Dark Fairytale of Twisted Siblings

My brother was born with a tender soul, a heart as fragile as spun sugar, always bending toward kindness even when the world offered him none in return. He wept for people who had done nothing to deserve it, and he wept again when our nightmare finally ended.

I still remember holding him that night, both of us covered in ashes, his palms raw and blistered from forcing shut the furnace door that had devoured the sorcerer who tormented us. He clung to me, shaking with sobs, until at last his tears ran dry and silence settled heavy over his lips.

We drifted together through the strange, perfumed house, its candy-stained windows glinting eerily and its walls thick with honeyed crust. I found our old, ragged clothes where the wizard had hidden them, and when I offered my brother his tattered tunic, he slipped it on without complaint. When I discovered the glittering jewels and coins piled in the attic, his only response was a hollow nod. He carried what I handed him into sacks we could drag through the woods, but joy never once flickered across his face.

I tried to tell myself it would be enough—that treasure could buy us freedom, that silver and silk might shield us from our stepmother’s cruelty.

But when I spoke of going home, my brother’s voice finally broke through the silence. “I don’t want to return to them,” he whispered, trembling, his gaze fixed on the shadows behind us.

Neither did I. But what other choice did we have?

Still, he followed me as I carried the weight of our escape, until suddenly he turned back. “Wait,” he said, eyes darting toward the ruined kitchen. “There are things left—potions he brewed. He thought I never noticed, but I did.”

Fear curdled in me, but I could not deny him. He moved with practiced ease through the sorcerer’s domain, gathering bottles of shimmering liquids and dark powders, tucking them carefully between the bolts of velvet we had stolen. When he rejoined me, there was a new stillness in his posture, as though he carried not only vials but knowledge, heavy and secret.

The forest offered no path, yet he led us as though the trees whispered directions only he could hear. When I asked how he knew, he smiled faintly and said, “I simply understand it now.” That was the first moment I felt a thread of fear coil around my heart—not of the woods, but of what my brother had become.

By dawn, his silence had settled deep, his shoulders squared in a way that felt unfamiliar. When our father’s home appeared at the edge of the clearing, he faltered only briefly before rushing toward it. Our father embraced us with tears and apologies, murmuring blessings as though prayer could erase his sins.

But as he held us, warmth and rage warred within me. My brother’s eyes met mine across our father’s shoulder, and I felt an icy tremor. My anger was fire. His was frost, sharp enough to burn in its own way.

Our father confessed the truth of our stepmother’s sickness. She had wasted away during our absence, confined to her bed. He called it an act of God, but when my brother stood and declared that we would see her, I felt something far darker at work.

In her chamber, I could barely cross the threshold, but my brother knelt at her side, stroking her brow with gentleness that made my stomach twist. He uncorked one of the stolen vials, tilting the potion between her lips. I nearly shouted to stop him, but he raised a hand without looking back, as if commanding silence.

Her breathing steadied by morning. Within a day, she was walking the halls again, smiling too sweetly, pretending at sorrow. She welcomed us with false tears and called us her “lost children.” My fury grew hotter. My brother’s gaze grew colder.

When she suggested a feast to celebrate, he smiled. “Sweetbread,” he said softly. “I’ll prepare it myself.”

I froze. He had always been tender-hearted, but in that moment his words carried a chill that struck me silent. He baked the bread with his own hands, lacing it with something unseen, and when it was served, our father and stepmother praised its taste. My throat closed as I watched them eat, knowing what was to come.

The sickness took them swiftly. Our stepmother collapsed first, crimson staining her lips, clawing toward us as if to curse his name. My father followed, gasping apologies, begging forgiveness with his final breath. My brother held my hand beneath the table, steady, unflinching, until their last rattles faded into silence.

When it was over, we left together, sacks of gold and glass vials heavy at our sides. My voice trembled when I admitted my fear.

He squeezed my hand and whispered with a smile colder than nightfall, “You need not be afraid. I will protect you.”

My brother had always had a tender heart. Tender as poisoned sweetbread.