*Estan*

  His cold grey eyes were flat as always. That hurt the most, if he was honest with himself. It was also the final nail in the coffin for his lingering doubt. If even a betrayal of this magnitude couldn’t rouse the old man to true emotion, then nothing would. That’s who he was after all – an old husk long past his prime.

  “After all I’ve done for you, boy? You continue to disappoint me.”

  That was all his father said, and it still stung somehow. The contempt was palpable. Perhaps he’d been harbouring some small hope somewhere that his father would actually see some of the intelligence and ambition that this plan had required and be somewhat impressed? A silly sentiment if he’d ever truly had it. The man was a brute through and through.

  Estan found his lip curling, and turned it into a sneer, projecting forth all the disdain he could muster, as if it might shield him from his father’s displeasure. It rankled that even here, even now, the man could still turn his legs to jelly with but a look. On the very eve of his victory, Estan still felt like a child being scolded by his father.

  But that was what this was, wasn’t it? His father telling him off. Shaking his head and lecturing him about his faults, while missing the larger picture. What arrogance. What ignorance! He felt the familiar curdling in his stomach and used that as fuel, stoking the fire within and building himself up for the confrontation.

  This was his moment, his victory, and he would not be made to feel like a disobedient child by anyone, no matter their personal power.

  “All you’ve done for me!? You mean ignoring my warnings, waving aside my suggestions and humiliating me in front of your men? Oh, thank you so much, father mine,” Estan spat back at him.

  There was almost a hint of surprise on that cold, unyielding face. It was gone in a moment though, covered again by an imperious glower.

  “Is that what this is about? You invited enemies into our lands because you felt belittled by my teachings? Perhaps you should have paid more attention.” Duke Ryonic moved to the door, his son pushed away as if an afterthought. “I’ll be back once I’ve cleared up your mess again, and we shall have words. Do not expect lenience for such a failure.”

  “You still don’t understand do you father? You can’t fight your way out of this. You’ve been ignorant to politics for far too long. I could have helped you, I tried to help you! But you’re too set in your ways to let me, and now you will face the consequences.”

  Estan spoke, more to himself than his father, knowing the man would walk through the doorway regardless of his words. It was freeing in a way, to say it aloud and hear the truth of it. He had tried to help, and his father was far too stubborn to remain in control. This was necessary. This was a mercy.

  The door creaked, then all was still.

  “Ignorant!? You think I’m ignorant boy? What do you know of politics? You think your little stunts mean anything?” There was intensity in his gaze now that frightened him. As much as he’d hoped to get a rise out of his father, now that it was here, he shrank back.

  The Lord Castellan continued to speak, turning and drawing near. His presence grew with every step, and Estan found himself stepping back unconsciously, scared by the disdain and rage he felt rolling off the man.

  “You think you’re so clever, with your hints and your words and your fancy-fucking-dinners! It means nothing, and you are no-one.”

  He flinched at his father’s anger, and something within him snapped. Drawing himself up, he wrapped himself in his dignity, reminding himself of his friends at court, and the way they looked up to him. That was who he was, not some snot-nosed child who stood and took abuse from a glorified farmer.

  “Just because you don’t understand something doesn’t mean it does not exist. As I said, you are ignorant. To be expected of a man who spent his formative years as a pig-farmer.”

  Duke Ryonic’s nostrils flared, and Estan hurriedly continued on, aware that if he stopped now, he would never say his piece again.

  “You ignored the influence of the Sunset Court for far too long, and your enemies took advantage of that. This is your own fault father, and the fact you can’t see that only makes it worse. Yander himself delivered a generous offer on behalf of the Sultanate, and you spurned him publicly. What did you expect?”

  The older man leaned back then, laughing softly. His face was again a mask, and his eyes had gone flat once more, the previous fire dying out.

  “I’m the ignorant one, am I? And yet you bring up that insult as if it were a good-faith attempt at diplomacy and not a slap in the face? Perhaps you are more a fool than even I realised.” The resignation in his voice again cut Estan to his core.

  “It was an attempt at diplomacy! If you could see past your own-“

  “It was a fucking insult boy!” Duke Ryonic roared. The sudden outburst, so unexpected, had Estan flinching back once more. His father never shouted, no matter how he felt. To be raised to such anger over mere words was…not normal.

  “You talk of politics incessantly but fail to see what’s in front of your eyes! A papyrus scroll, brought in on a bed of Elmwood…”

  Estan blinked, confused. His father was clearly waiting for an answer, but he had none to give. Why was he talking about the treaty itself? He was the one to ignore it.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  “He sent his first-born son into your castle with the treaty father. That’s a show of trust. It means something. Most men value their sons.” He said the last quietly, trying his best not to sound sullen, but most likely failing.

  Duke Ryonic took a breath then, visibly restraining himself. The passion was gone by now, and he simply looked tired and disappointed. As usual.

  “The Sultan does not care for his son, or he would not have sent him to me to die.” He held up a hand at Estan’s startled protestation and talked over him. “The ‘treaty’ was an insult, designed to raise my anger, and give me cause to execute his son. He would then have reason to ask for my censure in front of the Sunset Court and could use that as leverage to move in on our dominance over trade from the Misted Marshes.”

  Estan stayed silent, unable to interrupt even if he wanted to. It made no sense with everything he knew of the situation, but his father would not give him time to get his thoughts in order.

  “A peace treaty between the Sultanate and our Kingdom, to be signed upon a papyrus scroll…I can understand you missing the significance of that, but the elmwood? Did you not listen to anything I have taught you over the last decade?” He shook his head, as if scattering his bitterness around the room to thoroughly coat Estan where he stood.

  “Elm signifies death in the Sunsets. Its tendency to throw out a single sturdy branch halfway up its trunk has led to it being used regularly as a gallows tree, so much so that it is known colloquially as ‘the hanging tree’. It is also a hard wood, and plenty of it, and has been the favourite of coffin-makers, at least in the principalities of the Sunsets that practice burial rather than cremation. What do you think of the politics of sending me an official parlay, cloaked in death?” He said the word with such scathing contempt that Estan flinched, again.

  “Again and again boy, you play in waters you do not yet understand. And each time I try to educate you, you flinch back and shove that high-born nose in the air! I was a pig-farmer before I conquered the Western Marchlands, yes. But here I stand, High Lord to the Sunset Court and Lord Castellan of Ryonic Castle. I am noble by deed, not blood. Does that make a shit of difference!? You think they are better than us because of their titles and land and noble lineage? You have the blood of a pig farmer and nothing more, boy!”

  Estan trembled, trying to contain the well of dread his father’s words had conjured. Not the nonsense about blood and titles, but the implications of his earlier statement about the treaty. Yander had said it had been a good-faith attempt, a last-ditch effort to get the duke included in their coup. It was a foolish idea, requested by a far more naive and hopeful Estan years passed.

  He’d still believed, back then, that he could convince his father to work together for a united kingdom. He would be his political advisor, would work alongside Varice to lead them towards a vanguard position in the Sunsets where they belonged. Perhaps then she wouldn’t spurn his advances.

  Regardless, he had begged Yander to attempt a settlement before they committed to treason against his father in earnest. Yander had promised him he would attempt to draw the duke to their side, had truly given his best effort.

  To find out he had lied, had either orchestrated the whole thing himself, or at least covered up his father’s attempt to do so was…worrying. What else had he lied about? Was Estan truly a key partner? Or just a willing pawn in the game, to be discarded-

  His thoughts came to a screeching holt. He’d let the team in, the elite squad of Crimson Lions they had managed to bribe to their side and supplemented with some members of the Sultanate’s personal guard – the Al Alaskir – apparently loyal to Yander rather than his father. High 2nd tier warriors all, he’d given them a way to slip inside and strike at Duke Ryonic while by-passing his guards.

  And now here he was, a loose end in the same room, ready to be tied up alongside his father. Fuck!

  “Father listen, I’m sorry but there’s som-”

  He was interrupted by the door coming off its hinges, crimson light blasting behind it as it rocketed inwards away from the doorway. Almost simultaneously, the window smashed in and scattered glass to the stone floor, while men dressed in black and brown tight-fitted clothing leapt through.

  Estan had barely managed to leap away from the doorway and cover his face from the flying glass before they were surrounded. He jerked his gaze back to his father when he heard a strangled scream and was shocked to see two bodies on the floor, limp and unmoving.

  Duke Ryonic stood in place, right hand dripping blood to the floor and a vicious gleam in his eye. There it was again, finally. The passion, the lust for life. Estan had still, never in all his years, managed to raise a tenth of the joy on his father’s face that he saw in that moment.

  “Listen well son, you are about to receive a new lesson.” His father spoke, and then the room warped.

  Ripples shot through the very fabric of the world around them, the air twisted from his lungs and left him gasping. A few of the assassins were left similarly helpless, although most must have had skills or defences to counter whatever his father had done, as they showed no hesitation to leap into battle.

  He couldn’t keep track of the carnage, and stumbled away, falling heavily against the bare stone wall behind him. Blood splashed him in the face, and screams echoed around the room. In the midst of the chaos, his father danced and laughed, a mad grin lighting up his austere features.

  He’d conjured a blade from the very air itself, a familiar warping effect on the world jutting out from his palm. It was only visible by the blood coating it, and so he appeared to wield a shard of ruby glass.

  Fire swirled from the sconces around the room and collected in the palm of one of the assassin’s hands. It condensed and formed a thin, impossibly hot knife and launched at the figure in the centre of the bloody hurricane, only to be redirected by some unseen force and slam into the throat of another assassin opposite the one who had formed it.

  Moments passed in a blur, and Estan continued to choke on nothing, unable to draw precious air into his lungs. He grew dizzy and a pounding ache within his chest and throat only grew as the moments passed.

  And then it was over.

  The chaos vanished as abruptly as it had appeared, screams dying off much like their owners, until only his own ragged breathing could be heard as he gulped in air, suddenly returned to him.

  His father stood calmly in the centre of a massacre, at least a dozen men and women dead around him, broken, bleeding and desiccated. He had not a mark upon him and looked at Estan with an intensity he’d never before witnessed.

  “What was the lesson, Estan?” He asked, voice low and even. That scared him more than when the man was raging. He knew, with a certainty he could taste on his tongue, that if he answered here wrong, he’d be dead. His father would kill him without remorse and start again with a new heir.

  He looked from the cold grey eyes of his father to the crumpled bodies littering the floor, and spoke with a squeak. “That politics doesn’t beat power.”

  A slight inclination of the head, and he let out a breath of relief.

  “Nothing beats power, Estan.” The duke’s statement was final. A confirmation of reality rather than a supposition upon it. The corpses sprawled about the floor and the blood caking his forearms counted as compelling evidence to Estan.

  “Follow. You will tell me everything about this plan that you’ve been hatching with that manipulative little worm from the Sultanate. If you are lucky, I will be able to get us out of this.”

  Estan followed along behind his father, the man’s words echoing about his head.