I stood by the window of my chamber, the letter crumpled in my fist. My son knocked once before stepping in, his school uniform still crisp, his eyes full of that restless fire that reminded me too much of my younger self.
"Father, you called?"
I turned slowly, my jaw tight. For a long moment, I couldn't speak. How could I? How could I tell him the King himself had reached into our home and claimed him like property?
"Yes," I said at last, my voice heavy. "Sit."
He frowned, sensing the tension, but obeyed. His youth betrayed him—he sat tall, proud, expectant, thinking perhaps I would finally relent and grant his wish to join the B.A.M.
I slammed the letter on the table between us. The seal stared at him like an executioner's mask. He reached for it, but I slapped his hand away.
"Read it with your ears, not your eyes," I barked. "His Majesty commands that you present yourself at the B.A.M. ground in three days' time. By order of the King."
His face lit up—foolish joy blooming where dread should have been. "The King himself? Father, this is—"
"This is a curse!" I roared, my anger echoing through the chamber. "Do you not understand? You are my son, not theirs! I built this empire's roads, its bridges, its lifelines! And now they wish to steal my blood, turn you into one of Soren's war dogs!"
He stood, defiance flashing in his eyes. "I asked you, Father. I begged you to let me serve. And now the King has chosen me! This is not theft—it is destiny!"
My chest tightened. His words were daggers, sharpened by youth and naivety.
"Destiny?" I spat. "Your destiny is to inherit a legacy of building, not destroying. But the King…" My voice broke, fury giving way to bitterness. "The King takes what he wants, and none may refuse."
Silence fell. Only the crackle of the fire filled the room.
Finally, he said, almost in a whisper: "I will go, Father. With or without your blessing."
I turned away from him, because if I looked at his face a second longer, I might shatter. My nails dug into the wooden frame of the window, the night air biting cold against my skin.
"You think you are strong," I murmured, my back to him. "But remember this—once you step onto B.A.M. soil, you are no longer mine. You are his."
The door creaked as he left, leaving me alone with my rage, my fear, and the cursed letter.
I clenched it once more and whispered into the dark:
> "Chris Blackwood… you will not have my son so easily."
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