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Father
P.S. You may be interested to read this passage I came across in my readings. It is fromArcanea Magikora;Chapter Seven, Page 305:
For a newly fledged Vampyr, there is nothing more invigorating than the blood of a young man or woman in their prime, for the essence of a Son or Daughter of Eresus is the embodiment of the antithesis.
Thus, he or she becomes the symbiosis.
In particular, blood from a woman in her oestrus will be most potent when consumed by a male Vampyr, for she carries Eresus’s grace. Thus the cycle of death and rebirth continues. Hecoa’s Chosen will become immeasurably stronger.
* * *
A puff of disbelief escapes my lips as I set the cursed parchment down on the table. I’m half-tempted to tear the damn thing to shreds and throw it in the bin.
That’s my old man through and through. He sends a letter professing regret and conveniently binds me up in an arrangement not of my own choosing, then offers vague hints of some esoteric nonsense, leaving me to figure out the rest for myself.
The threat is clear.
Marry this woman, or lose all of my lands and titles.
I would gladly choose the latter, but there are too many here that depend on me. My soldiers. My loyal servants. The people of Tyron, who were living in abject poverty until I corrected the previous duke’s mismanagement.
This duchy was in shambles when I arrived. Nobody else can manage it. If father ever tried to come for my lands; for my people… I’d fight him.
Tyron is mine now, and I will defend it at all costs.
So I’ll go ahead with this marriage, because I’m sick and tired of bloodshed, and I have no appetite for civil war.
I curse my father for his cunning. He knows me all too well. And maybe that was part of his stratagem. He sent her here without warning because he knows something I don’t. Heknewthat when I first encountered her, I would…
I sigh, closing my eyes and cursing the infernal magic that’s left me likethis.
Lying in the snow, pain racking my body, I stare up at the perfect winter sky. The sky is achingly blue. The sun’s so bright it burns my eyes, almost blinding me. How it burns.
An eagle circles above, drifting on the currents.
I fought. My sword-hilt is still clenched tightly in one hand, sticky with drying blood—the blood of a dragon.
Why am I like this, all of a sudden?
Why am I like this, and not dead?
And if I saw her again… could I even control myself?
13
FINLEY
Iwake in a four-poster bed, wrapped in a cocoon of soft, clean blankets and sumptuous furs. The fire in the hearth has burned down to glowing embers.
The sun isn’t yet up, but I know it’s morning, because I can hear the birds.
This castle… somehow, it’s peaceful.
Maybe it’s the walls. The sheer amount of stone that must have been used to construct this place just boggles my mind. The walls are at least an entire arm-span thick, and they feel like they’ve been here for an eternity.
I feel like I’m ensconced in the depths of the Earth itself.
Roughly hewn blue-grey stone surrounds me from ceiling to floor. It doesn’t quite feel homely—the walls could easily be softened with a few tapestries or a painting here or there—but the room is certainly comfortable.
