Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Finlay stood in front of the burning hearth, heart racing.
Why had Tynan summoned him? Had he done something wrong? No, that wasn’t possible. Finlay was careful with his every action, always taking care to make the choice that brought the most glory to the Fjolla name.
Perhaps it had something to do with his father? Maybe Tynan reported back to him, telling him of all that Finlay had accomplished since being at Tylderon. Maybe, just maybe, his father was ready to accept him once more, and he would finally be allowed to go home. To return to Aderwynn Castle.
The doors scraped open, and Finlay whirled around on his heels. To his surprise, it was Kiran who strolled in, hands stuffed into his pocket while his tousled ruby hair stuck out in weird places and a trail of subtle pink stains warmed his cheeks.
Finlay huffed a laugh at him. “Were you sunbathing?”
“Some of us actually enjoy the finer pleasures of life,” he retorted. Though, there was something different in his reply.
Normally, Kiran’s casual tone was effortless and carried like a light breeze. Now, it felt forced and hollow.
Finlay narrowed his eyes on him. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, you mean other than both of us receiving a summons from Tynan? Nothing, nothing at all.”
Finlay’s excitement died at the words, and for a heartbeat, he allowed himself to feel a sliver of both pity and self-loathing.
How foolish he was to actually believe him being summoned here had anything to do with his father welcoming him back home.
After what he did, he had so much more atoning to do.
Had so much left to prove to his father to show he was, in fact, worthy of the Fjolla name.
Kiran—always being far more perceptive than he ever let on—seemed to sense the mild heartache in Finlay. He rested a gentle, reassuring hand on his arm. “It’s his loss,” he murmured.
Finlay’s eyes widened before narrowing once more. “How did you…” He trailed off, biting down on his jaw and shaking his head. “Never mind,” he muttered. “Doesn’t matter.”
Kiran studied him, seeming to debate if he wanted to address things further. Eventually, however, he merely rested his eyes and sighed. When he reopened them, his sapphire gaze was sharp. “I think Tynan has summoned us here to extract information from us regarding Draven and Lealla’s whereabouts.”
Finlay furrowed his brows. “Why would you think that?”
“Call it a hunch.” He pursed his lips, considering. “Or perhaps even a skillful deduction?”
“Never be it past you to miss your opportunity to shine in the limelight.”
He smirked. “What can I say? It’s hard being glorious.” He snapped his fingers right in Finlay’s face. “Now, focus. I think—”
Before he could finish his sentence, the ornately carved oak doors scraped open once more.
Tynan strutted through, heading straight for his desk across the room.
He sat down, braced his elbows against the maple-tinted surface, and steepled his fingers.
“Gentlemen,” he said, wasting no time. “Please, have a seat.”
Finlay glanced at Kiran quickly, who subtly attempted to shoot him a warning look that seemed to say, Whatever he is about to say, don’t fall for it.
They each sat down in one of the tufted chairs resting near the simmering hearth.
Kiran—never one to miss an opportunity to lighten tension from the air—flicked his finger at the dying flames.
A bright, vermillion fire roared to life, cracking and popping as the charred wood attempted to support the insatiable outburst.
Tynan hummed, glancing at the fire then back to Kiran. “Thank you.”
He inclined his head to him.
Tynan slid his eyes to Finlay next. “And how are your studies going, Finlay?”
A low, rattling alarm rang inside him. Tynan had never asked him that question before.
He never cared enough to. He was always focused on Draven’s development, and Draven’s development only.
Tynan provided Finlay and Kiran with a rigorously structured schedule, the best tutors, and a place to sleep—he needn’t bother with anything else.
“Very well,” Finlay answered, doing his best not to let his reservations show.
The delighted gleam in Tynan’s eyes told him he did not do a very good job. He drew in a loud, yet measured breath. “I’m sure the both of you are wondering why I’ve summoned you.”
Kiran, inspecting his nails, casually drawled in reply, “It hadn’t really crossed my mind, honestly.”
“You know,” Tynan mused, clasping his fingers together and resting his chin atop the back of his hands.
The tone he used sent a chill down Finlay’s spine.
“Your inability to take matters seriously is precisely what landed you in my care to begin with. Your lack of propriety and blatant disregard for authority and rules is why you will never measure to anything great.”
Still showing an alarming lack of concern, Kiran looked up from his nails and allowed that particular smirk of his to form. “Greatness is an objective word, you know. It’s really only given meaning by the beholder.”
Tynan’s lips thinned, and something in the air sharpened. “Of all the lessons I’ve allowed to be administered at Tylderon, I don’t recall poetry or philosophy amongst them.”
Kiran’s smirk widened. “Consider it an independent study.”
A vein protruded in Tynan’s neck, and unease pooled in Finlay’s stomach. There was a passing silence, and it was the stillness preceding disasters. This much, Finlay was sure of.
Coolly, Tynan unclasped his fingers and reached for a single sheet of parchment laid flat on the upper-right corner of his desk. He read it, then held it out for Finlay and Kiran to see. “Do you know what this is?”
“A parchment?” Kiran guessed in a far too curious tone.
Tynan scowled. “If you cannot contain your childish tendencies, I will ask you to leave, and I will find out what I need to know from Finlay, and Finlay alone.” A menacing, powerful pause. “However I need to.”
Finlay gulped.
Tynan knew he couldn’t lay a finger on Kiran.
If Lord Sulien ever caught wind of it, he would turn his flames onto Tylderon and burn the whole castle down, a war between the Great Houses be damned.
Not to mention what Kiran’s sister would do.
She would join her flames to her father’s, but unlike Lord Sulien, his sister would have no quarrels with taking lives indiscriminately in the name of avenging her brother.
The same was not true for Finlay. He had no siblings who would come for him. He had no father who would ravage House Dalmar in the name of his wronged son. No, if his father ever caught word of Tynan harming Finlay, his father would only grunt and say, “I’m sure my worthless specimen deserved it.”
Kiran knew this, too. It was why his smirk faltered and his impertinent tone died in his throat. He snapped his mouth shut and allowed his lips to thin—visibly showing Tynan that he understood the implications of what he was saying.
Though he had never said it to him, Finlay marveled at how both sharp and cunning Kiran truly was.
He used his authentic self to his gain, allowing others to assume weaknesses that were not truly there—it wasn’t his fault they conflated his disposition for incompetence.
Then, measure by measure, when it mattered, he would calculate and show exactly what someone wanted to see.
Finlay had always secretly admired Kiran for it—looked up to him.
In this instance, he allowed himself to seem defeated—though such a feeling was something Kiran would rarely feel, even in the most dire of circumstances. And it was all for Finlay’s sake.
“Now that we understand each other,” Tynan said coolly. “I’d again ask that you take a look at the parchment I’m holding between my fingers.”
This time, both Finlay and Kiran did as instructed, leaning forward in their chairs to get a better look at the sprawling script inked onto the page.
“Fuck,” Kiran muttered under his breath, sitting back down and bracketing his face with two fingers and his thumb.
Finlay merely stared at the words in disbelief.
Tynan, watching him intently, nodded. “It is shocking, I know. Though at the least, both of your reactions tell me you were not aware of this. That is good. It would have been a shame if either of you were implicated in any of this.”
Finlay didn’t have a response—he was speechless.
Utterly speechless. Because there, on that page, was a formal disclaimer from Draven and his mother that they wish to renounce the Dalmar name, giving up any and all ties to its noble bloodline and claims to power.
Below that, Lealla demanded a separation from Tynan—something that would not be taken well by the other noble houses in Erandor.
Hell, none of this was truly palatable to the other houses.
House Dalmar might have been a Great House and Archblood, but even it could not weather such a scandal and come out unscathed.
For a terrifying moment, Finlay took the extra second to glance at Tynan. His expression was as calm and cool as ever. There was not a single crack in his facade nor demeanor—like he could not care any less that both his son and wife wanted to permanently remove him from their lives.
At the observation, Finlay couldn’t help but wonder which was the colder substance: the ice magic in his veins or Tynan Dalmar?
“Tell me where my son and wife have gone off to.” He demanded it simply—without raising his voice. But the threat was still there.
“We don’t know,” Kiran answered in a begrudging tone.
Tynan tilted his head, his face mocking something like sympathy. “Oh,” he drawled, “but I think you do know. I think you both know exactly where Draven is.”
“We don’t,” he reaffirmed more firmly this time.
Tynan slid his eyes from Kiran, instead locking them onto Finlay. “Is that true?”
Finlay opened his mouth to answer, but all that came out were stuttering noises. He was a terrible liar. Yet it also felt deeper than that.