Chapter 12
Lukhan
I stared at the letter from Father lying on my desk, the envelope sealed with our family crest, a snarling wolf’s head and stylized fir tree impressed in thick red wax.
My seventeenth birthday, and this was what I’d been waiting for all day. Not that I expected warm wishes or affection—Father had never been one for such weaknesses—but perhaps an acknowledgment of my coming of age. Recognition.
Something other than the cold disappointment I’d grown accustomed to over the years.
The last rays of sunlight streamed through the leaded glass windows of my private quarters, illuminating motes of dust that danced in the air.
As the illegitimate son of a baron, I wasn’t technically entitled to the lavish accommodations reserved for heirs to imperial councilors, but my father’s generous donations to the academy had secured me a suite of rooms superior to those of even the other aristocrats.
I ran my finger under the seal, breaking it with a satisfying crack. The familiar scent of Father’s study wafted up from the parchment—lemon-scented bee’s wax furniture polish and resinous wood smoke.
For an instant, I was transported back to Demirkalé Manor, standing before his massive oak desk and trying not to fidget as he assessed my latest shortcomings.
I unfolded the letter, my eyes scanning the elegant handwriting that had struck fear into my heart since childhood.
To Lukhan FitzMurad from his father, greetings:
I have received your report of your most recent examination results at the Imperial Academy. They are merely acceptable, not exceptional. I need not remind you that mediocrity is unacceptable to those of our blood. A son of mine must dominate or be nothing at all.
Your continued enrollment at the academy depends entirely upon your ability to distinguish yourself. The considerable expense I have undertaken to secure your position there must be justified by your performance.
Do not disappoint me further.
Yours in disappointment,
Murad of Demirkalé
Not a single mention of my birthday.
Well, what did I expect? My head began throbbing, a tiny demon lodged behind my eyes pounding my skull with a hammer, sending sparks of pain across my field of vision.
I had scored in the top five percent of all second-year students for all of my mid-term examinations. But apparently, that wasn’t good enough. Nothing less than absolute top rank would satisfy Father.
I crumpled the parchment in my fist. The stiff, expensive material crackled in protest, sharp corners digging into my palm and fingers.
Then, horrified at my momentary loss of control, I tried to smooth it flat again, re-folding it before tucking it into my desk drawer beneath a stack of notebooks.
A son of mine must dominate or be nothing at all.
The words echoed in my head with the same cold finality as when Father had first spoken them to me when I was seven years old. I’d proudly shown him an essay I’d entered in a contest, only to have him tear it in half before my eyes.
“You didn’t win? Second best is first loser, Lukhan,” he’d said, his cold green eyes—so like mine—drilling into me.
“You think mediocrity deserves praise? You cannot be merely good. You must excel at everything you attempt. Only as the best of the best will you be untouchable. Otherwise, what use are you to me or our family name?”
I crossed to the mirror hanging above my washbasin and studied my reflection with critical eyes, trying to ignore the halo bestowed by my burgeoning headache.
Before that wretched fishwife intruded on this academy, I would’ve sworn that my concealment glamor was flawless, and that no one looking at me could spot the Fae features that might betray me.
And yet, that island strumpet had instantly seen through my painstaking work with nothing more than a glance.
A knock at my door startled me from my thoughts.
“Luk? Are you in there?” Damien’s voice called from the corridor. “Ready for supper?”
I quickly smoothed my expression, erasing all traces of the hurt and anger that churned within me. The corners of my mouth lifted in a practiced, confident smile. There. Now I was perfect. Untouchable.
My father was right about one thing: I couldn’t afford to be merely good. I had to be exceptional. I had to be feared and admired. Because the moment I showed weakness—the moment someone like Talisa exposed my secret—I would lose everything.
“Coming,” I called, my voice perfectly steady. I checked my reflection once more, making certain my mask was firmly in place.
From experience, I knew I could conceal signs of the headache until supper was over.
Damien knew me better than anyone else at the academy—perhaps better than anyone in the world—but I couldn’t allow even him to see how Father’s letter had affected me. Especially not today.
No one could know how much Father’s disapproval wounded me. No one could suspect that behind my carefully constructed confident facade lurked a childish, desperate need for my father’s approval.
To admit such weakness to anyone, even Damien, was inviting destruction, no matter how much I yearned to spill my innermost thoughts and fears to a sympathetic ear.
I straightened my academic gown and adjusted the pearl earring that anchored my concealment glamor.
As I reached for the door handle, the anger that had momentarily threatened to overwhelm me crystallized into cold resolve.
If Father wanted dominance, I’d show him. I’d crush Talisa of Bernswick.
When I started my campaign to pressure her into leaving, I’d expected her to crumble within a fortnight. Three weeks, at most.
But here we were at the beginning of Eleventh Month, and she was proving annoyingly persistent. And that made her a threat to everything I’d built here. My reputation. My position. The respect and admiration of my peers I’d worked so hard to earn.
If I didn’t crush her soon, she’d undermine my authority here completely before exposing me as half-Fae.
Luckily for me, I had a special birthday treat awaiting me in the dining hall.
Clarence, Lord Ormond, son and heir to Duchess Violetta of Monteleno, had approached me a few days ago, telling me he and a select group of his friends had noticed a disturbing number of upstarts in this autumn’s crop of commoner first-years.
I’d noticed my new acquaintance wore a distinctive silver-and garnet ring fashioned like a thorny vine, and my heart had leaped.
Like everyone else, I’d heard the rumors of the Custodes Sanguinis, a secret society supposedly dedicated to maintaining the natural separation between aristocrats and commoners. But I hadn’t believed they actually existed. Now I wondered: could the rumors be true?
I’d braced myself for a sharp reprimand for not handling the issue. Instead, Lord Ormond promised to teach them a lesson… if I were willing to help by enlisting my followers to gather strands of hair from each of the most insolent first-years.
Of course I’d agreed. Now, it was time to see whether my new friend could deliver on his promises to teach Talisa and her ragtag little band of followers a lesson they’d never forget.
I opened the door to find Damien leaning against the opposite wall, his golden hair tousled as if he’d been napping instead of studying.
“There you are,” he said, pushing himself upright.
“Just finishing up some reading,” I replied smoothly. I locked my door and set the security charm with a casual flick of my wrist.
“Any word from your father?” Damien asked as we started down the corridor. “It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”
“Oh, I haven’t celebrated my birthday in years,” I said, keeping my tone light and dismissive. “And the letter was the usual. As if I needed yet another reminder to uphold the family honor.” I forced a laugh.
Damien shot me a sidelong glance, then nodded, apparently convinced by my answer.
And why shouldn’t he believe me? I’d had years of practice at hiding my true feelings, at transforming hurt into hauteur and insecurity into intimidation.
No matter how much I longed for a family that celebrated rather than ignored my birthday, I’d never let anyone—not Damien, not Father, and certainly not Miss Fishwife from the islands—see the hollow, desperately hungry thing that lived beneath my perfect facade.
Because Father was right about one thing: in the world we inhabited, there was no middle ground. You either dominated, or you were nothing.
And I refused to be nothing.
∞∞∞
Inside the dining hall, I found a seat at my usual table.
With Damien at my side, and a plate of delectable roast beef with mushrooms in red-wine sauce in front of me, I waited eagerly for something noteworthy to happen.
The first few groups to enter after us were all nobles.
Then, just as I was losing hope, a cluster of first-year commoners came through the dining hall entrance. I recognized two of them as regulars at Talisa’s table: a gangly boy with a beaky nose and a small, serious red-headed girl.
The gangly boy crossed the threshold first.
The charm’s effect was instantaneous. His body dropped into a deep, perfectly formed bow, and his voice rang out across the dining hall with unnatural clarity, obviously projected by the charm’s design to carry to every corner of the crowded hall.
“I’m an upstart nobody from Lower Margittstown!”
Laughter erupted from the tables all around me before the charm released its hold and he straightened. The red-headed girl crossed the threshold a half-second behind him, and the charm took her just as efficiently.
Her curtsy was almost graceful, which made it somehow worse. “I’m an upstart nobody from a farm in Arpalik!”
The hall echoed with uproarious howls and jeers now. Beside me, Damien went still. I noticed he wasn’t laughing.
I ignored him. I reached for my goblet and took a measured sip of cider, admiring this well-executed piece of spellwork. I could never have pulled off something like this. It was far beyond the technical skills of any second-year.