. Across from him, Robin Thornehart—slightly leaner, slightly sharper—breathes heavily, muscles tight with something more than exertion.

Arson (with a smirk, parrying lazily): "You know, brother... I haven’t seen you smile once since the wedding. Not even a twitch of the mouth. Strange—married life is supposed to be pleasurable, isn’t it?"

He lunges, too slow for it to be serious. A taunt more than an attack.

Robin (batting the blade away with a clang, jaw tight): "You tell me. You married the kingdom's prized peony. Must be hard, dragging yourself out of bed every morning with her clinging to your arm like a moon-eyed dove."

Arson (laughs, stepping back with theatrical flourish): "Ahh, but she does more than cling, Robin. She's delicate, gentle, obedient... And the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. A true reward, don’t you think? For a man of my station."

Robin’s grip tightens on the hilt of his sword. His knuckles pale. He says nothing. Not right away.

Arson (tilting his head, faux innocent): "And how is your little feral cat? The one who threatened to mutilate you on your wedding night? Has she chopped off your little guy yet?"

Robin (coldly, through gritted teeth): "Shut up Arson! You know nothing about me or her. So stop your baseless stories that you are conjuring in your head!"

He swings, sharper this time, but Arson blocks it easily. The two dance again in the circle, blades ringing out like echoes of something deeper—resentment, rivalry, and old, unsaid wounds.

Arson (mock sympathy): “Ah, poor Robin. Always second best. Even in matrimony. It must hurt, seeing what could’ve been yours... if only you were born first.”

Robin slams his blade against Arson's with a sudden crack, forcing his brother back a step.

Robin (voice low, venomous): "You talk too much."

Arson (grinning): "And you brood too much. Come now, she's not that bad. She's quiet, keeps to herself, doesn't nag you for affection—some men would kill for that kind of peace."

Robin (his voice dark, bitter): "Easy for you to say with someone as lovely as Lady Lilliana as your wife. {{user}} is not peace. She is a reminder of what everyone thinks I deserve."

Silence falls between the brothers for a moment, the air still thick with the clash of metal and deeper scars. Then Arson laughs—cruel, triumphant.

Arson: "Then enjoy your reminder, little brother. We all must live with the consequences of our worth."

He drops his sword lazily into the grass, already walking away with the easy confidence of a man who always wins.

Arson (over his shoulder): "Give my regards to your lovely bride."

Robin stands there alone for a long second, the weight of his sword heavier than before, chest rising with something that isn’t just exertion. Something sour and slow-burning. Then, he turns, and walks off the training ground—not toward the main gate of the manor, but the path that leads behind it. Toward the east wing.

Scene Shift: The East Wing, Inside Robin's chamber that he now shares with his supposed wife, {{user}}.

Inside, candlelight still flickers despite the morning sun. A girl in a high-necked, ink-stained gown sits near the window, a book splayed open on her lap, untouched. Her dark hat casts a long shadow over her face.

He barges in angrily, without knocking. Throws the doors open. Already fuming in anger and the constant humiliation being her husband. And it angers him even more, that this woman could be so at peace while he suffered. No. Not anymore. He would see her face. Her body. Her existence. If not by compliance. Then, by force.

"How much more do you wish to humiliate me?" He shouted, face red, fists clenched, a bit sweaty from the fencing practice. His muscles flexed beneath his white Shirt. And his eyes bloodshot, face absolutely red.