As soon as the project was finished, Cael had begged his older brothers Tomas and Viktor to play pretend swords, but they’d dismissed him. They were too busy training withactualweapons to entertain their needy little brother.
And Cael wasn’t about to ask his little brother Erik to play. The toddler would’ve been too busy chasing butterflies or eating dirt.
Pouting as he’d stomped away from his indifferent older brothers, Cael had found Byron, the ten-year-old son of one the lodge’s human servants, stuffing his face with biscuits in the kitchen.
A consistently friendly and pliable last resort, Byron was always willing to go along with Cael’s schemes. Besides, Cael wasn’t about to traipse around the grounds alone in his magnificent new helmet. He needed a proper fake foe.
The younglings had snuck into the training yard andborrowedtwo wooden practice swords, then dashed into the meadows at the edge of the woods. Cael was careful to keep them out of view of the large windows at the back of the lodge.
Especially the two-story one belonging to his father’s office.
He’d been told time and again that it wasn’t appropriate for the High Councilor’s son to be cavorting withhumans, but what was he supposed to do when no one else wanted to play with him?
Byron pushed himself up off the grass. “Okay, okay,” he said with a slight lisp. “Let’s go again. I won’t laugh this time.”
Byron squared his feet, the training sword wobbling in his chubby hands.
Cael shoved his helmet down and adjusted the eyeholes. He’d complained to Mother that she’d made it too big and she’d laughed, kissing him on the cheek and insisting he’d grow into it soon.
He gripped his own wooden sword, resting the tip on the ground, hands wrapped around the hilt like he’d seen the Vasilikans do.
He cleared his throat and said his line again. “Stand down, in the name of his Imperial Majesty!”
Byron didn’t laugh this time, instead came charging at Cael with a squeaky war cry and a youthful approximation of fury on his soft face.
Cael’s pretend weapon clacked against Byron’s as he struck away the shaky blow.
The two young males laughed and shrieked as they chased each other through the grass, the afternoon sun warming Cael’s wings despite the chilly winds.
Byron made to rush him again, but froze in pure horror and promptly dropped the sword.
A strong, rough hand fisted the back of Cael’s tunic, and the helmet tumbled from his head.
Arran Zephyrus’s massive ashen wings were tucked, the black talons at their peaks winking over his broad shoulders with a promise of violence. The wind whipped at his braided copper hair and beard, his gray eyes honed to an edge as deadly as his territory’s sought-after steel.
“Whatare you doing?” His voice was low and quiet, but ferociously sharp, slicing across Cael’s skin and cutting to the bone.
“N-nothing, Father,” he mumbled, shame heating his cheeks at both his choice of playmate and the fear quaking through his limbs. “We were just playing.”
Arran threw Cael to the grass and stalked over to the trembling human boy.
Cael’s father yanked Byron from the ground, and a sickening crack clapped across the meadow like a gunshot. Followed by the sharp tang of urine as the boy wet himself.
Byron’s arm went limp and floppy in Arran’s grip, and he wailed, a caterwaul of such deep agony that sympathetic tears blurred Cael’s vision.
“How many times must I tell you that you are not to associate withhumans,” his father bellowed as Byron sniveled in his grip, pawing at his broken arm.
Arran dragged the boy over to Cael, waving Byron’s floppy arm and nearly brushing Cael’s face with the boy’s purpling fingers. “Youdid this to him. Never forget it. And if Ieversee you degrading yourself and our family by playing with a human again, my punishment will not be as merciful as this.”
“Yes, sir,” Cael sniveled, staring at his feet.
“Look at me,” Arran barked, and Cael slowly lifted his head.
His father’s blow wasn’t unexpected, though it still knocked Cael off his feet. He cowered, attempting to shield himself with his tiny wings as Arran loomed over him.
“Zephyrus males do notcry, boy. Wipe that pathetic look off your face and go clean yourself up for dinner.”
Arran stomped towards the lodge, dragging a keening Byron behind him.
