Destiny's Game*-Chapter 60: Chains of Love

Through all of it, their relationship continued to grow—through stolen glances, through hidden touches, through quiet, forbidden kisses.

But at the same time, they were each stepping into different stages of life:

Charles into rebellion, and Louis into the cold weight of young adulthood.

Charles began to question everything.

The careful rules. The quiet restrictions. The invisible hands guiding his life.

And for the first time, he started acting like a teenager—angry, confused, and desperate to be free.

It started small. A late dinner, a glance that lingered too long, a question that shouldn’t have been asked.

"Louis," Charles said quietly, pushing his plate away, "why do you always have to know everything I do?"

Louis didn’t respond at first. He just watched him, the faintest crease between his brows. His voice, when it came, was smooth—cold, almost practiced.

"Because someone has to."

Charles slammed his hands on the table. "You’re my brother, not my mother Louis!"

Louis’s eyes hardened, just a fraction, the mask snapping into place. "I’m keeping you alive."

Charles laughed bitterly, sharp and broken. "Alive? I’m alive, Louis. I’m breathing. That’s alive enough!"

Louis’s hands clenched at his sides. He took a slow step forward. "You can get yourself killed in a single careless move. You’re more than a brother to me and I will not stand by—"

"You won’t stand by because you don’t trust me!" Charles yelled. "You can’t stand me having a life outside your walls. You can’t let me make mistakes, even small ones, without turning it into a lesson or a punishment!"

The hallway was silent except for their voices. I stayed near the wall, not daring to breathe too loudly.

Louis’s voice dropped, almost a whisper. "Do you think I enjoy it?"

Charles’s chest heaved. "Then let me make my own choices! Let me live without being watched every second!"

Louis’s jaw tightened. "And if you die?"

Charles’s hands shook. "Then I die. But at least it’ll be my choice!"

There was a long pause. I could see Louis struggling—the king, the protector, the man who had built his life around control—faltering before a boy who refused to be contained.

"You don’t understand," Louis finally said, quieter now. "Every step I take... every move I make... it’s because I—"

Charles cut him off. "Because you’re scared. You’re scared to lose me. But you’ve turned your love into chains."

Louis flinched. Not physically, but I saw it in the tightening of his shoulders, the coldness in his eyes that had always been so carefully controlled.

"I... I only want to protect you," he whispered.

Charles stepped back, shaking his head. "You’re not protecting me. You’re suffocating me. And I—" He swallowed hard. "I can’t live like this, Louis."

For a moment, it looked like Louis might argue. Might force him back into line. But then... something broke. Not completely, but enough that I could see the boy beneath the king, the part of him that feared losing the one person who mattered.

He exhaled slowly, turning his gaze away, jaw clenched. "Go," he said softly.

Charles didn’t leave. He just stared, his hands trembling.

"You have to go," Louis repeated. Voice calm. Controlled. Fragile.

Finally, Charles did. But not without glancing back. Not without hope flickering in his eyes—a challenge, a promise, and a warning all in one.

And as the door closed behind him, Louis sank against the wall, shoulders slumping. The mask had slipped, just a little.

I stepped forward. "That was... intense."

He didn’t answer. He just pressed his hands to his face, muttering, "I can’t lose him. I can’t..."

And for the first time in years, I saw Louis Alvara, ruler of an empire built on fear and blood, truly afraid.

---

Charles found ways to sneak out.

Not by breaking doors or shouting defiance—but by slipping through the cracks Louis didn’t think he had left open.

Sometimes Charles returned after midnight, laughter still clinging to him like smoke. Sometimes he stumbled in near dawn, eyes too bright, breath thick with alcohol and cheap freedom. More than once, he missed morning classes and claimed illness with a straight face.

And still... he came back to Louis.

Always to Louis.

I remember the first time Louis noticed.

Charles had slipped into the west wing at nearly three in the morning. I was standing in the corridor when Louis came out of his office, drawn by the sound of uneven footsteps.

Charles froze when he saw him.

"Where have you been," Louis asked quietly.

Not angry.

Not yet.

Charles swayed slightly, trying to stand straight. "Out."

"With who."

"Friends."

Louis’s eyes narrowed just a fraction. "You smell like alcohol."

Charles shrugged, defensive. "So?"

That single word hit harder than any shouted rebellion.

Louis stepped closer. "You missed training. You skipped class."

"I’m not a child anymore," Charles snapped, voice shaking. "You don’t get to schedule my entire life."

Silence stretched between them.

Then Louis said softly, dangerously calm, "I do when your life keeps ending up in places that can kill you."

Charles laughed bitterly. "You think locking me away is protecting me? You think this—" he gestured vaguely at the corridor, the guards, the invisible walls "—is living?"

Louis’s jaw tightened. "You came back."

Charles hesitated.

Then, quietly: "I always come back to you."

The words disarmed them both.

Louis’s hand twitched like he wanted to reach out—and like he hated himself for wanting to.

"You don’t need those people," Louis said.

Charles’s eyes softened, just a little. "I don’t need them. But I need air."

Another silence.

Heavy.

Then Charles stepped closer despite everything, leaning his forehead briefly against Louis’s chest, like he used to when things were simple.

"I won’t disappear," he murmured. "I just need to breathe sometimes."

Louis stood there, frozen.

Torn between the king who controlled empires...

and the boy who was afraid to lose the one person he loved.

Later that night, when Charles was finally asleep in his own room, Louis remained in the hallway long after.

And I knew then—

This rebellion wasn’t going to end in punishment.

It was going to end in rupture.

Louis listened.

He loosened his grip on Charles’ life—just slightly. Gave him freedom in measured portions. The guards still watched. The schedules still existed. But the leash was no longer drawn tight enough to choke.

Not out of trust.

But because the voices had grown louder.

They no longer whispered at the edges of his thoughts. They commanded. They demanded. And some days, Louis spent all his strength simply resisting them. He had no space left to fight Charles too.

He had always heard them. But with age, they became crueler. He would suffer blinding headaches that left him gripping his skull in silence. Other times, he would retreat inward completely, lips moving in soundless repetition.

"Pureblood," he would murmur.

Over and over.

Like a prayer.

Or a curse.

---

The first time the voices truly won, it happened over something small.

Too small to deserve blood.

A messenger arrived late.

Only twenty minutes past the time Louis had set. A trivial delay barely noticeable. The boy couldn’t have been older than seventeen, knees shaking as he was pushed into the inner hall.

Louis was already seated when they brought him in.

I recognized the signs immediately.

His posture was rigid. Too still. His fingers rested on the arm of the chair, unmoving, but I could see the tremor beneath the calm. His eyes weren’t focused on the boy.

They were focused inward.

The room was silent, waiting.

The boy dropped to his knees. "I’m sorry—I was stopped at the south gate, the police questioned me, I ran as soon as they—"

"Enough," Louis said.

The room exhaled in relief.

But the relief was premature.

Louis’ jaw tightened. His gaze flickered, not toward the boy—but to the empty space beside him.

I heard the words that never left his lips.

Kill him.

Make an example.

They’re testing you.

His fingers twitched.

"Louis," I said carefully, stepping forward. "It was a minor delay. No breach. No threat."

For a heartbeat, he looked at me.

And I saw him.

The real him.

Drowning.

Then the voices surged.

His expression went flat.

Cold.

"Minor delays become major betrayals," he replied.

The boy began to sob. "Please, I didn’t betray you, I swear—my mother is sick, I only stopped because—"

Charles’ name slipped from the boy’s mouth by accident.

"I was bringing medicine for her, they stopped me because of the security marks on the crates, I only wanted to make sure she got it before the fever worsened—"

The room shifted.

Louis froze.

Everything in him stuttered.

For one terrible second, hope flared in my chest.

Then the voices twisted.

He stood.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

"Your mother," Louis said softly.

The boy frantically shook his head. —"Please spare me, I’m sorry, I’ll do anything."

Louis crossed the distance in three steps.

His hand closed around the boy’s throat.

Not to kill immediately.

I moved.

"Louis—"

"Stay," he commanded without turning his head.

And I did.

Because I have learned what happens when you don’t.

The boy’s feet dragged weakly against the marble as Louis lifted him just enough to steal his breath.

Tears streamed down his face.

"You don’t get to speak, it’s useless ," Louis whispered. "You should be grateful wether you live or die today, you deserved it."

" it was a result of your actions ."He said with a scoff.

Then his grip tightened.

Bone gave way with a sound I will never forget.

The body collapsed to the floor lifelessly.

The room was completely silent.

No cheers. No gasps. Only the sound of Louis’ breathing—uneven, almost broken.

For a moment, he stared at his bloodied hand like he didn’t recognize it.

The voices had won.

And he knew it.

He turned suddenly.

"Was he lying?" he demanded.

No one answered.

No one dared.

I stepped forward slowly. "No. He was telling the truth."

Louis’ face didn’t change.

But his eyes did.

Something fractured.

He looked down at the body again.

And for the first time in years...

He staggered back a step.

"I didn’t mean—" he began.

Then he stopped himself.

Straightened.

The king reclaimed his mask.

"Dispose it of," he said.

Not him.

It.

They dragged the body away.

Later that night, I found Louis alone in the infirmary.

His hands were shaking violently as he scrubbed them in water already red.

"It wasn’t supposed to happen like that," he said quietly, not looking at me.

"The voices?" I asked.

He nodded once.

"They said if I hesitated, I would lose everything."

"And do you believe them?"

He stared at his reflection in the water.

"I don’t know what’s mine anymore," he whispered.

That was the first time I understood the truth.

Louis didn’t use the voices to justify his cruelty.

He was fighting a war inside his own head every day.

And sometimes...

He lost.