The Guardian gods Chapter 970

Thinking of Lunara brought a dull ache to his chest. He couldn’t help but feel as though their marriage was cursed. Before they could even savor the quiet joy of their newly formed bond, before they could exist simply as husband and wife, their world was turned upside down and the kingdom was dragged headfirst into a brutal, total war.

And then came the fracture that tore the royal family apart from the inside out.

His father’s sudden, shocking announcement declaring Magnus as the heir to the throne had hit like a thunderbolt. It had caught everyone completely off guard, none more so than his older brother, a man who had spent his entire life molding himself, preparing every breath and action to succeed their father. In a single evening, decades of preparation had been swept away, leaving behind a poisoned court, a bitter brother, and a throne Magnus wasn’t ready to hold.

Lunara barely spent any real time with him. She had a public image to craft, a political facade to maintain among the nobles and the people surrounding her. And he himself was no better off, his days had been ruthlessly swallowed by endless, exhausting lessons on statecraft, military strategy, and courtly etiquette, forced upon a man suddenly thrust into the line of succession.

With that unexpected mantle came the suffocating, silent hostility of the court.

Every corridor he walked, every hall he entered in his fine royal garb felt like a trap. He was met with constant side eyes, whispers, and cold, judgmental glares from the nobility. To them, he wasn’t a rightful prince, he was a thief. A villain who had somehow stolen his brother’s birthright. The soft silks and heavy furs of his royal attire felt less like armor and more like a straightjacket, turning every step through the palace into a agonizing chore.

His older brother wouldn’t even look at him, let alone listen to his voice. Any chance of sitting down to talk things out, to mend the rift between them, had been completely erased by the war. Every available pair of hands was needed to keep the kingdom from caving in, leaving no time for personal grievances.

And so, here he sat in the quiet, stifling atmosphere of the throne room.

His eyes scanned scroll after scroll detailing the grim news from the frontlines. The reports were unanimous: the combined forces of Bj?rn’s zealots and the Empire were growing more aggressive by the hour, relentlessly pushing through their defenses. But worst of all were the reports from the sky above detailing the catastrophic duel between the God of War and his own father.

Suddenly the heavy oak doors of the throne were violently kicked inward with a sound like thunder, the heavy iron hinges groaning under the impact.

Magnus reacted instantly on pure instinct, his hand flashing toward the sheath resting beside his desk, his fingers gripping the hilt. But as he stood up, his eyes widened, the breath catching in his throat at the sight of the figure standing in the doorway.

"Petar? Brother...?" Magnus asked, his voice filled with a disorienting blend of confusion and alarm. "What are you doing here? You should be leading the army from the frontline!"

Standing in the shattered doorway was his older brother. Petar’s silver plate armor was heavily battered, caked in dried mud and stained with dark, crimson blood. He stood silently, his longsword already unsheathed and dripping onto the polished marble floor. His face was a stone mask, devoid of warmth or brotherhood.

Before Petar could answer, a sharp, mocking laugh echoed from the corridor behind him.

Out from the shadows behind Petar stepped Einar, the second-born son of Ragnar. He walked with a lazy, arrogant stride, a cruel smirk plastered across his face as he shook his head in mock pity.

"Why else do you think he would be here, Last-born?" Einar sneered, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm as he gestured toward Magnus sitting among his scrolls. "Did you really think a war at the gates would make us forget who stole what belongs to us?"

Magnus stood up, his knuckles white around the hilt of his sword. "What nonsense is this?"

He walked down the marble steps from the throne, his voice ringing with desperate urgency. "This is no time for jokes! We are at war, and as it stands, we are losing. We don’t have time for this petty bout! Its time will come after we have at least secured our home!"

Petar, who had not uttered a single word since kicking the doors open, watched Magnus’s every move. His bloodshot eyes locked onto the polished crown resting on his younger brother’s head, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth groaned.

"And whose fault is it that we are losing this war?" Petar’s voice was a low, raspy growl, heavy with weeks of accumulated poison. "Who was it that started this useless war over an artifact lost ages ago? Now our entire kingdom is at risk of falling!"

Magnus stopped dead in his tracks on the steps.

"Does it matter at this point, brother?" Magnus asked, his throat tight. "Does it matter why the war was started?"

Before Petar could snap, Magnus shook his head furiously. "No! It doesn’t! I don’t like this war! I did not like father’s reasons for starting this war, but it was a war that was bound to happen eventually! If we didn’t start it, the zealots of Bj?rn would have marched on us eventually!"

Magnus raised his blade, pointing it toward the northern sky where the distant thunder of gods still echoed. "What matters most right now is that we come out victorious in this war!"

Silence stretched through the vast, cold throne room. Petar didn’t move an inch.

Then, from right beside him, Einar threw his head back and burst into a full-blown, hysterical laughter that bounced off the high stone arches like a slap to the face.

"How nice it must be, sitting on the throne," Einar sneered, sweeping his arm out to gesture at the quiet, spotless grandeur of the high-ceilinged room. "Far away from the battlefield, far away from the relentless slaughter, far away from the thick, choking smell of death... fighting an enemy that doesn’t seem to fear death or pain no matter what you do to them."

Petar’s stony expression suddenly cracked, revealing a sharp, twisted grin that sent a chill down Magnus’s spine.

"So far away," Petar said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, melodic quiet, "that you failed to witness the grand sight of Bj?rn tearing father’s head from its root."

Magnus’s breath hitched in his chest. The room seemed to tilt beneath his boots.

"And in doing so," Petar continued, taking a slow, deliberate step up the marble stairs, his bloodied longsword resting loosely at his side, "father’s death has presented me with a way for our kingdom to stand, a way to ensure we do not fall into ruin because of you or him."

Petar stopped just a few steps below Magnus, his bloodshot eyes locking onto his younger brother with absolute, lethal intent.

"So, brother... will you stand in my way and let me claim what is rightfully mine? Or will you fight me for it?"

Magnus stood completely frozen, his grip on his sword going entirely numb. The noise of the world, even Einar’s cruel smirk everything faded into deafening static. His brain refused to process the words, clinging desperately to denial.

"Father... is dead?" Magnus whispered, his voice trembling, utterly unsure of the reality he was suddenly forced to face.

"Yes, brother," Petar said, his voice terrifyingly calm as he bridged the last few steps separating them, stopping just out of arm’s reach. "Your dearest father is dead, and he left you a colossal mess to deal with. But luckily for you, I am here to take that burden away from your fragile shoulders."

Magnus’s survival instincts finally broke through the paralyzing grief and shock. His blade snapped up, the silver tip pointing directly at Petar’s armored chest, his knuckles white against the leather wrap.

His eyes darted between Petar’s bloodied figure and Einar, who was slowly fanning out behind him.

"Who are you?" Magnus demanded, his tone cold, desperate, and sharp. "The brothers I know... the brothers I grew up with... even with our past differences, they wouldn’t be this easygoing upon hearing that our father is gone. So I ask you again... who are you?"

Petar stared at the tip of the blade, and then without warning, he threw his head back and began to laugh.

"You think that after everything I have been through, I would shed tears?" Petar spat, his laugh cutting off instantly. "For a man who didn’t hesitate for a single second to cast me aside? Who threw away my decades of devotion just for the political advantages he could scrape together from your precious marriage with Lunara?"

Petar took a sudden, aggressive step forward, ignoring the sword pointed at his heart.