Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Finlay knew he was the best fighter in these pits.
Still, he allowed himself to get hit. Once. Twice. Three times. Sometimes he needed to be reminded that he could feel pain—that he could bleed.
He stopped toying with the burly man whose chest was hidden behind a bush of dark hair and spun, slamming his heel into his jaw—an action that sent the man plummeting to the ground, unconsciousness clinging to him like perfume clings to the walls of this establishment.
The men around the pits roared, thrusting their fists into the air, chanting for more—demanding more blood.
But Finlay was finished—he had had enough.
He swiped a mix of blood and sweat from his face with the back of his hand and climbed out of the pit. An older man attempted to stuff a drink into his hand, but Finlay ignored him and made for the exit.
Once he emerged from the den of roaring men and drunkards, Finlay almost quaked at the sight of his father standing straight-backed in the center of the attached tavern, his chin lifted and a sneer plastered across his face.
He gazed down at Finlay over the regal slope of his nose. “I truly did not think you could get any more pathetic. I was mistaken.”
Finlay stepped forward, not sure how to feel. It was the first time his father had uttered a word to him in over four years, since the day he told Finlay to pack his things and depart for Tylderon. “Father, I—”
His father lifted a hand. “Save it. Your words will not change my opinion.”
Finlay felt his stomach hollow—felt the quiver tugging at his bottom lip. His voice dropped to a near-whisper. “You told me to become someone worthy of the House Fjolla title—someone worthy to carry your name. Be labeled as your son. That’s what I was trying to do.”
His father scoffed. “By fighting in underground pits with them?”
Finlay balked. “Them?” he repeated. “This is a noble establishment—commoners can’t even afford to come in here.”
“The fact that you still don’t understand shows me how unworthy you are of your blood. You are a Fjolla. You are above every person in this entire place. You have more rank, status, wealth—you are not the same as them, and you sully the good name when you act like you are.”
Finlay’s mouth opened and closed as he searched for words. “I—I was only trying to do as you instructed. To be better.”
Audwin Fjolla clicked his tongue. “You want to do as I instruct? Then find a way to prove to me that you are worthy of being my son. Because right now?” He scanned Finlay from head-to-toe with eyes like an ice storm. “Right now I see nothing but some dishonored murderer standing in front of me.”
The weight of a thousand knives fell atop of Finlay at the words, stabbing and burning. He had no words. Had nothing he could say back. So he hung his head instead, begging his welling eyes to hold their tears at bay.
The last thing he needed was to give his father another reason to spit in his face.
“Audwin? What a pleasant surprise.” Shirtless and with his trousers still partly undone, Kiran strolled into the tavern with a politician’s smile on his lips.
“I thought I caught a glimpse of you waltzing in here. I was convinced I was mistaken, but your features are so distinct. Come to say hello to your dear son?” Kiran strolled over to Finlay’s side and rested a hand on his shoulder.
Finlay wasn’t one to like physical contact—it was a sensation that had become entirely foreign to him—but having his brother’s hand on him steadied his trembling knees, drawing the tears back. If only it got rid of the searing sting inside of him as well.
“Kiran,” Audwin drawled mildly. “How’s your father doing?”
“Quite well, actually. He sends his regards.”
Audwin grunted. “I’m sure he does.”
Finlay watched as Kiran and Audwin remained locked in a silent stare—Kiran’s lips curled with delight while his father’s were curled with a sneer. Ultimately, though, it was Audwin who exhaled deeply and drew his eyes away.
“I must be getting back now. Kiran, send my well wishes to your parents, would you?”
Kiran inclined his head. “With pleasure.”
Audwin slid his eyes to Finlay. “Next time I see you, try not to be so disappointing. It is not only the Fjolla name you are tarnishing now—you also taint the integrity of House Dalmar.”
Though he wanted to fold into himself, Finlay rolled his shoulders back. “Yes, Father.”
Kiran and Finlay waited silently until Audwin left their line of sight.
“Thank you,” Finlay mumbled weakly.
Kiran squeezed his shoulder. “Don’t mention it.” He sighed. “Now, I need to collect my shirt, and we need to find Draven’s mother.”
Finlay’s brows pinched together. “Why?”
“Because,” Kiran said through a long-winded breath, “your father wasn’t alone when he walked in.”