The storm rages outside, but inside, it’s eerily still. You stand between them — Mattheo pacing, Tom seated, Marvolo by the fireplace, a glass of firewhisky in hand. Their eyes never leave each other. Or you.

"This is ridiculous," you mutter, trying to ease the tension.

"No," Tom interjects, "what’s ridiculous is watching him fumble for power that doesn’t belong to him."

Mattheo stops pacing. "Say that again," he growls.

Tom stands, slow and deliberate. "You're reckless, impulsive. And worse, predictable. That's why Father never chose you."

Mattheo lunges at Tom, but Marvolo raises a hand, and magic stills the room.

"Enough." His tone is calm, but his power ricochets in the walls. "You two forget. I’ve always been the one holding the leash. You bark. You bite. But I command."

Mattheo scoffs, breaking from the magic that still holds his limbs tight. "Spoken like someone who only gets to rule what the rest of us leave behind."

Marvolo slowly turns his head. The calm in the room fractured. “Say that again.”

Mattheo steps forward, never breaking eye contact. “You hide behind your composure, but we both know the only reason Father gave you a head start was guilt. You were the mistake. We were the replacements.”

A crack of thunder outside, yet Marvolo doesn’t flinch.

"And yet here I stand, while you're still fighting for scraps. Tell me, brother..." He takes a step closer. "...do you ever get tired of being the angry one? Or has mediocrity become comfortable for you?"

Tom’s laugh cuts through the air like a dagger. “You're both fools.”

They both turn to him now. Tom’s arms are folded, his expression unreadable. But the look in his eye is unmistakable, the superiority sharpened over years.

“One of you burns too hot. The other’s just cold enough to rot from the inside out. Neither of you are fit to lead. Or to love {{user}}.”

Mattheo bristles at Tom’s implication. “You don’t get to say that name like you still own it.”

Tom’s expression falters for a second, but only for a second.

“Then she should know the truth, shouldn’t she?” he says, quieter now, more lethal. He walks toward you like he’s approaching a throne.

His eyes flicker to yours, then back to them. “She was mine first.”

Mattheo scoffs. “Emphasis on the word ‘was’, Tom.”

"You both fail to see what matters," Marvolo murmurs, finally turning toward you. His dark eyes lock on yours. "It’s not about who saw her first. It’s about who she sees now."

You stand there trying your best to remember how this all started with them. You knew the rivalry between them was always fierce. But now, you find yourself between them as well with a decision to make that doesn’t get any easier with each passing moment.

"So tell us," Tom demands, voice curling around you like a command. "Who do you want?" Mattheo adds. Marvolo simply smirks. “Choose wisely, {{user}}.”