Phaedon stood on the balcony of the estate, gazing into the nearby distance where one of his family’s many storehouses stood. Workers hauled carcass after carcass into the building—dead wyverns of all colors. He had never seen this many wyvern corpses in one place before.

  He hated to admit it, but the attack was a princely benefit to his family. While the Guild received the vast majority of the slain wyverns, the city—and therefore the Bertrands—still acquired an amount too significant to ignore.

  Footsteps stopped beside him. He didn’t even turn to check who it was.

  “A splendid haul,” his father spoke with a voice that sounded genuinely pleased. “With this, we can satisfy the promises we made to the nobles in the north a fair bit sooner than scheduled.”

  Phaedon didn’t reply. He simply kept his gaze towards the distance.

  “I’ve had a talk with Nestor,” Lysandros said. “He told me you rescinded my direct orders.”

  “You better not have stripped him of his titles,” the heir growled.

  Lysandros scoffed. “I’m not stupid enough to deprive us of his talents. He shall be suspended for a few days—nothing more. As for you,” Phaedon heard his footsteps pacing back, “it seems a lecture is in order to teach you about your duties.”

  He finally turned around, frustration boiling within him. His father was inspecting a giant painting inside the room—a family portrait depicting only three people. Lysandros was holding a glass of wine, swirling the red liquid inside.

  “The guards should protect the citizens first,” Phaedon said. “You’d order our men to go on the offensive and leave our people unguarded?”

  “That’s what the shelters are for,” Lysandros replied. “The people are taught how to get there during the yearly assemblies. If our men had fought at the front, it would have bought the people time to run to those shelters. Furthermore, we would have gotten more wyverns than the Guild—two birds with one stone.”

  “The people were panicking.” Phaedon’s voice began to rise. He could feel himself heating up. “They needed to be guided. In the end, it’s all about the profit, isn’t it? Is money the only thing that’s important to you?!”

  “Money?” His father turned and glared at him sharply. “You think this is about money? Money is but an object, Phaedon, and objects are trivial to procure—meaningless in the grand scheme of things. No, what I’m after, son, is wealth.”

  The heir scoffed. “Sounds like the exact same thing to me.”

  Lysandros paced around, shaking his head slightly with a pursed grin on his lips. He placed the wine glass down on a table. “I’m not talking about the gold lying in our coffers. Wealth—true wealth—is so much more than what a man can hold in his hands.” Sat on the table was a small box filled with gold coins. He dug out a sizable amount and held it up, pieces spilling to the floor.

  “Gold is transient. It passes from person to person, and its worth rises and falls at the whims of war and souverains and kings. When I die, what use will all that gold be to me? I’m not saying gold is without value; it is … an important steppingstone.” The man took deliberate steps across the room, slowly reducing the size of his grip and allowing coins to strew on the carpet they stood on until there were none left in his hand. He stopped in front of the portrait. “The power of gold can wane, but the power of a name endures. The twelve heroes lived over two thousand years ago, yet, today, they are worshipped as lesser gods—their names and stories withstanding the erosion of time. Kylos Fathres died as all men do, and yet three thousand years later, he is still revered as the first, and greatest, of all heroes. When men speak your name lifetimes after you’ve died ... that is wealth.”

  “All excuses,” Phaedon said without missing a beat, “to justify your cruelty. You just want power, even if it comes at the cost of the people.”

  “I do want power, and I make no excuses for it. Haven’t you been listening?” Lysandros turned to him, hands clasped behind his back. The light shining from outside the balcony did not reach him, leaving his figure in shadow. “Sacrifice is the price of legacy. Those people you’re so concerned about—they live under our protection. Our power. Their suffering, when it comes, is regrettable ... but acceptable.”

  “Acceptable,” Phaedon repeated, the words tasting foul upon his mouth. His mouth curled into a scowl.

  Lysandros walked slowly towards the balcony. “I believe that everyone is brought into this world with a reason carved into their hearts, something they are destined to achieve. Do you know what that is called?” He placed a hand on Phaedon’s shoulder. “Grand purpose. It is the fuel upon which all lives burn.”

  He released the heir and continued walking towards the balcony, surveying the district below. “‘A Bertrand protects his family’s name’. That is our grand purpose.”

  “It’s yours,” Phaedon spat back, his blood boiling at that ridiculous phrase. “I want no part in it.”

  Lysandros scoffed, as if he were listening to the complaints of a child. “Our name is young. Weak. The Bertrand history pales in comparison to the great houses of this world. Your mother is dead. In the coming decades, I shall die as well. Then, you will die, as will your children and your children’s children. But a day will come when a Bertrand will sit upon the Throne of Bells ... and perhaps even the Throne of Salt itself. My grand purpose is to keep our name strong and alive until that day comes. And one day, this grand purpose shall be yours to uphold.”

  The young man clenched his fist, turning to the giant portrait. On it was him as a child, optimism in his eyes. He sat on his mother’s lap—a beautiful woman with braided gray hair smiling gently. His father stood beside her, a hand on his wife’s chair. It was a very formal, very regal painting.

  Three people.

  “You keep talking about how a name endures,” Phaedon retorted, “so why is it that you keep trying to pretend that she didn’t exist?”

  There was a long pause from his father. “Phaelan is gone. The past has nothing for us; there is little point in dwelling.”

  That’s not her name, he wanted to say, but such words wouldn’t reach the self-absorbed bastard.

  “Well, sorry to burst your bubble, but you can forget about that purpose of yours. I’m not going to be like you—a monster that can so easily leave his own people to die.”

  “Mercy does not build dynasties.” His response was cold. “And a man cannot defy his bloodright.”

  “That so?” Phaedon moved to leave.

  “Your plan is futile,” Lysandros suddenly said, stopping Phaedon in his tracks. “Participate in the Relic Festival. Win the tournament. Use the reward to start a new life somewhere far away ... You really think it would work?”

  The young heir clicked his teeth. Of course he’d find out.

  “And why wouldn’t it?” Phaedon said.

  “Because you won’t win the festival. You never have before, and you won’t do so now.”

  Phaedon laughed. “Keep talking, old man. You can’t stop me from participating, so keep your mouth shut.”

  Even if he was a demarchos, he still wouldn’t have the power to forbid him from participating. Anyone could participate in the Relic Festival, which was sponsored by the Guild. And ultimately, the Guild belonged to the Salt Kingdom. Not even someone of Lysandros’ status could bribe them to deny Phaedon’s entry.

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  The lord simply scoffed, not saying anything else. Phaedon took that as a sign that their conversation was over and left, passing through the estate’s wide and empty halls.

  Phaedon found himself stopping in front of a room—his old room from when he was still living here. He opened it and saw that it had barely changed from how he last remembered it: a medium-sized bed, cabinets that housed his clothes, a small table by the window adorned only by a single flower in a vase. Dust was visible in the air, floating like a soft sigh from a space that hadn’t felt life in ages.

  The dry, musky scent of disuse filled his senses as he entered. He moved to the table, tracing his palm across its surface. A faint layer of dust had settled upon it. The room hadn’t been cleaned in some time, clearly.

  “Nii-sama.”

  For a moment, Phaedon felt like he heard a tiny voice. He turned to the door, almost by habit.

  Of course, no one was there.

  “...”

  Whenever he was in this room, many of the memories came. Days when he’d stay up reading history books, studying diligently as the Bertrand heir. Afternoons when he’d sneak out of the window and climb down the nearby tree.

  But more often than not, he remembered her. The nights when she’d come to his room, unable to sleep due to nightmares. Days when she’d follow him around, simply watching him do everything quietly.

  He couldn’t remember her face anymore, but he could clearly see, in his mind, her long black hair and the tiny antlers jutting out of her head.

  “You’re the strongest person I know, nii-sama.”

  With a breath, Phaedon left the room, closing the door behind him as he did. There was no point in reminiscing.

  Not anymore.

  “What in Lye’s hells was he thinking?!”

  Hektor slammed his fist on the table so hard that a vase fell and broke. Maids and servants moved to clean the mess. All Cynth could do was sit there, by the wall, flinching at the sudden noise.

  “Father, calm yourself!” Valery said, standing by his bedside. “It wasn’t his—”

  “He should have gone with her!” Hektor shouted, his booming voice nearly shaking the room. “He should have protected her!”

  “Grits isn’t a knight or a guard. You can’t expect him to—”

  “He should have been there! If he had, then Cynthia wouldn’t have gotten hurt. That Flockmother wouldn’t have gotten away. Instead, he was going around playing hero!”

  “Father, Grits took down a lot of the wyverns,” Valery said with a soft voice, trying to pacify their father. “Because of him, the district wasn’t as ruined as it should have been. Look, Cynth is safe now, and we’re launching a search party for the Flockmother. I doubt she’ll be able to mount another siege anytime soon with how many wyverns we killed.”

  Hektor went into a coughing fit, and Valery placed a hand on his back, soothing him. “The boy’s drunk on his own rage,” the man said, his voice still hoarse. “Sending him to Sir Spearman was a mistake. I had hoped the old master would straighten him out and help him learn what duty and discipline were. Instead, the fool’s blinded himself further.”

  “That’s no reason to lock him up like this! Please, father, think this through.”

  Cynth gripped the hem of her dress tightly. Her father was a gentle man, but he always became like this whenever it concerned her. She couldn’t so much as get a tiny scrape without him blowing up and demanding to speak to whichever maid or butler was in charge of her at the time.

  She had passed out during the fight with the Flockmother, and when she woke up, Grits was already locked in one of the estate’s confinement rooms.

  Cynth opened her mouth. “F-father, I—”

  “Quiet, child,” Hektor said. “We’ll speak of you later. For now, we must decide on what to do with Grits.”

  The little heir’s breath hitched. Was this ... my fault?

  Valery sighed. “You need to calm yourself, father. You even locked up Sela and Agasias when they were only doing their jobs. Surely you don’t intend to keep them there long.”

  “A month,” Hektor said. “They shall stay there for a moon and no less.”

  Cynth’s head jerked up. A whole month. But, by then ...

  “The Relic Festival is due in a week,” Valery said. “Grits won’t be able to participate if—”

  “Let that be his punishment. Hells, I’m half convinced that I should bar him from ever participating again.”

  No ...

  Her body felt numb. His dream ... the thing he was working so hard to achieve ... because of her, he’d ...

  “I ... understand,” Valery said with a somber tone. He then cleared his throat and accepted a stack of papers that a nearby servant offered him. “As for the Flockmother, she’s still on the run. We haven’t seen any trace of her since the attack. The Guild has offered to help with the search considering they feel a sense of responsibility regarding her. That should free up our forces to help with rebuilding. There has also been a rise in petty crimes, taking advantage of the chaos ...”

  Valery was already moving on, taking charge of the situation. Yet, Cynth’s mind was still stuck on Grits and how her getting hurt ruined his chances of passing Sir Spearman’s test. It was all because she snuck out again—all because she didn’t want to stay in and listen to lecture after lecture.

  All because of her.

  “I cannot feel safe, Valery,” Hektor said. “Not with that blasted woman still out there. She clearly wants Cynth, though I know not why.”

  “We’ll deal with her, father. Rest assured.”

  Their father didn’t say anything, though it was clear that he didn’t feel at all relieved. A moment of silence passed before Valery placed down the stack of papers on the bedside table.

  “Father,” he began. “I don’t know who hired the Flockmother, nor do I know why they did, but it’s clear to see that Cynth is always going to be in danger.”

  Hektor glared at him. “What are you saying, boy?”

  “She is heir apparent—the second most important figure in the city, after you. Father, I know how much you want Cynth to be the archon, but the times are turbulent. The demons of Feralter are growing more and more active, and though Krysanth is far from the demonic front, the effects of the war are steadily approaching. I fear that a fourth Great War is upon us. In the coming years, I suspect that the world will not even be the same, that we will witness the turning of a new era.”

  Valery moved to the window, gazing outwards. “Truth be told, I don’t believe Cynth is prepared to lead Artemest into that world ... nor do I want her to be in that position when that time comes. Souverains and kings will die, as will archons.”

  Hektor hesitated for a moment. “The law,” he said. “The law is that only the first trueborn child shall inherit the seat.”

  “It is an old law, father. Many megalopoleis no longer practice it. You are the archon; you can repeal that law as you wish, and no one would bat an eye.”

  “We must hold to the old order.”

  “If we do, then we’ll be swallowed up by the new.” Valery looked at their father. His eyes were difficult to read.

  “Her mother,” Hektor continued, as if desperately looking for a reason. “I promised her ...”

  “I know,” Valery said with a soft voice. “Mother was a genius, and I understand that you see a lot of her in Cynthia.” He turned to her. “Perhaps, with time, she will grow up with that same brilliance ... but time is not something we have. We need to make a choice. You need to make a choice, father.”

  The silence that followed was palpable. Cynth could feel her own head spinning. She didn’t want to be in the room. She didn’t want to listen to this conversation. She wanted to leave the estate and go on her little adventures again.

  “...”

  But wasn’t that the problem? The reason that everything bad that happened recently was because of her, because someone was out trying to get her ... to kill her.

  After a moment, Hektor finally spoke. “Very well. I shall name you my heir, Valery.”

  Everyone in the room shifted from his proclamation. Even Valery’s eyes widened, as if he never expected his speech to work.

  “But,” Hektor added, “only if Cynthia herself agrees.”

  Cynthia flinched as everyone in the room turned to her.

  “The title of heir is hers, so she needs to have a say in this,” her father said. “Once she gives her permission, it shall be your name I will announce as my heir during the festival.”

  A quiet fell over the room accompanied only by the sound of a grandfather clock ticking. Her father, her brother, all the maids and butlers that surrounded them ... they all waited for her word.

  This was all she ever wanted—a chance to actually be free. Here it was on a silver platter. All she had to do was say “yes”, and it would be hers.

  But there was something else. Something more important than that.

  Cynth gripped her dress tighter and took a deep breath.

  “... No,” she said. “I’ll be the archon.”

  Everyone’s eyes widened, and more than a few small gasps were heard. Valery and Hektor in particular were the most surprised.

  “I’ll take it seriously,” Cynth continued, her voice starting to break. “I’ll study. I won’t run away from home anymore. I’ll work ... I’ll work hard, harder than I’ve ever worked. I’ll be like Valery. I’ll do it right. So, please ...”

  Cynth bowed her head as deeply as she could towards her father. Her hands trembled in her lap.

  “... Please release Grits. Let him join the festival. That’s ... that’s all I ask.”

  A life of freedom was all she ever wished for, and if it all came to pass, Grits wouldn’t be allowed to join the festivals anymore. Her father didn’t have the authority or power to stop Grits from joining ... but Grits would follow any word from him. He’d drop out and never participate again if Hektor commanded it.

  And wouldn’t that be nice? Grits wouldn’t leave. He’d always be here, with the rest of them. She’d be free to do as she pleased. A dream like that coming true was nothing short of a miracle.

  But she knew she wouldn’t be happy in that sort of world ... because it would come at a cost.

  Grits had a dream—a dream he worked so hard to chase after. If her happiest life came at the cost of that dream, would she be able to sleep soundly?

  No. It would tear her apart from within. Even if Grits eventually did become happy in that rose-colored reality, she would never forget that it was her own selfishness that bought all of it.

  It broke her heart to think about.

  The ticking of the grandfather clock continued on as she waited for their response.