“You give me too much credit,” I reply.
“And you do not give me enough,” Skot replies, as insubordinate as I’ve ever heard him. Yet I value his counsel, this man who would be my uncle if not for his impure blood. So I don’t cut him down where he stands.
Yet.
“Then please, explain in as plain of words as you would use with a mere orc, why must my interest be a danger? Many of my brethren take the human servants into their bedrooms.”
“Yes, but they don’t take them into confidence,” Skot says. “That one is more dangerous than she looks.”
I don’t answer. Because the irritation that follows his words is too sharp to ignore—and I don’t like examining it closely enough to argue.
“Leave it,” I snap, my face twisting into a snarl. The anger boiling within me froths over, threatening to overwhelm my good sense. As it often does.
“As you wish, my lord. I would be remiss if I did not bring it to your attention.”
He steps back, already dissolving into the background of the estate like he was never part of the moment at all. I feel the anger abate somewhat, and turn back to the human.
She’s gone, perhaps to fetch more water from the well. I remain where I am a second longer, gaze lingering on the space she occupied.
Then I turn away.
The hall is louder than it should be when I enter.
Voices overlap, low and controlled, but there’s a current running beneath them—something sharper, something thatshifts when I cross the threshold. Conversations pause, fracture, reform.
I don’t slow. They move. They always move.
“Verginyon.”
My father’s voice doesn’t need volume to carry. It cuts clean through everything else. I stop and turn to face him.
Maltos stands at the far end of the hall, one hand resting lightly against the back of a chair carved from the same dark stone as the rest of the estate. He looks exactly as he always does—composed, still, like nothing in the world has ever required effort.
I walk toward him. Each step measured. Precise. The epitome of dark elf detached ease. A mask I wear well, though it does tend to slip when I grow angry.
“Father.”
His gaze drags over me once. Slow. Assessing. Like he’s looking for something out of place. Or more likely, a sign of weakness.
“I hear there was an incident,” he says. “With one of the servants.”
“It has been handled.”
The word settles between us.
He tilts his head slightly.
“Handled,” he repeats. “I hope that you at least gave him a good scar to remember his failure by, or perhaps removed one of his fingers? He can till the soil with only nine I’d wager.”
My silence is telling. I hold his gaze, but cannot speak. It is difficult for me to lie to my father. Perhaps I fear him more than I let on…but disappointing him is somehow worse.
“I see,” he says, his tone calm but eyes afire. “Why did you hesitate to administer discipline? You know the humans are little more than beasts.”
There it is. The accusation that I’m not hard enough, not sharp enough, not strong enough to be his heir.
I hold his gaze.
“I chose not to waste time on something insignificant.” I shrug as casually as I can muster. “I just oiled my blade, I don’t want sticky human filth besmirching it.”
