Silence encumbered the backroom of the Ancor treasury. Menelaus sat across from his brother at an ornately carved table, their faces illuminated by the oil lamps that lined the walls. Theron stared only at his hands as they fidgeted against the walnut table.

“Stop squirming. I have this under control,” Menelaus told his brother, his eyes locked on his paperwork. His broad shoulders sat upright with his elbows mounted on the table. 

Ledgers documenting his latest project were scattered over the surface in organised heaps.

“I’m going to tell them,” Theron replied.

Menelaus stopped writing, his gaze slowly rising until he looked at Theron from under his eyebrows. Theron shuffled in his seat under his brother’s glare. Menelaus knew he could never handle confrontation. He’d always been weak like that.

“You will tell our parents nothing.” Menelaus’ voice was low and quiet. Theron tried to hold the stare and, like usual, he lost. Theron averted his eyes and watched as Menelaus hid the last of the physical evidence pointing to his guilt. His mercenaries had taken care of the rest.  

A knock reverberated through the room. Theron jumped in his seat, his head whipping toward the door. Menelaus let out a heavy breath through his nose.

“What?” Menelaus yelled in response.

The wooden door slowly inched open and as it did, a distant banging and hordes of voices unfurled with it. One of Menelaus’ mercenaries stepped out from the frame, planted his arms behind his back and pointed his chin toward the ceiling.

“They know,” he spoke, just loud enough that they could hear.

“What do you mean they know?” Theron replied, and for the first time Menelaus put his quill down.

“Everyone knows, they’re waiting at the doors, requesting their scrips be returned immediately,” he paused, “and your parents, they’re on their way.”

Out of the corner of his eyes Menelaus saw his brother look towards him once more, and this time he didn't look away.

“What have you done?”