Chapter 5

Chapter 5

A t eight years old, Andrian learned how to be a man.

At least, that’s what his father told him. In addition to the daily training with Master Borus, Andrian was expected to follow Lord Laurent throughout the day, joining him in every meeting and learning from each encounter.

“Do you know what it means to be heir to House Laurent, Andrian?” His father’s words were kind enough, but Andrian knew them to be a test.

They were always a test. And when Andrian failed them—as he often did—he was lucky if the worst punishment he received was a stinging lash of fire magic across his knuckles. Not enough to leave burns, but enough to draw tears.

Sometimes, he wasn’t as lucky.

“It means that one day, I’ll be you … right?” The hesitancy forced its way into his voice, fear making him desperate for reassurance from a man who’d never give it.

His father narrowed his gleaming, golden eyes. “You will always be you. You will never be me. But it does mean that you are my firstborn son. And one day, you will sit in my seat in the great hall, and you will do the job that I now do. Do you understand?”

Andrian was confused—why would he do his father’s job if Father could just do it better?—but he knew better than to say anything other than, “yes, Father.”

Lord Laurent regarded his son with a look so cold it should be impossible for one with fires in his blood. He opened his mouth, ready to say something, when a bustle of movement at the door to his study drew away his frigid attention. A rare, exuberant smile spread across his face.

“Ah! There’s my boy!”

Andrian twisted in his chair to see Nadya, the nursemaid, standing in the entry of his father’s office, a giggling, blond-haired baby boy bouncing on her full hips. Behind them walked Andrian’s mother, dark hair coiled primly around her neck.

“Mama!” Andrian leaped from his seat and rushed into his mother’s embrace. He heard his father’s disapproving grunt, but he didn’t care. His mother was here.

She stroked his hair, pushing it out of his eyes. “You need a haircut, Andrian.”

He perked up. “Will you give me one?”

She smiled. “Yes. Of course.” She glanced behind him. Andrian released his hold on her, turning around and standing at her side. His father had taken Andrian’s baby brother, Gabriel, from Nadya, and the three stood beside Lord Laurent’s massive desk, smiling and laughing.

“My Lord,” his mother said meekly. “If I may have a moment of your attention.”

His father hardly spared her a glance, still bouncing Gabriel on his hip. “What is it?”

Something in his dismissive tone sparked a feeling deep in Andrian’s chest. He had a sudden urge to stand up for his mother, to defend her from his father’s coldness. He straightened his spine, opening his mouth to speak, before his mother’s hand on his shoulder washed the fight from him.

She was stopping him because they both knew that challenging Father never went well. He would receive something far worse than little singeing lashes to his fingers. Something that would upset Mother much more than just the way Father spoke to her.

“I would like to give our son a haircut.” His mother kept his hand on his shoulder as she spoke.

His father hmphed. “Yes, alright. I will have Nadya return Gabriel to you shortly.”

Andrian’s mother dipped her head. “Thank you, My Lord.” She grabbed Andrian’s hand and led him out of the office.

They walked through drafty hallways toward the wing housing his mother’s rooms. Andrian was nearly giddy, doing everything he could to not skip along beside her, trying desperately to stay dignified and … lord-like.

That’s what his father would want. And, somehow, Lord Laurent was always watching.

It didn’t take them long to reach his mother’s wing, her spaces not far from those of his father. She slipped them through the door into her receiving room, depositing Andrian on a cushioned stool in front of an old vanity mirror before quickly starting a fire in the grate against the wall.

Every room in Antoris always needed a blaze roaring in the hearth.

Once the flames caught, Andrian’s mother rummaged through a drawer in her vanity, withdrawing a pair of small, sharp shears, the kind perfect for trimming hair.

“Sit back and sit straight. And don’t move, or else you might lose an ear.”

The words were slightly morbid, but Andrian saw his mother’s smile and smiled too. He did as he was asked, straightening his back on the stool, planting his feet on the ground.

His mother brushed through his black hair, the same shade as her own, with a fine-toothed comb she’d also pulled from the drawer. She sighed, a quiet sound, before making the first delicate snips.

“Teach me new words,” he blurted, staring at her in the mirror. She looked so sad, and … he wanted her to be happy. “I love it when you teach me your words.”

Her hands stilled, shears held suspended above his head. “You know your father does not approve of me teaching you my language.”

Andrian frowned. “Why?” It was something he’d never understood. His father was always talking about understanding his Onitan heritage. Why was it so bad to learn about the other half? To learn about where his mother came from, about her history and traditions?

His mother sighed again. “It is … complicated. But I suppose a few more words couldn’t hurt.” She met his gaze in the mirror, something mischievous shining in her amethyst eyes. “It can become our special language, just for you and me.”

Andrian smiled wider, nodding. He liked the sound of that.

His mother returned to his haircut. “What word would you like to know first?”

Andrian pondered for a moment. “How about … ‘magnificent.’”

She laughed softly. “‘Magnificent?’ Where did you even learn to say that in Onitan?”

“I read it in a book to describe one of the past queens.” Andrian shrugged. “I liked it. I want to add it to our special language.”

His mother continued to snip and snip away at his hair, a small smile on her lips. “ Reisligr .”

“ Reisligr .” Andrian tested the word on his tongue, the strange vowels and syllables rolling easier than he’d expected. “I love it. Better than magnificent.”

“I told you; do not teach the boy that filth.” Lord Laurent’s disgusted voice filled the room. “He should only know the language of his people.”

Andrian jolted on his stool; he’d been so consumed by the feeling of his mother’s hands in his hair and the new word on his tongue that he hadn’t heard the receiving room door open, his father’s presence filling the space. His mother stiffened, her fingers leaving Andrian’s head, and Andrian twisted to meet his father’s glare.

“Please, Father. Don’t get mad at Mother. I asked her to teach me. It was my fault.”

Julian narrowed his eyes at his son, flames dancing in their cold depths. “You are far too much like her; I hardly see any of myself in you. It is time to grow out of this dependence and become a man.” The Lord of Antoris whirled on his heel, storming from the room, the door closing behind him with a shuddering slam. Distantly, Andrian could hear a baby fussing, Nadya’s cooing words of adoration as she soothed Gabriel.

“Turn back around, Andrian. I am not yet done with your haircut.”

Slowly, Andrian twisted back. He refused to meet his mother’s stare in the mirror, instead focusing on the blaze in the fireplace. His mother resumed, pieces of his thick, dark waves falling into his lap.

“I will teach you one more word,” she said quietly. His eyes snapped to the mirror, to see her watching him. “It is a very special word. But I can only share it if you promise not to mention it to your father.”

Andrian sat up straighter. “Of course, Mother. Our secret language, remember?”

She smiled. “Yes. Our secret language.” She trimmed a few more pieces around his face. His hair was much shorter, now neat and tidy, where it was once errant and messy.

“What is the word?” Andrian couldn’t mask his impatience.

His mother snipped one last lock of hair, running a comb through it with her fingers, before walking around his stool. She knelt in front of him, lifting a hand to his face, and cupped his cheek. Her amethyst eyes shone with a sadness Andrian didn’t understand.

‘“ Nio.’ ”

“ How sentimental of you. ” A voice rang through Andrian’s subconsciousness. “ Funny how you once thought you could use that word as an insult … but even you knew that never would have worked. So interesting to see how much the little queen means to you.

“How much she has always meant to you.”