The echoes of breakfast still clung to me like a warm cloak as I strode down the corridor toward Grandfather's solar.
I couldn't stop grinning.
Saints above, their faces.
Alric's jaw had twitched like he'd bitten into a lemon. Serenya's perfect mask had cracked — just a hairline fracture, but enough to glimpse the fury beneath.
And Caelia… ah, dear Caelia.
The way her mouth had opened and closed like a fish gasping on dry land — I'd have paid a small fortune to commission a painter to capture that moment. I'd hang it right over my bed.
A laugh broke out of me before I could stop it, echoing off the cold stone walls. A passing maid nearly dropped her basket of linens at the sound. I flashed her my most disarming smile. She turned scarlet and scurried away.
"Still terrifying the servants, I see," came a rasp from the shadows ahead.
I glanced up to find Grandfather's half-elf attendant standing by the carved double doors, hands folded neatly in front of her. Her emerald eyes held the faintest trace of amusement, though her face remained composed.
"Not my fault," I said, shrugging. "They must think I'm possessed. Which, frankly, is unfair. I'm just in a good mood."
Her lips twitched — almost a smile, but not quite. "A rare state for you, my lord. Shall I tell the Elder you've arrived in one piece?"
"Please do," I said, brushing imaginary dust from my coat. "I wouldn't want to keep the old hawk waiting. He might mistake me for a guest worth respecting."
She pushed the doors open without comment.
And there he sat — as always — gazing at the white roses that climbed in silent bloom around the room.
The solar had once been my grandmother's garden, or so the stories went; a place where she came to steal a little peace from the world.
A shame she'd died before I was born. I might have liked her.
"You're here, boy."
Grandfather's voice broke the hush, calm but edged with that careful weight he carried in all things — a tone that warned there'd be no wasted words.
The old man didn't summon people for idle chatter.
And yet, here I stood — the family's favorite disappointment — called to his side.
That alone was enough to make my blood hum with curiosity… and perhaps, despite myself, a thread of unease.
I lingered at the threshold a heartbeat longer, letting the silence stretch. The marble floor was cold beneath my boots; somewhere in the hedges outside, a bird gave a single startled cry, then fell quiet again.
The scent of roses was stronger here — sweet at first, but there was an edge to it, sharp as iron in the back of my throat.
Grandfather didn't look at me. His attention stayed fixed on the flowers, as if they held some secret only he could see. The weight of that silence pressed heavier than any words.
"Do you know why you're my favorite?"
His voice finally broke the silence, low and unhurried — but he still didn't look at me.
I arched a brow. Favorite?
"Me, your favorite?" I let the sarcasm drip. "I thought that title went to Alric. You know — Father's blue-ribbon sheep."
I wandered forward as if I owned the room, though the roses seemed to watch me pass. I chose a stone bench a little off to the side but still within his line of sight — or as much of it as his stubborn refusal to turn would allow.
I lounged back, one arm resting lazily along the bench's curve, pretending I didn't care, though part of me was studying every flicker of his expression.
"No way," he chuckled, finally turning his head toward me. "Alric doesn't have the balls to do what you do."
His eyes found mine as a slow grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"He's more of a… let's say a dog — needs to be fed, obeys, and never bites." The grin widened into something almost wicked. "But you—" he pointed at me with that old, gnarled finger, "you bite, boy. And you bite hard."
"Thank you for the compliment," I drawled, though the corner of my own mouth twitched.
He ignored the jab, his tone shifting like a blade sliding from its sheath.
"A letter from the Emperor arrived last week."
Oh, f**k me.
"I'm to send a representative of our family to the Princess's coming-of-age ceremony," he went on. "I've chosen you and Serenya. "
His words hit like a dagger straight to the chest.
"…No." My answer was firm, immediate.
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
"No!" I snapped, finally losing my temper. I shot to my feet, glaring down at him. For a heartbeat, we simply stared at each other, my jaw tight, his expression maddeningly calm — like he'd already won.
"You will leave tomorrow at first light," he said at last, the finality in his voice cutting off any further protest. "You may go."
Just like that — dismissed.
I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into my palms. God, I hate being weak. I hate it. I f**king hate it.
"You know I don't fit in with those kinds of people," I threw back at him, the words rougher than I intended. My voice cracked with something halfway between anger and resignation.
His gaze drifted back to the white roses, as if my rebellion was nothing more than a breeze ruffling the petals. "That's exactly why I'm sending you," he said, calm as ever.
For a moment I thought about arguing again — then decided I valued my head too much. I exhaled sharply, turned on my heel, and stormed toward the door, the weight of his decision pressing down on me like a chain I couldn't shake.
The corridor smelled faintly of chalk dust and old oak polish — the scent of every miserable lesson I'd ever endured. My boots struck the stone floor harder than necessary, each step a little stomp of rebellion that echoed down the hall.
I muttered curses under my breath the whole way. Not creative ones — just the same three words rearranged in new, inventive ways.
Grandfather would have been proud, if scowling at the old hawk could win wars.
Representative of the family, I mimicked in my head, jaw tightening. Saints save me. As if dragging me to some perfumed ball would suddenly make me respectable.
A pair of younger squires darted out of my path before I even glared at them. Good. At least someone in this House still remembered to be afraid.
By the time I reached the heavy double doors of the History Hall, I'd run out of fresh curses and had to settle for a long, low growl in my throat.
I shoved the door open with more force than necessary — it banged against the stopper — and stepped inside.
The room smelled of parchment, chalk dust, and that faint bitter tang of old ink that clung to your clothes no matter how quickly you escaped. Tall shelves lined the walls like weary sentries, their leather-bound books sagging against each other in silent judgment.
At the front stood Master Grevan — late sixties, bent a little at the shoulders but somehow still sharp as a hawk. He had the look of a man carved out of dry oak: wiry frame, skin the color of old parchment, and a bristling crown of iron-grey hair that refused to lie flat. His beard was clipped neatly to the jaw, as if sheer discipline were the only thing keeping him from crumbling into dust. The deep creases around his eyes and mouth didn't soften him; they made him look like a war-scarred map.
"Language, my lord," came his gravel-dry voice without him even bothering to glance up from the massive scroll he was unrolling at the lectern.
The man could probably smell profanity.
"Good morning to you too, Master Dust-and-Bones," I muttered, slinging my satchel onto a bench and collapsing into my usual seat near the open window. A gust of autumn air slipped through the shutters and stirred the edges of my notes — not that I'd be writing much.
Caelia was already there, naturally.
She sat upright, posture rigid enough to make the carved wooden chair creak in protest, quill perfectly poised above her blank page. Her eyes — Valebryn-blue and as frosty as the roses in Grandfather's garden — flicked toward me.
"Brother," she said sweetly, which was my first warning sign. "Late again. I half-expected you'd still be in Grandfather's solar. Everyone's been whispering since he called for you at breakfast…"
Her head tilted slightly, her tone sharpening. "What did the old hawk want with you?"
"Plotting, obviously," I replied, dragging my chair in with an exaggerated screech and flashing her my best grin. "I like to keep productive."
Her lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile — more the promise of violence wrapped in silk.
I could tell she'd keep prodding until she got answers, but Master Grevan saved me.
"If the two of you are quite finished proving you share the same blood," the old tutor rasped, "we have wars to discuss."
He spread the scroll flat across the desk, ink-etched rivers and jagged borders sprawling like an ancient spider's web. His thin fingers smoothed the corners with near-ritual precision.
"Today," he said, "we resume the Wars of the Western Reaches. Pay attention. Your memory is dreadful, your handwriting worse, and my patience all but extinct."
I slouched back in my seat, crossing my arms, trying not to think of Grandfather's decree still echoing in my skull.
Somewhere out there, the Emperor was throwing grand parties for his precious daughter's birthday.
Meanwhile, I was being lectured about wars fought by men who'd been dust for three centuries.