Tommy’s body moves on its own: right foot, left foot, a sequence of mindless steps dragging him along a familiar path. Just a few minutes ago he bid his goodbye to Dream and Marchioness Beau; he told them that he’d be retiring for the night, knowing full well that he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep any soon.
The last time Tommy had rested was on the hard wood of his desk, in the very literal sense of the word passed out from exhaustion. He can't remember one recent night where his sleep wasn’t cut short by a nightmare or an urgent matter. His muscles sting with weeks’ worth of strain, his stomach shrivels with hunger and his spine begs to be propped up against a support.
By the time Tommy tumbles into his chambers, his knees threaten to give out under him. He climbs into an armchair and all but sinks into it. The servants disappear in a matter of seconds, and Tommy wonders whether it’s the command he mutters or they were scared off by the blank expression on his face. Either way, in the reign of silence, he can finally let the thoughts rush in, and the very first thing that comes to his mind is, What the fuck, Quackity?
Last time Tommy had spoken to the baron, he was fourteen years old. Quackity was a great advisor and a helping hand, and Tommy kept him around for over a year at that point. First, because he needed a teacher, and after that it was common history sealing them together. Tommy owed Quackity more than just a few pieces of advice: those few months that he had to step up in the Emperor’s place, he survived only with Quackity’s help. He was getting back on his feet, building himself back up - and then Wilbur showed up and ruined it all in a day.
To think that Tommy was angry back then, had tried to express his frustration- it’s a thought full of bitter amusement. If he could have gone back to that day and looked his younger self in the eyes, he would grip his shoulders and whisper, in the softest way possible, ‘Believe me, it’s going to get so much worse.’
The Emperor should’ve lent his full support to Tommy in establishing his authority as the crown prince. Instead, their father let Wilbur get away even with whatever he wanted – insulting other nobles, risking the family’s reputation every step of the way and challenging Tommy’s standing. The joint network created by him and Quackity was destroyed, reconstructed and twisted to fit another predator’s liking, and suddenly it was Tommy who had become the prey. With Wilbur circling him, breathing was a luxury, a peaceful day an unreachable dream, and anybody who ever attempted to get closer to Tommy was chased away by the snap of sharp teeth.
Tommy is seventeen now. Three years after Wilbur forced him to leave, Quackity returned to the capital- claiming that Ranboo is related to him by blood. The baron had never told Tommy that he used to have a brother, but he wouldn’t be all that surprised if he did. Quackity is a card turned facedown; a mysterious lurker, a man whose mood changes from playfulness to grave seriousness in a flip of a coin.
“I’m a player,” he used to say, flashing Tommy a toothy grin. “I risk it big or I do not risk it at all; either is going to kill me one day.”
Tommy would’ve thought that such a day would come sooner than later but he knows Quackity well enough to say that his appearance today wasn’t a coincidence. He couldn’t have waited for this long, lying low and skittishly avoiding any sort of interaction with the Imperial family to step up onto a shaky platform of a bold lie. If he could have afforded the risk of confronting Wilbur before, he would’ve done that already.
Or so Tommy hopes.
By being the crown prince’s advisor, the baron squirmed his way into the very heart of the court. Quackity had made it clear to Tommy from the very beginning that their relationship is based purely on mutual profit, but the nature of loneliness is that it doesn’t want to exist. Tommy couldn’t stop himself from getting attached to the person who steadied him on his feet when he felt most unsure of walking.
As much as Quackity talked about how relationships are just weaknesses in disguise, he still fell silent whenever exhausted Tommy would drowse off on his shoulder, still moved his head into a more comfortable position so that his neck wouldn’t hurt when he woke up. Those sleepy afternoons filled with sunlight lazily draping over grass – deep down, Tommy knows that they mattered. Besides - the baron wouldn't risk his own safety based on a lie that can be easily disproved by Ranboo’s one word. Which means that he either is telling the truth, or there's something else that Tommy does not see.
Tommy’s head feels heavy, and he drops it forward to prop on his palm. “What game are you playing at this time, Quackity?” he asks the silence.
The silence, predictably, doesn’t respond, but it warns him of the click of a twisting handle. Tommy pounces to his feet, and stumbling to retain his balance, almost bumps face-first into Techno’s chest.
Tommy’s brother looks like he got dressed in a hurry, a white shirt thrown on haphazardly and hanging loose down his shoulders; his coat is draped over his arms not pulled through the sleeves. Techno’s forehead wrinkles, as if he is in deep thought or trying to hold a pained wince down. His gaze hazily crawls up from Tommy’s toes to head; Tommy doesn’t bother covering his injury, and Techno’s expression drops as his gaze stumbles on purple spilled over the back of his hand.
Internally, two sides of Tommy are fighting. One wants to slump and relax in Techno’s presence, wants to forgive him and forget about everything that happened today- but the other drowns in the layers of hurt and exhaustion building up in his body. Something in-between a whine and a growl creeps its way into his throat, and when Techno brings his leg forward for a step, the crown prince presses one foot back.
“What have you come here for?” Tommy asks in a leveled, steel-cold voice.
“Father and Wilbur were looking for you,” Techno says. He notices how Tommy stiffens, and takes another step, cutting the distance between them enough that he can reach for the crown prince’s hand and carefully take it into his own fingers. “It doesn’t matter now. You’re hurt.”
Tommy tries to retract his hand, but the grip on his wrist tightens - not enough for it to be restraining, but the pressure makes him glance up at blue eyes whose ice matches his own. Techno looks at him expectantly. Tommy’s jaw tightens; he knows he has no other choice but to answer.
“It was a training accident,” he says. “I’ve underestimated my own strength.”
“You haven’t trained once this week.”
Heat circulates through Tommy’s body, countering the concern in Techno’s eyes; the crown prince doesn’t shudder against the heaviness of his brother’s gaze. Two sides of Tommy clash into one, the sparks igniting him alight.
“And how would you know that?” he snaps. “By having my own guards spy on me?”
The pressure on Tommy’s wrist loosens. “I do my best to keep everybody in the palace safe,” Techno says, his tone laced with desperation. “To keep you safe, Theseus, because I care about you.”
A few hours ago, those words would’ve meant the world to Tommy. Right now, they just make him angry. He yanks his hand out of Techno’s hold, ignoring the sparks of pain bursting in his eyes, and scuttles backwards with a hiss.
“This- this is nothing!” Tommy shouts, demonstratively shoving his hand into the air. “If you truly cared, Techno, you wouldn’t let Wilbur hurt me. You wouldn’t stand back and watch as he turns my life into torture,” Tommy rolls his shoulders back and glares daggers at his brother. “Look me in the eyes and say that you don’t know that Wilbur has been clashing me and the Emperor together on purpose.”
Deep down, Tommy wants to believe that Techno’s ignorance comes from obliviousness; that he isn’t aware of the full extent of Wilbur’s maliciousness. His wide eyes beg for Techno to defend himself, to prove him wrong – but Techno stays standing where he is, his face in an unreadable expression and lips sealed. A vow of silence descends upon them, and that is all confirmation that Tommy needs for the last string of his hope to snap.
“You always see, and you always know. And you never take any action, so quit pretending that fussing around me is going to fix anything,” Tommy’s shoulders spike up to his ears, the bitterness of his voice drawling in echo. “If you can’t protect me… then just leave.”
Something bright and pained flashes in Techno’s eyes. Tommy can’t bear the sight of it and turns away. So many times Techno could’ve prevented his sufferings if he just had taken his side, whether it be against the Emperor or Wilbur – but he chose to do nothing and watch as Tommy crumbles piece by piece. In a way, it hurts more than Wilbur’s lies and their father’s harshness. They don’t care about him, and Techno does, but maybe not enough for him to give up the comfortable illusion of a family that he lives in.
From the corner of his vision, he can see Techno leave. Tommy tears his gaze from the floor, and listens to the retracing steps for as long his hearing allows him to before walking up to the closest corner and sliding down with his back pinned to a wall. His uninjured hand fumbles with his braid until the hair comes loose and curls freely down his ears and sides of his face. Head lolling forward, expression void of any emotion – that’s the state that Wisp finds him in when he dares to take a step inside the chambers a few minutes later.
“Your Highness,” the knight’s face twists in a way that betrays that he doesn’t want to continue, “will you be seeing His Imperial Majesty now?”
Tommy raises his eyes to Wisp, his eyelids drooping. Right, he almost forgot about that. His stomach churns with an unruly feeling, knowing that he should expect the worst whenever the Emperor wants to see him. And right after the big announcement of Quackity being Ranboo’s brother? Take a wild fucking guess what their conversation might be about.
A month ago, Tommy wouldn’t think another second before springing to his feet and letting Wisp to lead him to the Emperor, because that’s what he’s supposed to be: obedient, helpful, professional, the nothing less than perfect crown prince. But now… Tommy stops himself in the middle of an unconscious push and takes time to listen to a little voice at the back of his mind that was getting louder and louder ever since he first had seen Ranboo inside the walls of this palace.
The past two months have shown that the emperor doesn’t see him as a son. He is the crown prince, he is the heir, he is the emperor’s loyal subordinate. And the more Tommy thinks about it, maybe that’s what he has always been. A shadow. A whining dog so desperate for warmth and kindness that it’s ready to come crawling on its belly, tail tucked in-between its legs. The owner’s hands, a long life mapped by calluses and scars, once had been gentle and caring and generous for love, and maybe that’s why Tommy had believed for so long that their caring touch would stroke over his head once again, even when the only thing he ever got was a kick to his ribs.
Tommy’s head is a swarm of voices, sentences bouncing in his skull time and time again: one that says that he’s not worthy, the other plays on his fears like guitar strings and the last is a low rumbling tone that tells him to endure it all. They are quiet now; silent in the clank of chains being pulled and shattered, in a sigh of relief and a chuckle as the fourth voice takes its form. It had always existed in his mind but was a prisoner of the sturdy steel of self-control and sufferance; now that it’s free, it flexes its shoulders and leans over the crown prince’s ear.
This voice sounds like Tommy, and in a tone that sends a lightning of cold down his spine, it whispers, no more.
Tommy stands up abruptly. Drifting at the brim of consciousness just a moment ago, his exhausted body is struggling to catch up. He leans on the wall for balance and straightens himself to his full height, flicking his wrist in an awry gesture of dismissal when Wisp tries to slide his shoulder in for support.
“I’m fine,” he states, the phrase he repeated so many times feeling foreign on his tongue. Whether it’s true or not, it tastes different now; sweet and intoxicating akin to wine. Tommy throws his head back, baring his neck, and wonders if he looks like a madman. He surely feels like one, and yet this is the best he had felt in years. As if a latch had come loose or a dagger cut through the rope squeezing his chest, Tommy can take a gulp of air and feel it filling his lungs, expanding and expanding until they press against his ribs.
With a chest-rattling inhale and cracking laughter, Tommy feels free.
“Tell the Emperor that I won’t be seeing him right now. If he wishes to speak with me, it won’t be until the afternoon,” he orders.
Wisp schools his features into a neutral expression and nods, but his gaze lingers a little longer on the crown prince’s hand. Dream’s words echo in Tommy’s ears, and he adds quietly, “And send somebody to fetch a physician.”
***
Tommy calls for a secretary first thing in the morning. He orders the man to bring a copy of a contract – the one that Tubbo had signed when he first entered the position of his aide. The secretary makes a few changes under his command, and Tommy presses a stamp to the finished document.
He is in the middle of looking through the list of guests extending their stay at the palace when Marchioness Beau appears, the papers clasped between her thumbs, hair pulled up in a simple bun and clothes of casual sort. Tommy casts a glance at the markings of a candle to his right side; three hours had passed since he sent a secretary to deliver the contract – enough time for the lady to memorize the whole thing.
“Forgive me for barging in so suddenly, Your Highness,” the marchioness says, “but no matter how much I look, I don’t seem to catch on to the meaning of this.”
Tommy’s eyes slide over the edges slightly bent from being flipped too many times, and he recognizes the look on her face as both curious and cautious. He puts aside the envelopes he was previously looking over and looks straight into her eyes. "Marchioness Beau, I want you to become my right hand."
Marchioness Beau keeps to the silence, not a muscle twitching on her face. Somebody else in her place would jump into an offer, ignoring the alarming haste of it, but with the prolonged eye contact the marchioness makes it clear that she is not a person to trust others blindly.
Tommy can respect that. He gives in with a dip of his chin, leading both his and her gaze to his laced hand.
“Right hand,” Marchioness Beau says, disbelieving. Very funny, she seems to be saying with her disappointed look.
Tommy shrugs innocently.
“It’s very hard to sign papers with my left hand.”
“I did not know that you were capable of joking, Your Imperial Highness.”
“Of course not. You must have heard the rumors. I never smile, let alone joke, you see.”
Only years of practice spent on controlling his expressions prevents Tommy from surrendering to the urge to smirk. Sensing his light mood, Marchioness Beau snorts in a very un-lady-like manner.
“The rumors also say that you have only once appointed an aide, and that you are extremely notorious in picking out servants for yourself.” The lady puts down the contact on the desk. “It’s not that I’m not appreciating the offer, Your Highness, but I’m curious as to what made you choose me over your own secretaries.”
"If I said that somebody I’m closely acquainted with would be more vigilant to their duties, would that answer satisfy you?”
“I won’t be satisfied with anything but the truth.”
“This is quite bold of you, to accuse the crown prince of lying.”
Tommy adds some ice into his voice, leaning forward, his gaze pinning Marchioness Beau in one place. A twitch of her shoulder doesn’t slide unnoticed by Tommy, but she withstands his gaze, even risking to shoot a glare of her own.
“I did not accuse you of anything but withholding information, Your Highness.” Marchioness Beau understood that this was a test, one that she had just passed. With a low hum, Tommy leans back on his chair and lets his eyelids droop while he gathers his thoughts.
“A servant is just another word for a spy. You’ve spent enough time in the court to understand that, Your Ladyship,” he says. “I can’t trust His Majesty’s people because their loyalty will always lie to him first.”
“Oh my,” Beau pulls out her folded fan and presses it to her lips, feigning a scandalized look. “Will there soon be a situation where His Majesty and His Highness’ interests will stray away from each other?”
She’s trying so hard to pull up the image of a hopeless gossiper that other people paint her as that Tommy almost believes it.
“If I said that it’s possible, can I trust that you will keep that information between us two?” he asks, cracking his eyes open.
“Depending on what you’re offering,” Marchioness Beau smiles slyly, dropping the fan back into her pocket, and they both look at the contact lying in-between them.
“I’m offering you a stable position in my court and in the palace, the reputation and influence that come naturally with it, and a fixed allowance of a decent amount. In exchange, you report to me about what happens in these walls. The news, the rumors, the gossip – everything that could be of potential use for me, I want to know of.”
Tommy looks into the lady’s eyes again, no threats or tests or warnings hidden this time, just plain honesty. She pries into them for a little longer, weighing the offer, and glances down when she hears the quiet screech of an inkpot pushed across the desk. The lady snatches a quill from a pile to Tommy’s left, dips it into the black liquid, and letting the excess drip down from the tip, brings it to hover over the end of the page.
“When does this contact go into effect?” she asks.
“As soon as you sign it.”
She puts her signature down in a blink, and tossing the quill back into a pile, straightens her back.
“In this case, His Highness might be interested to know that Ranboo had confirmed that Lord Quackity is his brother this morning. His Imperial Majesty had invited them both for lunch today, and it just so happens that I overheard where it’s going to be.”
***
The servants open the doors of the dining room on two sides, and the sunlight spilling through drowns Tommy in gold, clinging to the silver buttons of his black vest and hair pulled back into a ponytail. He waits another second for the three people inside to have their full attention on him before he dips into a smooth, confident stride, all but sailing through the threshold.
The dining room is the same one that they had a meal in during the day Ranboo was brought into the palace. It’s almost ironic, because the roles are reserved now: it's Ranboo whose eyes are darting around in confusion, who shrinks on himself, crushed by the power of a person far more superior to him. This far he wasn’t familiar with the looming threat that the Emperor’s presence radiates, but even he can’t stay oblivious to it now that air almost physically reeks of danger.
Quackity, the one who the Emperor is actually trying to scare off, doesn’t cower in his wake. His Majesty's authority is a dull knife against the aura of his confidence that Tommy knows is not connected to a half-downed glass of wine in his hand. Since the last time he saw Quackity, the wrinkle on his forehead had gone deeper, the features of his face – sharper, and only one thing remained unchanged: a sly, playful smile that resides on his lips. The familiarity of it nearly makes Tommy drop his steely expression, but the man breaks the spell by standing up and bowing.
“Long time no see, Your Imperial Highness,” he sounds fond. Tommy presses his lips into a thin line and waits for Quackity to look up.
“Indeed,” Tommy says. Are you an enemy, or are you an ally? his eyes ask.
Quackity smirks, and his gaze falls to something he is holding in his pocket.
“Good afternoon, Your Imperial Majesty.” Tommy turns to the head of the table.
The Emperor narrows his eyes, his chin resting at the top of his intervened hands. Even if Tommy’s appearance had taken his father by surprise, he doesn’t show it, resorting to an acknowledging hum.
“Is there any particular reason as to why you have shown up uninvited, Prince Theseus?”
“No other than that I wished to speak with you.”
As soon as their eyes meet, Ranboo and Quackity's presence becomes insignificant. Ice clashes with ice; Tommy ignores the sinking feeling in his heart and withstands it. In the corner of his vision, Quackity pushes his chair to the table and wipes his hands with a napkin - getting caught in the crossfire didn’t seem to be in his plans today. That’s what Tommy had valued in him so much; ten seconds into observing their interaction, and the man already knows that the sparks are about to fly.
“We would not dare to intercept the quality time between a son and a father,” Quackity says. There is a barely conceived smile on his face and an almost mocking undertone to his voice. “If His Majesty allows, we will take our leave now. Ranboo and I have a lot of catching up to do.”
Quackity puts a hand on Ranboo’s shoulder, and Ranboo flinches. He raises his eyes to Quackity but stands up slowly, propping his palms on the edge of the table.
“Are you alright, Ranboo?” the Emperor asks.
The grip on Ranboo’s shoulder tightens ever so slightly. Tommy stands close enough to see the sudden heave of his chest, quickly hidden by a sigh and a weak smile.
“Yeah I’m just- I guess I didn’t get enough sleep last night. Is it okay if I..?” He vaguely gestures towards the exit, and the Emperor nods, finally letting Ranboo and Quackity leave the table. Ranboo rounds Tommy by a long curve, avoiding looking him in the eyes, but Quackity brushes shoulders with him, and he feels the man’s hand clamped over his, something round and cold landing in the middle of his palm. Tommy squeezes the object automatically and slides it into his pocket just in time as the doors close shut, leaving him alone with the Emperor.
Tommy runs a tongue over his dry lips. He knew that the confrontation would come soon; puzzled over it, knees to his chest, hiding underneath a table on the night he was sent away from the ballroom with shame. The list of Tommy’s slip-ups had been growing exponentially ever since, and now that the festivities are over, the consequences are just one step away from catching up to him.
And yet, he crossed the line with his own will, refusing to be a sheep waiting to be slaughtered. Tommy is scared, but it isn’t just fear gathering underneath his skin, stealing warmth from his fingertips as fixes his tie, spiking at every inch he turns towards the Emperor in the form of a giddy tremor. Tommy is tired of playing the game on others' terms, and it is time for him to change the rules.
"Theseus. Why didn't you appear when I requested your presence last night?"
"I heard about the commotion that happened yesterday, but I assumed that the Emperor and two princes wouldn’t need my assistance in handling the issue.”
“You could have at least shown some concern.”
“Why would I?” Tommy asks, quirking a brow. “Last time I checked, Ranboo was your charity case, not mine.”
The Emperor’s voice was curt, but he didn’t expect Tommy to speak with the same bluntness. His eyes squint impossibly more, his lips pressed together and twisted in irritation.
"Maybe because you’re the one who invited Baron Quackity in the first place."
Tommy draws back a shudder. Wilbur had already spoken to their father, then. Tommy could bet that his brother made it seem to the Emperor like he had staged the whole family reunion as a way of getting Ranboo out of the palace.
This is both an accusation and a test; His Majesty wants to see if he will buckle. Tommy doesn’t know why it still hurts that his father trusts Wilbur’s word over his, but he doesn’t let it show on his face.
"It doesn’t seem like Prince Wilbur bothered to let you know that Quackity was on the issued guest list for months already. He just chose not to accept the invitation until yesterday.”
"You know that Baron Quackity is not on the best terms with the Imperial family. You should have revoked his invitation."
You could have done that yourself. Tommy closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath to recollect himself. He can feel anger seething just beneath the surface, but fire is useless against the iceberg that is Emperor Philza. Tommy thinks of Marchioness Beau: how she dances on the borders of cautious and risky, how confidently she steps on red-hot coals and yet never gets burned. Instead of pouncing head-on into an argument that he can’t win, Tommy presses an innocently surprised look to his face.
“Pray tell, am I understanding this right?” he asks. “I thought that Your Majesty would be delighted by the miraculous family reunion, but you seemed to be displeased with Baron Quackity’s appearance. Do you, by any chance, suspect Ranboo of lying?"
The iceberg cracks. The Emperor recoils, the grip of his fingers tightening on each other, and Tommy finally understands: believing Quackity is not a question, it's a choice. The Emperor has been trying to find the truth, speaking with Wilbur and Quackity, accusing Tommy, but ultimately, he chooses to believe, because it gives Ranboo a title and flings him up in the noble hierarchy.
The only thing that can keep a predator away is another, much more stronger predator. For as long as Quackity's presence is profitable, he is under the Emperor's protection - the only type of patronage that can stop Wilbur from getting to him.
Ah, Quackity, Tommy thinks. You sly bastard.
"I see it as though Baron Quackity will be staying in the palace for longer. I'll make sure that proper accommodations are prepared."
Tommy uses the Emperor’s stupor to leave without being dismissed. He wishes to say that he did it to have the last word in the argument, but in reality he felt as though one more minute in that room would make him faint. Tommy’s back is cramped with sweat, his heart runs a mile a minute; he squeezes his ribs in an attempt to calm it down and ground himself. He didn't just talk back to his father, he defied the Emperor and got away with it.
And this is just the beginning. Tommy knows that he isn’t being taken seriously; in the Emperor’s eyes, he is nothing more than a misbehaving child. For now, it works in his favor. Tommy is in no position to openly challenge the Emperor; as the crown prince, he is fully dependent on him, but it doesn’t always have to be this way.
Tommy reaches for his pocket and pulls out the object that Quackity had given to him earlier - it turns out to be a golden coin. Instead of the emblem of the Empire, Tommy brushes a thumb over the chased face of a jester. On this side, he’s smiling from ear to ear. When Tommy flips the coin, he is met with a sinister scowl.
Are you an enemy, or are you an ally? Tommy had asked, and Quackity answered him, I could be both.
Tommy rounds a corner and comes face-to-face with Dream. Surprised to see the other prince, he doesn't fix his expression fast enough and bares his worry to the naked eye.
‘Forgive me, I don’t look very presentable right now,” he says, and with a forced smile on his lips he adds: “Are you taking a walk?”
Dream is having none of it, staring at him with care and intensity of a jeweler inspecting a gem. Colors dance at the edges of Tommy’s vision, and his hands still remember the kind touch; it’s hard for Tommy to keep his face straight and unbothered under the eyes that have already seen the most obvious of cracks.
“Did your family offend you again?” Dream asks, blunt.
Last night, Tommy’s pride was too occupied drowning in misery and exhaustion to care about his dignity, but today it bristles full force and pounds with heat against Tommy’s cheeks.
“You can withdraw your concerns, Dream. I am no longer intending to tolerate insulting or belittling behavior towards me, whoever it might be coming from,” he says, folding his arms behind his back. “Remember what you had told me about pity yesterday, and keep true to your words.”
Dream didn’t deserve the harsh tone and scathing look he gets smeared with, but it’s as though a dam between Tommy and his anger had been destroyed, and he struggles to keep all of his fury inside, lashing out on the first person to talk to him. He means it, though; every last word. Tommy is done letting everybody trample his pride.
A look of surprise passes Dream’s features, one that morphs into something more serious. “Tell me how I can prove to you that I view you as an equal, Theseus,” he says.
Tommy thinks about it for a long moment. Thinks about all the rumors that he ever heard or gathered about Dream. The crown prince of Esempi, brother to King Foolish; the prince who controls the court with just the pull and twitch of his fingers, the prince that the nobles of the Kingdom are more afraid of than other nations, the prince who has more influence over the country than the monarch himself.
That sort of power doesn’t come from good manners or sitting prettily on the throne. One day, as the first in line, Tommy is going to become the Emperor, but simply having the crown is not enough. How willing the nobles are to comply with his command, how ready they will be to buckle to his will, whether they will try to challenge his rights for the throne - it’s all determined by the reputation he builds himself now.
Tommy’s eyelids, momentarily drooped, pry open, his hazy gaze focusing sharply when it locks on Dream. “Teach me,” Tommy says, demanding, determined. “Teach me what it takes to be the crown prince.”
Dream doesn’t answer right away. He stares right past the puzzle of an expression on Tommy’s face, past his burning glare and somewhere deeper into his soul.
“There is no captain without a crew,” he says, but his eyes are still searching. “First of all, you’re going to need people on your side who you can rely on. People who you can trust as much as you do yourself.”
Tommy pauses, his hand clenching into a fist on his side. “And what if those people betray me?” he asks quietly.
Dream blinks. Whatever it is that he had found in Tommy’s eyes, he must have liked it. The smile that blooms on his face is something unfamiliar, new - not quite the friendly or welcome type that Tommy had seen before, instead a dangerous layer to it that strikes a chill down his spine.
“You find everything that they are attached to,” he says. “And take it away from them.”