Killua let out a guttural cry as he swung the waster down. He'd insisted on using the practice swords for a reason Illumi couldn't decipher. No matter what his brother's intentions were, Illumi refused to relent.

With cocked brow, Illumi easily stepped out of its path and countered, hitting Killua's wooden practice sword with enough force to make his wrist ache. Ignoring the pain, Killua advanced, sweat sliding along the curve of his cheek and dripping from his jaw. He paused for a moment to wipe it away with his shirt sleeve, and Illumi took advantage of the lapse.

Dipping his sword into the small space between hilt and hand, Illumi prodded the flesh of Killua's palm hard enough to garner an involuntary release, and the sword clattered to the floor. Illumi kicked it away. It bounced against the uneven stones, ricocheting off one of the supporting pillars, and spun until stopping several feet away, and Illumi lunged forward, leaking bloodlust.

With Illumi's sword tip now pointed at his throat, Killua shut his eyes, raising both hands in surrender. Illumi stepped back, eying his panting brother for a moment.

"You aren't much fun today," Illumi said, slipping his sword into the sling on his hip. As he moved toward the far wall where fresh towels had been prepared, the wooden weapon slapped his thigh, but he didn't seem to mind. "What's wrong, little king?"

Killua's hands twitched at his sides. His chest heaving, he retrieved his fallen sword and avoided his brother's eyes. "Don't call me that."

Patting the sweat off his face, Illumi chuckled, though his stoic expression didn't falter. "Now that you've been publicly crowned as daddy's favorite, do you think you have any authority over me?"

"Please."

Illumi frowned. Dropping the towel, he faced Killua again and stalked closer. "Again. Start again. Raise your sword."

Killua lifted his face as Illumi drew his weapon. Involuntarily, Killua took a step back. The malice in his brother's eyes had taken on an almost tangible form. Gulping, Killua grasped the hilt with both hands, lacing his fingers together to make up for the weakness coursing through his arms.

The strum of a lute broke through Illumi's ferocity, and he stumbled a step, dull eyes scanning the open room.

Perched on a wide pedestal which a potted plant had previously occupied was Hisoka, a jester who played many roles, many of which were rarely mentioned. He tuned a string before looking up. "Oh, have I interrupted your duel?"

"Hisoka," Illumi said with an unreadable tone. "When did you arrive?"

Plucking at the strings in no particular pattern, Hisoka hummed to himself. "You know I'm not very good with timekeeping," he mused. "The days blend together, and the nights go on forever."

"Do you want something?"

"Me?" Hisoka said in mock surprise, fanning his fingers before his lips to conceal a smile. "I want nothing more than to serve you. Shall I play a song to fuel your battle? I've got a lively one just for you."

He flexed his hands and cracked his knuckles before inhaling and closing his eyes. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips; it was widely known the man never sang, so the reason for this action was widely debated. Illumi presumed it was simply Hisoka's perversion, and he knew his guess to be closest to the truth.

The fast notes of Hisoka's lute, though pleasant to an outside ear, sparked something frightful in Killua's heart. His hands trembled and his head throbbed. As Illumi resumed his pursuit, each step methodical and even, Killua fought the urge to flee. His eyes couldn't focus on Illumi's lithe form, his sword, Hisoka's music and smile. The world seemed to tilt. Illumi raised his sword, and Killua leaned back, the muscles in his legs taut.

"Killua!" From the doorway leading into the castle, Gon's voice pierced Killua's concentration and released his grip on the sword. Illumi, mid-swing, had not controlled his strength and fought to recoil. As violent and cruel as he was, he would not be labeled as dishonorable for a mere accident.

However, the sword still swung, and as Killua turned to meet Gon's smiling face, the wooden blade met the side of his head.

Illumi leapt back, flinging the sword from his grasp and turning a sharp gaze on Hisoka, instructing him silently to cease playing. When Illumi searched for him, the jester had already vanished, leaving only the echo of his last note clinging to the stone walls.

As Killua swayed on his feet, Gon ignored the stairs and vaulted over the wall leading down into the training room. Gon reached Killua in time to wrap an arm around his waist and support him. Killua gingerly touched the bleeding wound and winced, then smiled.

"I'm fine, Gon," he said, inhaling deeply. Though he was certainly in pain, Gon's appearance and the stinging of his injury had cleared some of the fog which had formed in his mind. For the time being, the tightness of his chest had dissipated.

But Gon pouted. "You are not fine. We're going to the infirmary right now."

"Gon—" Killua started, but the resoluted look on Gon's face made him pause. Rarely did Gon attempt to command Killua; he knew the kind of punishment servants received when they defied authority. Only in times when Killua was stubborn or foolish did Gon stand his ground. Killua knew better than to refute him.

Draping Killua's arm over his shoulder, Gon moved slowly toward the stairs. "Steady, Killua," he said. "Head injuries are no joke. I'll give you a lecture once you're bandaged up."

Stifling a laugh, Killua said, "Yes, yes. Whatever you say."

As they left, Illumi leaned against one of the pillars and pursed his lips, feeling his anger festering, boiling, inside. "That boy is going to be a problem."