Chapter Eighty-Four

Chapter Eighty-Four
Rex awakens the following morning with a resolute expression, his mind burdened with unanswered questions that no longer allow him peace. He insists, almost with a royal command, that he must uncover the truth of what transpired with his late uncle. His voice carries both determination and an undercurrent of unease, and I cannot bring myself to disagree. He is, after all, the king. If anyone has the right to know the full extent of his family's history—both past and present—it is him.
"Diego has something to do with all of this," Rex declares firmly, his eyes glinting with suspicion. "Come with me."
I obey without hesitation, following closely as he descends the grand staircase and leads me through the back corridors of the palace. He pushes open a heavy door that reveals the dimly lit garage. My steps falter when he moves toward a concealed stairwell tucked against the wall. He pulls the latch, the door creaking open to a narrow flight of stairs that spiral into darkness.
I pause, my heart quickening. "Are we in a horror film?" I whisper nervously, glancing down into the shadows.
A low chuckle escapes him, though it does little to dispel the tension. "Not quite," he says, his tone grave. "We're going to the war room."
"The war room?" My voice rises in alarm. "What war?"
He shakes his head quickly, softening his tone as though to reassure me. "No, not an actual war. It is merely a chamber where records are kept—strategies, family archives, political secrets. If there are answers about Diego, they will be found there. I need to understand the depth of his involvement."
I hesitate before responding, choosing my words carefully. "I do not believe his role is as grave as you imagine. Diego was not even born when your uncle was killed. He could not have played a part in that tragedy. But perhaps there is another truth he has concealed—something he fears to share."
Rex halts abruptly in the stairwell, turning toward me with an expression of sudden realization. The flickering light from the wall torch casts sharp angles across his face. "You are right," he admits slowly, almost to himself. "In my anger, I forgot the simplest fact—that my uncle's death occurred before Diego even came into this world. And yet, I have spent years cursing him, condemning him in my heart, as though he were guilty of every wound my family has suffered."
His voice grows softer, tinged with sorrow rather than fury. "Perhaps I wanted someone to blame. Perhaps it was easier to direct my hatred toward my brother than to confront the darker truth about my own bloodline."
I step closer, searching his eyes. "But why, Rex? Why such relentless hatred? You have never told me what truly lies behind this bitterness between you and your brother."
He stares at me in silence for a long moment, his jaw tightening as though wrestling with the answer he has buried for far too long.
"He is the one who went to my mother," Rex said, his voice low, as though the memory itself still poisoned him. "He stripped me of the chance to go to her myself, to speak to her as her son, and to tell her about you with honesty. I wanted her to know you through my eyes—through the truth of what you mean to me. But he robbed me of that moment. He painted his own picture of you, one colored by suspicion and disdain, and in doing so, he condemned you before you were even given the chance to stand before her. Do you recall the day she appeared at the mansion so suddenly, her eyes sharp, her questions cold? That was him. That was his doing. He forced her hand, knowing full well what my parents think of those who are not from here, of anyone who does not carry their name or their heritage. He knew, and he used it."
Rex's jaw clenched, his eyes hardening, though grief trembled beneath the surface. "And that betrayal was not the first, nor was it the last. My brother has lived his life shadowing mine, but not with loyalty. He thrives on planting doubt, on twisting truths into lies that serve his ambitions. He whispers poison to anyone who will listen, making them believe I am reckless, undeserving, weak. When my father turned his anger upon me, Diego did not shield me as a brother should—he joined him. At the council, when I was at my lowest, when I most needed his voice to rise in my defense, he cast his vote against me. Do you understand? My own blood raised his hand against me, as though I were nothing more than a rival to be defeated."
His tone grew harsher, though the hurt bleeding through was unmistakable. "He makes allies of strangers before he stands beside me. He feigns loyalty when it suits him, yet behind closed doors he whispers another story. He has taken my mistakes and sharpened them into weapons, presenting them to others as though I were a danger to the crown itself. Every time I stumble, he ensures the entire kingdom sees it, and he ensures my father never forgets it. That is what my brother is to me—an enemy clothed as family."
The rawness in Rex's eyes struck me like a blade. His pain was more than frustration; it was the ache of years spent unloved by the one person who should have been his ally. And it made me furious at myself—for the nights I had doubted him, for the moments I had believed Diego's polished words.
We only ever know people as they choose to be known. They present us with fragments, with masks so carefully shaped that we mistake them for truth. And we believe, because we want to. But sometimes I wish life worked differently—that we could see a trailer of a person before we let them close, a glimpse of their ending before we chose to begin.
The heavy doors of the war room closed behind us, and silence hung thick. Rex gave a sharp nod to the guards stationed within, his command falling swift in Spanish. One immediately crossed to the great wooden cabinet at the far end, withdrawing a series of thick files and laying them carefully upon the long oak table.
Rex pulled one toward him, his fingers flipping through the pages with impatience, until suddenly he stopped. His gaze fixed on a single name, his lips pressing into a thin line. He spoke a clipped phrase in Spanish, and one of the guards bowed and exited quickly, leaving the rest of us in tense quiet.
I sank into a chair at the far end, feeling like a ghost in a story too heavy for me. Their language, their politics, their history—it all moved around me like a storm I could not stop. I turned to my phone, clinging to the glow of something familiar.
Messages. Missed calls. My family's voices preserved in text. Concern laced through every line. With trembling fingers I typed back reassurances: I'm safe. I'll be home soon. But even as I wrote, guilt gnawed deep. A month had passed without a single word from me. A month of silence that stretched too long, too wide.
I don't know why I do this—why I retreat into myself when people reach out. Again and again, I fold into isolation, even when my parents and siblings beg me not to. I drag them down with me, force them to sit with worry and fear, and I hate myself for it. Their messages reminded me of everything I had ignored, every call I let ring unanswered. And still, here I was, choosing distance, even as I promised them closeness.
"All well?" Rex's voice broke through my spiral, his hand brushing softly against my hair, as though he knew I needed anchoring. His touch was gentle, grounding. "Would you rather wait in your room until I finish here?"
The words lingered in my chest—your room. My room, as though it belonged to me, as though I belonged here. The thought twisted in my stomach, warmth and fear colliding in a way I couldn't name.
"No," I whispered, shaking my head. "I'll stay."