“I would like to say something, first,” Peytor said, his words calm and authoritative, and the crowd stilled as his voice was projected.
Lord d’Refan spun to face him, his expression one of pure fury, but Peytor only turned his hardened gaze toward him.
“This is not my choice,” he said, and the crowd quieted at his statement. “I did not volunteer, nor did I agree to the deal that was made between my father andthe Warlord,” he spit the name, his eyes never leaving Lord d’Refan’s. “I do not want this and will not take a Bond. If you force me to, you are going against your own agreement with the territories in your alliance. To be frank, my father chose to ally with you, a mistake I will not make once the lordship passes to me. This . . . this forced Bonding is not something I want for my people, even if it’s presented with good intentions. So, no. I will not take a Bond today simply to prove my ‘loyalty’ to a tyrant.”
He stopped speaking and the silence in the wake of his words was deafening.
Hot, proud tears coursed down my face at his admission. He possessed all the poise and confidence I wished I could. To stand there, in the face of a predator and a fate he did not want, and openly defy him was something that I admired. But I also feared for him, and the repercussions.
“Is that so?” Lord d’Refan’s voice was low and lethal, sending shivers up my spine.
He said nothing more, simply snapped at a Mage who disappeared into the crowd.
“Then perhaps your lover would take the Bond in your place?” Peytor’s face blanched as Finian was forcibly dragged up to the stage, the echoes of his protests loud against the quiet of the crowd.
“No, don’t bring him into this! This isn’t his fault! This is on me, it’s me you want!” Peytor protested, lunging at Lord d’Refan, but he was immediately restrained again by the two Mages.
Both Peytor and Finian were forced to their knees on the platform, their eyes wide as they combed over each other, expressions packed with worry.
“Lord d’Aelius,” the Warlord called loudly, his whole body vibrating with barely restrained anger and violence. “Your son has defied me and our agreement, an agreement between two allied territories. And now he denies my Mage a second chance at a Bond by refusing to let hislover,” he spat the word, “take his place.”
The crowd began rumbling at the announcement, and there was the distinct taste of fear in the air. I held my breath, waiting for my father’s response.
“There are consequences for these actions, as you know, Lord d’Aelius.” My father only nodded, and the Warlord smiled a wicked smile. “Choose.For your flagrant display of treason and disloyalty, one of these boys will forfeit their lives. Choose.”
His words hung in the air and Father tensed.
This shouldn’t even be a decision.
I loved Finian as a brother and a friend, but Peytor was hisson, his heir. For a father, this shouldn’t be a choice. But, while Peytor was his son, Finian was practically family—raised with Peytor and I, the son of his best friend and advisor. The pain of the decision weighed heavily on my father’s face, and he sat frozen, staring at the platform as his eyes whizzed from Peytor to Finian and back again.
Peytor’s cheeks were wet as he openly begged and pleaded with Father to choose him and let Finian live.
“Father,please,please. He doesn’t deserve this! It’s me who should be punished, not him. PLEASE.” There was a brokenness to his voice that had tears streaming down my face in rivulets.
My eyes flitted from Peytor to Father then down to Finian.
Finian was pale, but stoic, tears quietly tracking down his face as he kept his gaze trained on Peytor as if memorizing every inch of him. His lips moved, words too silent for me to hear, and Peytor’s red and tear-streaked face turned to Finian, his pleas with Father abruptly halted.
Peytor’s body shook with sobs as he continued to openly weep for the decision put in Father’s lap, but now he strained to get to Finian as opposed to Father. There was a silent conversation happening between to the two men, and the look of pure agony and over-pouring of love from Finian had me shaking with my own silent sobs.
Father sat silently, his face blanched of all color, his hands balled into tight fists as he glared daggers at Lord d’Refan.
He needs to stop this!I thought about calling my Destruction Magic forward—it was always whispering and just out of my reach—but instantly pushed down the urge.
What am I thinking? I have no control . . . no focus. Suddenly I wished I had paid Mistress Lautaro more mind while in lessons. I was useless.
All this power, all this potential. And I can’t save my family from this fate.
The thought was sobering, and I tried to shakily push to my feet. My mother’s head snapped to me, her glare murderous.
“Sitdown,” she hissed, “don’t you remember what your father said? We have enough to deal with right now. Just stay. Out. Of. Sight.”
I sank back into my chair, but it was too late. Lord d’Refan’s gaze snapped from my father’s to where I sat, hidden behind them. A slow, warped smile spread across his face, and he raised his hands, asking for quiet once more from the restless crowd.
“On second thought, I have a different idea. Lord d’Aelius, due to your inability to make a decision on my command, I’ve revoked your privileges as Lord. In fact, I’m not convinced that you truly have what it takes to effectively govern an allied territory. Your son’s inability to follow commands and your daughter’s lack of control over her magic blatantly show that you can’t effectively lead, even in your own home.” My father bristled at his words but said nothing.
“You are hereby stripped of your title and position. Hestin, as a valued allied territory, will remain under my jurisdiction and command, its rules and laws up to my own discretion. Effective immediately.” Whispers and shouts rose from the crowd, and the Mages stationed along the perimeter moved closer, the Pleasure Mages sending heady tendrils of calming feelings in an attempt to dissipate and control the growing animosity.
