And that boy grew to be a man...
Xavier – (34 years)
Adjusting my mask, I turned at the sound of approaching footsteps, light yet strong enough to signify he wouldn’t turn and run.
“What are we doing here, Father?” his voice echoed in the room we called a chapel but not used for its intended purpose. “And why are we all wearing masks?”
“Come closer, son.” I held out a hand, my voice soft, encouraging.
He glanced around. His gaze stopped first on the senior members of the Brotherhood, robed in black cloaks, dark masks and seated in the pews. Next, it shifted to one of my nephews standing next to me before flicking to the girl. Her face concealed by a mask as well, she lay on the red velvet-draped altar, covered with a white sheet.
“Why is she here?” He looked at me, refusing to move.
Soft lighting created by the hundred lit candles around the room highlighted the curiosity dancing in his green eyes—a remarkable phenomenon the Brotherhood welcomed with open arms. Because in generations of blue-eyed fathers and sons, there’d never been another child born with that distinct color—a shade held only by the very Prince who’d given rise to this ritual. For whom we despised yet could do nothing but follow in his footsteps until one of us broke the ancient curse. And the reason we’d gathered here today.
I dropped my hand, ready to explain his part in the Brotherhood, something I’d done with his cousins and their fathers before them. They hadn’t paused or asked questions, merely gone ahead as instructed. But we all knew there was something special about Saint. Apart from the eye color and just like my father, I felt something deep down the day my son was born.
“It’s time.”
“Time?” He frowned. “For what?”
“You turn fifteen today, which means you will now join the Brotherhood and participate in the ritual every five years until the curse is broken.”
“Wait. This is real?” he asked, sudden panic encasing his words. “I thought it was just a story Mother made up.”
“It’s not a story, son. Come now.”
He took a step back, shaking his head. “No.”
My nephew moved toward him before I could reply and grabbed his arms, forcing Saint to struggle against his hold, shouting at him to let go.
“Don’t be such a twit,” my nephew scolded.
“Let him go,” my voice carried a rigid firmness he immediately obeyed.
Moving to where Saint stood, I dropped to my haunches and cupped his face. “I’m not going to force you into anything you don’t want to do. But you’re a Sinclair. What is our motto?”
“Family before friends, wisdom before haste, loyalty before ego.” He sighed, his bottom lip jutting out in a pout.
