“Alar.” Sablebane’s voice drew her attention then. Weak. Raw. “My son.”
Alar’s breathing grew shallow.
My son.
Two words he’d never thought to hear.
He moved from Lara’s side and crossed to his father. His palm pulsed with each stride, and a deep pain throbbed down his back.Fuck.
“Alar,” Lara murmured. “We need to remove that knife … it’s—”
“Later.” He flashed her a weak smile before sinking down onto his knees next to Sablebane.
His gaze slid over the deep wound to his gut. Blood was everywhere. He looked up at his sister. Fern stared back at him. She knew he was done for too.
His father’s hand lifted, trembling slightly. His fingers then closed around Alar’s wrist. “I loved your mother … but I failed her.”
Alar’s pulse kicked into a sprint. He hadn’t expected this.
Sablebane’s face contorted then, as a spasm of pain seized him. His grip on Alar’s wrist tightened. “After you were born, I returned to Dorne Forest … I watched you both from the trees. I planned to go through the stones and take Marav form … to disappear into Albia forever … but I hesitated too long. Mor had me followed. She discovered what I’d done.”
Alar stared down at him, unsure of how to answer. For so long, he’d hated his father. And yet, as he stared into Wynn Sablebane’s eyes, a lifetime of rage drained from him. “Fern told me you were sent to a labor camp,” he admitted finally.
His father stiffened, a moan of pain tearing from his throat. “I overheard you that night,” he panted. “When you told Lara about Struana’s death.”
Alar stilled. Telling Lara about that had cost him. The fact that Sablebane had been listening filled him with shame. However, there was no judgment in his father’s eyes.
“You’re not to blame for any of this, son …Iam.” Sablebane’s breathing was labored now. Sweat coated his face. “For those scars on your face and neck too.”
Placing his hand over his father’s, he squeezed gently. “No,” he said huskily, wishing his throat wasn’t so damn tight. “You aren’t.”
And he meant it too.
He regretted his father’s hesitation. If he hadn’t waited, Alar’s life would have been very different. His grandfather wouldn’t have died trying to protect him, his grandmother wouldn’t have withered from grief, and his mother wouldn’t have been stoned to death.
He wouldn’t have grown so bitter. So angry and desperate to prove himself.
But his path wouldn’t have led him to Lara either.
Aye, it would have been a different life. A far happier one, perhaps. Yet it was the road not taken, and he wouldn’t mourn it. Not any longer.
Silence settled, soft like falling ash.
Then Sablebane’s fingers clamped tightly around Alar’s wrist. His grip was hard enough to bruise, hard enough that Alar felt bone grinding.
“Kill me.”
Fern jerked. “No.”
“Hush.” Sablebane’s free hand found hers and squeezed. “A belly wound takes its victim slowly. Do you want to hear me scream?”
Tears cut tracks through the grime on her face.
Alar’s gaze moved between them. His gut clenched.
All those nights, all those years, of imagining this. His blade driving into his father’s chest. The light going out of his eyes while Alar watched.
But his father was asking for it now.
