Tapping on the little sofa, he encouraged me to sit, and when I complied, he joined me. ‘Would you like something to drink before I continue?’
The little chest serving as his coffee table opened to reveal a selection of drinks. One by one, he presented them, showing off the labels. The last option I couldn’t refuse. I watched in silence as he poured me a glass of lemonade before choosing the same for himself. Taking a sip, he looked at me with raised eyebrows.
‘What?’
A corner of his mouth rose in that way that meant he would tease me soon. ‘It’s my favourite; all the others I bought thinking of what you might like. I’m pleasantly surprised.’
I stared. ‘You bought juices for me?’
Taking slow sips, he looked a little troubled but kept his eyes centred on mine. ‘You said you don’t drink alcohol.’
The sentiment behind his words almost made me laugh. What did he need me drunk for? ‘Well… It’s not like I’m opposed, but I usually need a day to recover after, and I don’t have that kind of luxury at the moment.’
A chuckle bubbled in his throat before he walked away near his desk and poured two glasses of a rich, brown liquid. The little cupboard held a wine rack full of bottles.
‘Savour it,’ he instructed like a true connoisseur, before placing the carved glass in my hand. ‘Drinking doesn’t have to be about getting hammered. It can help relax. Give it a go.’
Bringing it up to my nose, I tried to decipher what it was. Pretending to know my way around spirits, I asked him, ‘Whiskey?’
‘Cognac,’ he said, sitting next to me and spreading in a way I’d never seen this uptight man do before. Head resting vertically on the back of the sofa, he urged me softly, ‘Try it.’
Watching him so… mundane was something I could get used to. Not the instructor hired to teach me, nor the combat professor forced to keep a mask of ruthlessness and apathy. And the longer I spent with him, the more he revealed that despite my earlier assumptions he did have a gentler side.
Raising the glass, I tasted the complex floral notes mixed with spices I couldn’t pinpoint. It was harsh and pleasant. Just like him. ‘I like it.’
‘I’m glad,’ he said, smiling. ‘We have similar taste.’
Switching positions, I sat cross-legged on the sofa, slouching as I faced the carefree Isaac. His usually expressive forehead remained smooth as he glanced at me from beneath his eyelashes.
Resting my head against the sofa as he did, I encouraged him to continue explaining the Civil War. Though the subject was serious and dismal, he thrived on anything related to combat.
‘We were the perfect scapegoats for all the wrongs,’ he started and played with the liquor in his half-full glass, swishing it side to side. ‘Because how could a person dabbling in something so dark and devious have any redeeming qualities, right?’
‘That’s horrible. They actually thought that?’
Isaac shifted to face me. ‘They’re called sympathisers.’
‘To what?’
‘Your grandfather’s philosophy,’ he said slowly as if he were wary of offending me. ‘The former king was a strong believer that the increased mortality rates of the dark fae could be resolved by eradicating the nightmare wielders.’
The news shocked me. I let the knowledge sink in. Some of my genes had come from a puritan. ‘He was wrong, right?’
‘That’s not an easy answer,’ Isaac said after a pause.
‘What does that mean?’
‘The old king created a task force of gifted nightmarists trained to kill in dreams.’ The warm eyes of his grew icy and distant. ‘But he wasn’t very gracious, and many went rogue. Vigilantes, if you may. It couldn’t be, and so they spun tales of our depraved practices.’
‘What practices?’ I asked.
‘Ritualistic sacrifices. It was a lie and a well-crafted one. With all this hatred, nightmarists wanted independence.’ He sipped on his cognac. ‘Then your grandfather was murdered, and your father inherited the throne. It was peaceful for a while, since he didn’t want the war, but neither side was willing to stop.’
Isaac paused. ‘My people fought hard for autonomy. But ultimately, they decimated our numbers greatly, aiming their blades not only at nightmare wielders but also at their unsuspecting families. The whole Isle of Sonhar. Your father publicly recognised the wrongs and not only allocated our Isle more seats on the council but, as a gesture of willingness to maintain peace, lowered his title to a lord.’
‘Miriam told me that part.' My voice sounded scratchy since my throat had suddenly gone dry. ‘That’s when it ended?’
‘It worked for a while.’ Isaac’s scowl only deepened. ‘Then the lord fathered his firstborn with the daughter of a very outspoken sympathiser, and all hell broke loose once more. Nightmarists would not back down this time, demanding the respect they deserved. There was carnage; I had never seen anything like it before nor after.’
