Chapter 8
GRAESON
When Graeson tilted his head up, the sun streamed through the foliage, and cracks of light fell upon the ground in broken, golden fragments. The leaves above rustled as the birds zipped around the branches and fled toward the sky.
Graeson’s throat was torn, scratched raw from the anguish that had poured out of him.
He collapsed on the ground, his pain and sorrow too great to bear.
On his hands and knees, he dug his fingers into the ground, and dirt piled beneath his nail beds.
His breaths were short and labored. No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t inhale a full breath, the oxygen cutting off before it reached his lungs.
As a breeze swept through the woods, the wind barely kissed his cheeks as if it, too, was afraid of the beast that had created such a disturbance in the forest. Still, the little wind that dared to get close was cool enough for him to notice that his cheeks were damp.
His mother was alive, and he had gone his entire life without knowing.
Not even a year ago, Graeson had been in Ardentol, inside the very castle she was being held captive. Graeson hadn’t even known. He hadn’t—
"I did not take my son for a crier," Barinthian’s voice broke through the trees like a wave crashing against the shore.
Graeson squeezed his eyes shut, willing the tears to disappear. They were not for the god, and Barinthian, father or not, did not deserve to see them.
The god chuckled, the sound stirring up the fallen auburn leaves that covered the forest floor. "At least you’re not denying your heritage," Barinthian said when Graeson didn’t respond.
Graeson scanned the area even though it was useless. The god never showed himself, instead opting to hide within the shadows. The smell of mildew and decaying leaves filled his nostrils. Other than the sound of quivering leaves, silence enveloped the space. Even the critters had gone quiet.
"What do you want?" Graeson demanded.
"What I have always wanted: for you to become the god you were born to be." Barinthian’s voice sent a chill skittering across Graeson’s back. And although Graeson could feel Barinthian’s eyes on him, the god was still nowhere to be found.
"Did you know?"
Barinthian sighed, clearly annoyed by Graeson’s diversion. "Know what?"
Graeson pushed himself off the ground. His limbs shook, and the muscles in his back strained as if his wrath flooded his bloodstream. "That my mother was alive."
"Oh, that," Barinthian said as if they were merely discussing the color of the sky. "Yes."
"Yes?" Graeson twisted toward Barinthian’s voice, but the direction from which it came kept shifting as if it flew on the wind itself. "And you didn’t bother to tell me?"
Light laughter wrapped around Graeson like a noose.
"Why would I when I knew the result would be this?"
Graeson’s hands flexed at his sides. "Do not act as if you care about my suffering."
"Oh, no. It’s actually quite the opposite, son." The god’s words brushed Graeson’s neck as though he stood right behind him. "You need to suffer. You need to feel this pain. Without it, you will never become who you are meant to be."
Graeson’s skin itched as though the god within begged to be released. But if he lost control now, he would only be giving Barinthian what he wanted.
Momentarily, Graeson wondered who would have been worse to have had as a father: Domitius or Barinthian.
While Graeson had interacted with Domitius very little, he knew the king was not an overly affectionate man.
At least Domitius pretended he cared. Although Graeson wasn’t that sure that was any better.
While Kalisandre might not have wanted to admit it, she had cared for the king once.
Graeson wouldn’t blame her if part of her still did.
Love and family were complicated. Even when they hurt the ones they loved, many still found themselves loving them.
It didn’t matter if Domitius didn’t share her blood; part of her would always care for him in some shape or form.
And that’s what made Domitius even worse than an unfeeling god.
Graeson never wondered about Barinthian’s true intentions. He had always known his father was a spiteful, egotistical god who thrived on the sufferings of others. There were no surprises with Barinthian.
When he was a child, there might have been a time when Graeson yearned for his father’s love.
Growing up, he would see King Markus interacting with the twins, throwing them in the air with a bright, proud smile.
While Esmeray and Markus had always treated Graeson like a son, their love for him was different.
He could feel the difference when one of them would talk to their peers and boast about their children’s accomplishments.
Once, Graeson had overhead Markus praising Fynn’s ability to read minds to the captain of his guard.
"He’s only just gotten a grasp of his ability," Markus had said, "but mark my words, my son is going to change the world one day.
" It was the pure adoration in the way Markus had said the phrase, my son, that had struck Graeson.
When Barinthian first visited Graeson, there was no adoration in his tone, no sense of pride or appraisal when he spoke to his son. Instead, Barinthian had treated Graeson as if he was merely an amusement, as if he was something to be studied, something that had not proven its worth yet.
Some things never changed, he supposed.
Graeson cracked his neck, a strange sensation crawling over his skin. "And what is that, exactly?"
Bright silver orbs peeked through the trunks of the trees, and his skin felt like it was on fire.
"You were born to tear this world apart, to burn it to the ground. You were born to be the kingdom’s reckoning."