William and Malcolm approached the bed. They stood on opposite sides, mirrors of each other–one raised as the heir, the other as the spare, both scarred by the man lying between them.
Alistair’s eyes fluttered open. The fire that had fueled his confession was gone, replaced by a glassy clarity. He looked at William, then at Malcolm. He saw the unity between them, the bond he had tried to break with competition and cruelty.
“Boys,” Alistair rasped, his voice barely a whisper.
“We’re here, Dad,” Malcolm said, taking his father’s cold hand–the hand that had left the toy soldier in his crib only weeks ago.
“I built… an empire of fear,” Alistair murmured, his gaze drifting between them. “I thought… that was strength. But you…”
He squeezed Malcolm’s hand weakly. “You built a family. You protected… each other.”
A faint, crooked smile touched his lips–the first genuine smile they had ever seen. “You beat me. You won.”
William felt a lump rise in his throat. It wasn’t forgiveness, exactly, but it was an acknowledgment. The war was over.