I lean forward, menace in every inch of me.
“What did he fear most?” I demand.
Miguel’s voice drops.
“That one of your brothers already believed the crown belonged to him.”
The candles flicker.
The church groans.
The crucifix stares down like it’s measuring my soul and finding it short.
And beneath my feet—
Steel doors.Ledgers.Truth rotting patiently in the dark.
“He didn’t come to confess,” Miguel says.
“He came to warn me that the devil doesn’t leave when the father dies.”
My father didn’t fear death.
He feared losing the inheritance.
And suddenly—
I’m no longer a priest in a ruined church.
I’m the son of a king who knew his empire would eat itself alive.
And I’m standing exactly where the cycle begins.
The Son
With
Blood on His Hands
Miguel doesn’t even blink.
“Your father believed one of his sons would kill him.”
The words don’t land like a shock.
They land like confirmation—like something my bones have always known and never wanted named.
In my head, I see it again, my father’s handwriting burned into paper like a curse:
The King will die by a son’s hand.
My pulse roars in my ears. The whole church tilts. For a second, I’m sure I’m going to be sick right here, at the same altar he used as a washing station for his conscience.
Miguel keeps talking, calm as if he’s reading last rites over my chest.
“He said he’d lost control,” Miguel continues. “That he gave power to someone too young to carry it and too proud to refuse it. That he taught one of you how to rule… and forgot to teach you how not to.”
My throat is dry as ash.
