The boy's eyes were swollen and red, his lashes still damp from the shy, trembling ceremony of tears he had tried to hide. His breaths came in uneven pulls, each one a reminder of the consequence that clung stubbornly to his chest. Yet punishment was the least of his father's concerns. Discipline could be handled. What weighed on Lord Aule's mind was the thought of explaining this entire ordeal to a certain woman whose fury could make battlefields feel gentle.
Lord Aule tried to keep a stoic mask. He had worn it countless times before. But the deep creases on his brow refused to cooperate. He stood near the table, pretending to study his maps, yet he was already imagining the storm in his wife's eyes once she learned what had happened. The image made his shoulders tense in quiet dread.
The boy, unaware of this, was far too focused on the man who had saved him.
"Was it a clean shot?" Andras asked, his voice low, almost hesitant. The eagerness that had once bubbled beneath his skin now came wrapped in caution, a tremor of fear still clinging to his chest.
Aurelyeon sat perched on a stack of crates with a large map held in front of his face. The parchment hid most of him from view, but the clenched line of his jaw was unmistakable.
He let out a sharp exhale before lowering the map to his lap. His gaze fixed on the boy. "I do not recall hitting your head, boy. So why are you acting as if your brains spilled onto the ground?"
Andras blinked. He offered the faintest hint of a smile, tentative and unsure. "I just want to know if I really killed the captain."
His eyes gleamed with a subdued, nervous pride, the kind that trembles on the edge of fear and awe.
Aurelyeon groaned. He rolled the map with the slow, tired annoyance of a man who had dealt with too many eager children and too many reckless soldiers in his lifetime. "Yes. You killed him."
Andras' shoulders stiffened. He glanced toward his father, hope flickering briefly, but Lord Aule kept his eyes on his documents. He did not glance up. He acted as though he did not hear anything at all.
The boy's smile faltered. His pride shrank quietly, deflating like a candle guttering against the wind. He slid down beside Aurelyeon, shoulders slumping, trying to hide the sting of disappointment.
Aurelyeon shifted on the crate. He smoothed the map across his knees, though his gaze flicked toward the boy for a brief second. He recognized that expression. It was the look of someone who wanted approval but felt undeserving of it.
"You know," Aurelyeon said, his tone light and casual, "it was a decent slay."
Andras did not lift his face. He only twitched at the sound of the words, ears straining as if to catch every syllable.
"But," Aurelyeon continued, pointing the rolled map at him, "do not let it swell your head. Your father and I have seen far too many young men believe that killing a handful of bandits or a lucky captain means the world will kneel before them."
Andras' lips pressed together. "But I killed an enemy captain."
"An arrogant enemy captain," Aurelyeon corrected with a small, amused smirk.
The boy's cheeks burned. He shot a nervous glare, crossing his arms, the defiance tinged with lingering shame. "Then how many have you killed, sir?"
"Oh, plenty," Aurelyeon replied, puffing his chest faintly but with more show than pride. "Very plenty."
He lifted his tunic and revealed a jagged scar along his ribs. "And this is what too much pride earned me."
Andras stifled a laugh, more out of relief than humor, pressing a hand to his mouth. The sight made the vein at Aurelyeon's temple throb.
"Oh, you little—"
"Andras."
The word cut the air cleanly.
The boy froze at once. Lord Aule's voice was firm and steady in a way that needed no raised volume. He now stood behind the table, hands clasped behind him, expression unreadable.
Aurelyeon nudged Andras forward with the gentlest push. His own expression hardened. Whatever came next was not for him to soften.
Andras swallowed, throat tight, fear climbing steadily as he stepped toward his father. The earlier joy, the spark of pride, had vanished. There was only the weight of what he had done and the quiet dread of what awaited.
*
*
*
"Remember what I told you," Lord Aule said. His gaze stayed on the road ahead, never turning toward the boy riding beside him.
Their horses moved in slow, steady rhythm with the line of soldiers returning home. The fading scent of smoke and iron lingered in the air. Wounded men rode in silence, slumped against their saddles. Others lay motionless on wagons, wrapped in cloth for their final journey home. A priest murmured prayers for them as the procession moved.
The world felt heavy.
Andras was quiet. He kept his head bowed, watching the dust from his horse's hooves swirl beneath him. "Yes," he replied softly. He sounded guilty. He sounded small.
His first kill had been credited to Aurelyeon. The honor that should have been his was handed to someone else by his father's order. He had been asked to consider giving up the recognition for the betterment of the troops, and in his stubborn pride, he had refused at first. Only after the adrenaline faded did he understand how childish he had been.
Now, as they traveled away from the front lines, the shame clung to him like a second skin. His father spoke rarely, each word measured and sharp. The silence that followed those words struck harder than any scolding.
Another fear crept into him as they neared home. His mother. He had forgotten how she might have felt during all of this. Fear prickled in his chest as he imagined her pacing the hallways, praying, crying, waiting for news. He had been joyful over a kill while she had likely been grieving the thought of losing him.
He risked a look at his own hands. Every time he did, he imagined blood on them. He imagined the moment the captain fell. A hollow ache twisted inside him and made his stomach tighten. His breath grew shallow.
They passed through the main gate of their manor, and the sight of familiar stone walls should have comforted him. But before he could gather himself, he saw movement across the courtyard.
A woman sprinted toward him.
"Andras!"
Her voice cracked, thin from hours of crying. Trivinia crossed the ground with no regard for dignity. Her hair streamed behind her like wild ribbons, and her skirts dragged through the mud. Servants tried to steady her or call after her, but she only ran faster.
She reached him and threw her arms around him so tightly the force of it rocked him in the saddle.
"Oh, my sweet boy," she breathed, trembling as she pulled him down into her embrace. Her curls fell like a warm curtain around them as she pressed his head against her shoulder. She held his face in both hands, tracing his cheeks and jaw, as if confirming with her fingertips that he was real. Her tears fell freely, splashing onto his skin.
"Why would you do that? Why, love?" Her voice shook with fear that had not yet left her body.
Andras felt something inside him break. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed his forehead against her chest. He had been tall and strong on the battlefield, but here he felt like a child again.
He had expected shouting. Anger. Maybe even the glare that could silence a room. But she held him instead, warm and desperate, and the gentleness of it shattered all the defenses he had tried to build.
"Are you hurt?" she asked, her hands trembling as they checked his shoulders, arms, ribs, and back.
Andras shook his head. "No, Mother. I am fine."
His gaze flicked over her shoulder and met his father's stern expression. His voice tightened. "I am sorry for worrying you. I apologize for acting recklessly."
Trivinia exhaled shakily and shook her head. "I know you are curious, love. I know how your mind follows every question it finds. But you must value your life. Your curiosity is not worth your safety. I was terrified when I heard what you did. I was angry too. But anger cannot bring back what I almost lost."
She brushed tears from his cheeks and gave him a soft, steady smile, full of relief.
For a moment, the heaviness in his chest loosened. The guilt over worrying her faded slightly, soothed by her voice.
But another guilt remained. The guilt of having enjoyed a man's death. That weight did not loosen at all.
She handed him to the butler, who draped a warm towel around his shoulders with practiced care. Andras murmured apologies to him, then to the servants waiting near the entrance. They answered with gentle bows and words meant to soothe.
He took a step toward the main doors and finally looked back, expecting to see his parents walking behind him.
Instead, he saw his mother standing several feet from his father, her face twisted with sorrow and anger. She was speaking in sharp movements, her voice raised. Her hand swept through the air, pointing at Lord Aule with anger so clear even the distance could not hide it.
Andras could not hear her words. He could not even hear the beating of his own heart.
Before he could understand what he was witnessing, the butler stepped in front of him and guided him indoors, blocking the view entirely and leaving the echoes of the moment behind the closing doors.