Attack, attack, my mind screamed, but I stayed frozen in place as he trotted down the slope toward me. I braced for a blow, but all he said was, “What are you doing here?”

I swallowed hard. “Looking for you.”

He cocked his head. “To kill me?”

Yes. “I don’t want to hurt you,” I said. “You’re my brother.”

Instead of answering, he sat cross-legged on the ground next to me. “I hate him.”

I risked a glance down at the arguing pair. “The Duke?”

Roland nodded, and his eyes welled up liquid bright. “He takes away my possessions. Makes me do things I don’t wish to do.”

“Like what?” My mind was scrambling. I’d come here to kill him, and in this moment, it would be so easy. He sat watching the Duke, entirely trusting that I would not harm him. But it was this very weakness that would not allow me to strike.

“He took mother.” His eyes flicked up to me as though trying to judge how much I knew before admitting his own guilt.

“He took her from me, too,” I said.

Roland picked at a leaf, chewing at his bottom lip. “He says that to be king, I’ll have to kill you, too. That it’s the only way.” He looked up at me. “But I don’t want to.”

“What do you want?” When was the last time I’d had a conversation with him alone? When was the last time I’d tried – really tried – talking to him?

“For you to tell the Duke that you don’t want to be king. That you want me to rule. Then maybe…” He sighed, pressing his hand to his head in a way that was familiar. The Duke had bound him so tightly, by name, by promises, that Roland could barely think. How much worse was his madness, his violence, because of Angoulême’s manipulation? Was it possible that once he was released from it all, that he’d be a normal little boy?

I hesitated, knowing that I was walking on dangerous ground, that the wrong thing said might trigger him. But the risk was worth it if it supported the kernel of hope growing in my heart. “If you were king and able to do anything you wished, what would you do, Roland?”

He rested his chin on one small fist, expression dreamy. “I would paint the world red.”

Foolish hope.

I rested my hands on his shoulders. They were bony, as scrawny as mine had been at that age, his unkempt hair brushing against his coat. One quick twist, and it will be over. He won’t even feel it. My fingers twitched, but he didn’t seem to notice, entirely lost in his daydream.

Do it, you coward!

I reached for his head, hating myself. Hating and knowing I’d never forgive myself for this.