Invisible String - Cregan Stark

Twenty two~ Talion

The vase fell.

It shattered on the stone floor, water bursting outward in a spray of cold light like scattered crystals. The winter rose slid free and skidded across the stone, petals tearing loose as it spun—blue against black.

The world narrowed to that flower.

Winterfell. The glass gardens. Cregan's hands—careful, reverent—as he placed it into mine, as if it were something fragile.

My lungs locked. I could not breathe.

"Princess!" Eliab shouted again, sharp and urgent.

He crossed the room in three strides, his path clear now. He seized my shoulders, and turned me bodily away from the fight. His body came between me and them without hesitation, sword raised, his grip firm but gentle—anchoring.

"Doors," he ordered low and fast. "Try the doors."

I ran.

Blood and water slicked beneath my feet as I grabbed the handle and wrenched with all my might, hissing at the pain coursing through my arm.

Locked.

"I can't!" I yelled.

"Which one?" Eliab demanded, backing toward me without ever taking his eyes off the struggle. One hand reached behind him, finding me again—fingers curling into my sleeve, keeping me tethered. "Which twin is which?"

I looked.

And I knew—I truly knew—how little names mattered now.

They moved too fast. No longer knights. No longer brothers. Just bodies colliding in savage, desperate fury. Steel fell away. They crashed together bare-handed, fists slamming, breath ripping from their throats, teeth bared like animals driven past reason.

"We were born together!" one sobbed, fingers digging into the other's throat.

"You're the one who parted us!" came the answering scream—raw, broken. "And still—still—I love you!"

The one beneath drove his fingers into an open wound.

The scream that followed was not human.

He shoved free, crawling, gasping, hand shaking as it closed around his fallen sword. With a broken, wordless yell, he rose and surged forward—

—and ran straight onto the other's blade.

The sword sank into his belly with a sound I would hear again in dreams.

They collided, chest to chest.

The standing twin wrapped his arms around his brother, sobbing openly now, face buried against his shoulder as though holding him might undo the world. As though love might still be enough.

Blood poured between them.

I did not realize I was crying until my vision blurred and my chest began to ache with it.

With a wrenching sob, he pulled the sword free.

The fallen brother hit the floor with a dull, final thud that echoed through the room and into my bones.

Silence fell.

It crashed down—thick, suffocating—leaving nothing behind but blood, broken petals, and the terrible weight of love turned fatal.

The standing knight turned at last.

Guards crowded the doorway then, blades drawn, breath held, afraid to intrude upon what had already become a grave.