Sometimes, your best friend can turn into your worst enemy. The prince of Feorn, Ilmur Avar, had long been in denial about this. But as he walked through the winding paths of the Moon Mountains, the truth he had refused to face began to settle in. His friend, the one that he loved as a brother, had betrayed him.. Ilmur held his blade easily in his hand, and a torch in his other. Gandon would answer for his crimes one way or another.

  The Moon Mountains had once been a thriving dwarven colony, now long abandoned. Broken pickaxes lay scattered across the ground, rusted and forgotten, remnants of the dwarves’ labor from ages past.

  Ilmur ran his hand along the smooth stone walls, marvelling at the craftsmanship. He couldn’t fathom how such small folk had built constructions so vast and grand.

  He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he felt certain which room Gandon would be in. The certainty tugged at him, urging him forward.

  It had been several months since he last saw Gandon. Ilmur dreaded their encounter, but he knew it had to happen and that it had to be him alone. He couldn’t imagine what twisted man awaited him at the end of this path.

  The torch’s heat pressed against him, forcing Ilmur to pause. He wiped the sweat from his brow on the sleeve of his white soldier’s uniform—the same one he wore in war or during training in the courtyard. The fine robes his family preferred had never suited him.

  Ilmur stood tall and broad-shouldered, the result of years of relentless training. His chestnut-brown hair fell long past his shoulders, though his mother would have cut it short if she ever got her way.

  He was getting close now. He could feel his pulse racing. Fear gnawed at him. He didn’t know how he would react—or what he would say.

  What do you say when your best friend is guilty of so many crimes? Was there even a point in saying anything?

  Finally, he emerged from the corridor into a larger chamber. The air was clearer here. Several torches burned along the walls, illuminating the room.

  And there he stood his fri… no, his foe.

  While the rest of the royal family had skin as white as snow, Gandon’s was more sunburned, that whispered at southern origins. Ilmur had no idea who Gandon’s real parents were. Gandon had been brought to the castle when Ilmur was still an infant, and he had always known him, seeing him as a brother by blood.

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  There was no brotherly love in Gandon’s eyes. When they finally stood face to face, Ilmur could see only hate where once he had seen the sharp gaze of a hawk. In all his twenty years, Gandon had never looked at him like that. His bright red hair now carried streaks of black, streaks that had not been there the last time Ilmur saw him.

  Gandon wore plate armor painted purple, with a large black robe covering him from head to toe. On his finger, the silver dragon ring Ilmur had forged, a ring meant to save his beloved brother from eternal darkness, glimmered in the dim light. In his other hand, he held a dwarven-forged blade, its blue shimmer identical to the one Ilmur held. The blades had been a gift from their king for their service to the kingdom. If only they had known that, because of Gandon, war would soon break out in the east.

  Gandon bowed to him mockingly. “Welcome, my prince, or is it your majesty now?” he said with scorn.

  Ilmur tried his best to collect himself, but his arms shook uncontrollably. The tears were close to the surface, burning in his eyes. He couldn’t believe all of this was happening. After everything they had gone through, Gandon was just standing there, mocking him.

  “Damn you...” Ilmur’s voice trembled. “I defended you when no one else would. I defended you before the whole court, until the evidence became impossible to ignore. How could you do this to the whole family? To me?”

  Gandon studied his blade as though it were an exquisite work of art. “That was foolish of you, Ilmur. You shouldn’t let your emotions cloud your judgment. Who else could it have been but me?”

  Images of his father flashed in his mind, but he pushed them aside as quickly as he could. He would take care of Gandon, then his father could finally rest.

  “Why?” Ilmur whispered softly, his voice barely a breath.

  “Why? To save the kingdom, to save the world,” Gandon replied simply. “But also revenge. The royal family owes me and my father everything. I will have my payment, in gold or steel.”

  lmur heard the faint plink of a teardrop hitting the stone floor. He couldn’t remember a time when his heart had hurt this much.

  “In you, there is nothing left to save,” said Ilmur, pointing his sword at his foe. “Weren’t you supposed to be the clever one of us? You can’t beat me in a duel. All you’ve done has been for naught. You’ve caused nothing but unnecessary grief.”

  Gandon’s ring began to glimmer. “You are living in the past; things don’t always stay the same. When you’re dead, I can finally put my mind at ease.”

  Ilmur rushed forward like a bull, screaming with every ounce of pain and suffering he had ever felt.

  Their blades met, the sound of steel creating the rhythm for their deadly dance. Each took their turn leading with their blows. Back and forth they fought, struggling for dominance. This would be their last; one would walk away, and the other would not.