Prologue
Despite spending the better part of his time indoors with scholarly pursuits, Evran is not a frail wisp of a thing who succumbs to sickness and harsh words like he's made of paper. He is as tall as his brothers, with sandy brown hair and deep brown eyes, and he's been working the land surrounding their estate for years. He's no warrior, but he's not weak–he can hold his own ground and he's been in a few fights in his youth that had turned out in his favor. When that bastard Ferron had tried to see up his sister's skirts at the harvest festival he'd busted his own knuckles on the pompous brat's face. He's never shied away from getting his hands dirty.
Even so, when his father strikes him so hard across the face he ends up on his knees, he doesn't dare fight back.
The wooden floor digs into his knees and he can taste blood in his mouth, but he doesn't get back up. He stays where he is, because the likelihood of getting hit again while he's already down is much slimmer. The copper taste spreads across his tongue, and he can feel his lip already beginning to swell where his father's ring had caught it.
"You had one simple task," his father, Callum, is saying as he paces across the floor of his study. He's practically vibrating with rage–Evran has never seen him so angry before and he's seen him plenty furious in the past. His father's boots echo against the polished wood with each sharp step, a rhythmic counterpoint to his rising voice. "Court favor with Lord Galen no matter the cost. Earn his trust and place this family in his good graces. One simple task I ask of you and you return to me with your tail between your legs."
No matter the cost, his father says, but the cost had been high. Higher than any father should ask of his son.
Evran thinks of his brothers–Nathaniel and Willem–both older, both stronger, both more suited to the political games their father played. Nathaniel would have charmed Lord Galen with war stories and hunting tales. Willem would have impressed him with knowledge of trade routes and coin. Either of them could have secured the alliance their father sought through conventional means.
But Callum hadn't sent either of them. He had sent Evran, the quiet one, the scholar, the son who preferred books to battlefields and who had never shown interest in the daughters of neighboring lords. Evran had assumed it was because his diplomatic nature would serve him well in negotiation.
He had been naive.
"He wanted me," Evran manages to spit out around the disgust in his mouth, the words tasting as bitter as the blood. Once the words are out he can't stop from replaying the scene in his mind. Lord Galen's face flashes in his memory—jowled and flushed with wine, eyes glittering with hunger that had nothing to do with political alliance. The man's hands had been like iron as they'd reached for the laces of Evran's tunic, his intentions clear and horrible. "He wanted me to lay with him."
Come now, boy, Galen had said, wine heavy on his breath as he cornered Evran in his private chambers.Your father didn't send you here to discuss politics. A pretty thing like you... we both know what you're really here for.
The memory makes Evran's stomach churn anew. He had frozen for a moment, stunned by the man's brazen assumption, before reality crashed down on him. His father's careful instructions to "do whatever necessary" suddenly took on a new, sickening meaning.
"So you'll spread your legs for the stableboy but not for your family's gain, is that it?" Callum snaps, stopping his pacing to turn and face him, expression furious. "Instead you flee from his chambers like a frightened virgin and insult one of the most powerful lords in the land."
Evran flinches back as though he's been struck a second time. His father's words cut deeper than the physical blow, partly because they're not entirely wrong. There had been someone–Jory, the blacksmith's apprentice, with his kind eyes and gentle hands. But that had been different. That had been choice, mutual want, something precious and private that belonged to them alone.
"Is that why you sent me instead of my brothers?" Evran asks, finding his voice despite the way his throat feels raw. "Because you intended for me to warm the bed of a tyrant?"
His father's expression doesn't change, but something flickers behind his eyes–not shame, but calculation. "I intended for you to do whatever was necessary to secure this family's place in the political structure," Callum says, and his voice is growing eerily calm, which is somehow worse than his rage. "Lord Galen controls the eastern trade routes. His favor means prosperity for our house. His enmity means we lose our grain contracts, our wool exports, everything we've built."
He knows his father is right about Lord Galen's power–the man's territory controls crucial mountain passes and his word can make or break the smaller houses that depend on trade. But knowing the stakes doesn't make what was asked of him any less monstrous.
"I see now that you're unfit to perform even a simple task such as that," Callum continues, his tone growing more detached with each word. "If you cannot aid this family willingly, then perhaps the choice should be taken from you."
Dread settles over Evran like a cloak, cold and heavy and weighted with intent. He curls his hands into fists against his knees, but he doesn't dare stand. Not yet. Not with the look in his father's eyes–the same look he gets when evaluating livestock or deciding which fields to plant.
"You've always been different from your brothers," his father muses, circling him now like a predator sizing up wounded prey. "Too soft for warfare, too proud for politics. But perhaps there's still use to be found in you."
Evran's heart hammers against his ribs. "Father–"
"The Drakarri clan has been requesting tribute," Callum says, as if Evran hadn't spoken. "They control the northern passes, and their protection of our borders would be paramount. Perhaps an offering of good faith would secure their cooperation. A gesture of... diplomatic intention."
The words hit Evran like ice water. The Drakarri. The mountain clans his tutors had spoken of in hushed tones, calling them barbarians and savages. Stories of their raids, their strange customs, their fierce warriors who painted their faces for battle.
"You would give me to them?" The question comes out strangled, disbelieving.
"Yes," Callum says with a nod, eyeing Evran like he's measuring his worth for the first time in years. His voice carriesthe satisfaction of a problem finally solved. "Perhaps there is a use for you after all."
Evran stares up at his father from his position on the floor, seeing clearly for the first time the cold calculation that has always driven the man's decisions. He thinks of his mother, dead these past five years, and wonders if she would have let this happen. He thinks of his brothers, probably training in the yard right now, oblivious to their younger sibling's fate being decided in this sun-soaked study.
"When?" he asks quietly, the fight draining out of him like water through cracked stone.
Callum's smile is sharp. "Tomorrow at first light. Captain Frederick will escort you to their territory. I suggest you spend tonight praying to whatever gods you favor that they find you more useful than I have."
As his father turns away, already dismissing him, Evran finally struggles to his feet. His knees ache, his face throbs, and his heart feels like it's been carved hollow in his chest. But he stands, and he walks toward the door with his spine straight.
If he is to be cast out, to be sent to people who may kill him or worse, he will not give his father the satisfaction of seeing him break.
