Vox
We all crowded around the Conclave room, and my father took his normal position at the head of the large table. Always angling himself as king, even though none of us respected him as such. Normally, I’d sit to his left, so I was having a moment of identity crisis. I was no longer his Heir, and I rather peel off my skin than sit beside him.
Arthur Hanovan solved my problem by indicating the seat beside him, at the opposing head of the table. If there was any doubt that I’d turned on my Line, the optics of this would cement the theory.
My father curled his lip at me, before he smoothed his face back into its normal mask. The one I’d learned at his knee. The one that told me that I wasn’t allowed to feel in front of these people, my enemies. Somewhere along the line, I’d realized that they hadn’t ever beenmyenemies. They’d been my father’s, and I was just a casualty in his quest for complete power and authority.
To the left of my father sat Baron Rovan of the Fourth Line, obviously enjoying the new status this conflict had afforded him. The rest of the Barons sat around the table, looking uncomfortable to even be here. Cyran Lunderov from theSeventh sat beside Rovan, a position he didn’t appear to enjoy. Beside him was the Eleventh Line Baron, Jacob Abaster, and then Ingrid Ulsen from the Twelfth.
The other side of the table held no one next to my father; no one but Rovan was stupid enough to be in strangling distance, though Polis Mirchrin from the Tenth sat in the next vacant seat, his son beside him. He looked… perturbed, and I didn’t know if that was beneficial or detrimental to what we were doing today.
Beside the Tenth Line Heir, making my teeth grit, was Roman Halhed. The urge to reach over and strangle him rose up inside me, the recent passage I’d read inA Future History of Ebrusflashing across my vision. It had never come to be, and he didn’t know it, but the man was dead. Even thinking about hurting Avalon was a death sentence in my eyes, and if the way Hayle’s body was humming with anger, in his too.
There was no Baron Ingmire yet, but both Zier and Lukas Marlee from the Sixth sat at our far end of the table. It wasn’t exactly a pledge of allegiance, but it was definitely indicative of where they stood, and my father would take it as such.
Baron Taeme cleared his throat. “You called this Conclave, Baron Vylan. Would you like to begin?”
Feodore Vylan did not enjoy being out of control. Not even a little. But if he was worried by this turn of events, it didn’t show on his face. He gave a sharp smile to Baron Taeme. “Of course, Viktor. There is an imposter, who is trying to upset the balance of Ebrus. It can’t be allowed to stand, and I call for his immediate execution.”
Baroness Ulsen rolled her eyes. “He might not have had a seat in recent years, but the Hanovans are hardly imposters. Even though the First Line seemed to have some kind of vendetta, no wrongdoing was ever established to make the actions of the First Line justifiable back then.” She shook her head. “This is all ancient history.”
My father’s eyes flashed. “If you would ever just shut your bitch mouth, Ingrid, I could explain that I do not mean the Second Line scum, though if you want to willingly invite a fox into the nest, then you can suffer the consequences.”
Ingrid Ulsen sputtered, and Baron Abaster went to stand. The flash of father’s magic sat him back down. My own magic rose, and he slid those dead eyes toward me. In them was pure hatred, and I steeled myself against it.
“I meant this… mistake. My third son. He’s not my Heir, and he does not act in the interests of the First Line.”
Well, that was a turn I hadn’t seen coming. “There is an argument that he is the only Vylan acting in the interests of the First Line, Feodore, but that aside, your internal squabbles aren’t a reason to call a Conclave,” Baron Taeme said, his tone wary.
My father gave a smirk that sent shivers down my spine. I’d been at the other end of that expression too many times. It had always ended in pain.
“Correct, though it was inevitable that we all ended up here, was it not?”
The door flew open, and I startled, a show of weakness I hoped that no one noticed. Neho Ingmire walked in, with Moran at his back. Neho gave his own sharp grin. “Apologies that the Fifth Line was delayed.”
“Where is Baron Ingmire?” Baron Rovan demanded, and Neho smirked.
“You’re looking at the new Baron of the Fifth Line, Roderick.” He waved a hand at himself. “My father unfortunately succumbed to illness last night. I have been raised to Baron by my people, hence the delay.” He strode to the empty seat beside my father, taking it casually, as if he had no issue being that close to the man who’d traded his little brother’s life like it was nothing.
My father seemed to realize he was in a room of foes, with only Roderick Rovan at his back. The power in the room had shifted, but my father was never one to go down easily. “The Conclave will need to approve your appointment,” he started.
Ingrid Ulsen narrowed her eyes at him. “All those in favor of recognizing Neho Ingmire as the new Baron of the Fifth Line?”
“Aye,” echoed around the room, from everyone but the First and Fourth Lines.
Neho inclined his head. “Thank you. I will take the responsibility to my Line, and all of Ebrus, seriously.”
My father let out a frustrated noise. “Fine, but that is not why we’re here.”
“Indeed, why are we here?” Neho—or should I say Baron Ingmire—asked.
My father stood, and magic pulsed through the room. Chills slid down my spine. It wasn’t my father’s magic; I knew the taste of his power intimately, through blood and pain. No, this tasted different, like an oily poison sliding through the room.
He puffed out his chest. “I am here to announce my new Heir—myrightfulHeir, now that my son, Yaron, was taken from me by this traitor.” He waved at me, and I tilted my chin up. If I died tomorrow, that still would have been my greatest service to Ebrus. I had no regrets, and I let him see that in my eyes. “May I introduce my son, Dermet.”
A ghost of my past walked into the room. Or maybe the reanimated corpse of my past. The man who walked into the room felt… off, in a way I couldn’t describe. His body was scarred and stretched tightly across his skeletal frame. His eyes were dead, his lips pale and split in so many places, they leaked rivulets of blood down his chin. He was shirtless and without shoes, with only silk pants keeping him from being naked.
But worse than the horrifying visage of my brother, who I thought had been dead for decades, was the feel of his magic. It was wrong in a way that made me want to throw up.
