The boy's eyes were swollen and red, his lashes still wet from the shy and trembling ceremony of tears he had tried to hide. His chest rose and fell unevenly, as though every breath reminded him of the weight of the consequence he now carried. Yet his father was not thinking about punishment. Discipline was simple and almost comforting. What troubled them was how they would explain this predicament to a certain woman who was far more frightening than any battlefield foe.
Lord Aule kept a stoic mask, but the deep creases on his brow betrayed him. He imagined the furious expression of his wife once she learned of their son's reckless triumph, and the thought alone made his shoulders tighten. Meanwhile, the boy, unaware of his father's dread, was far too focused on the man who had saved him.
"Was it a clean shot?" Andras asked eagerly.
Aurelyeon, seated on a stack of crates, held a large map in front of his face. Only the tense line of his jaw was visible from where the boy stood.
With a sharp exhale, the man lowered the parchment. His eyes narrowed. "I don't recall striking your skull, boy. So why are you acting like your brains spilled out?"
Andras only grinned wider. "I just want to know if I really did kill the captain!"
His eyes sparkled, alive with the dangerous kind of pride that came with one's first spill of blood in battle.
Aurelyeon groaned under his breath. He laid the map across his lap and rolled it with practiced annoyance. "Yes. You killed him."
The boy's face lit up in an instant. He turned toward his father, expecting praise or at least a sign of acknowledgment from the great general. However, Lord Aule only stared at his documents, pretending to be absorbed in maps and papers.
Andras's smile wilted. He pressed his lips into a tight line and slid onto the crate beside his savior, shoulders dropping.
Aurelyeon muttered to himself, brow furrowed, though his eyes flicked once to the boy. He knew that look. He knew that sinking disappointment.
"You know…" he said, voice low and casual as he continued smoothing the map. "It was a decent slay."
Andras's ears twitched toward him, though he stubbornly kept his face down.
"But," Aurelyeon continued, pointing the rolled parchment toward him, "don't let it puff up your little head. Your father and I both know what becomes of arrogant men who think killing a few bandits — or a lucky captain — means the world falls at their feet."
Andras pouted. "But I killed an enemy captain."
"An arrogant enemy captain," Aurelyeon corrected, smirking.
The lad shot him a glare and crossed his arms defiantly. "Then how many have you killed, sir?"
"Oh, plenty," Aurelyeon declared, puffing his chest. "Very plenty."
He yanked up his tunic to show a jagged scar along his ribs. "And this is what too much pride earned me."
Andras stifled a laugh, cheeks ballooning as he clamped a hand over his mouth. Aurelyeon felt a vein pulse at his temple.
"Oh, you little—"
"Andras."
The boy froze.
His father's voice, strict and carved with quiet authority, struck the room like a sharp knock. Lord Aule now stood behind his table, his hands clasped behind him, his expression unreadable.
Aurelyeon nudged the boy forward. All traces of humor disappeared from the man's face. The boy was now alone with the weight of what awaited him.
Andras swallowed and took hesitant steps toward his father. The sparks of joy that had lit his face moments earlier vanished completely, leaving only the trembling fear of what his father might say.
*
*
*
"Remember what I have told you," Lord Aule reminded his son. His eyes stayed forward, never sparing the boy a glance. Their horses moved in steady rhythm beside the soldiers who were returning home only for a short while. Some would rest their wounds in the temples. Others would be delivered straight to their funerals, their bodies destined for the city cemetery.
Andras kept his head lowered. His reply was a quiet, gloomy yes. His first blood had been attributed to Aurelyeon. The rewards meant for the boy had been placed in the hands of his savior. Andras had been given a choice, and he had reacted with anger when told to consider passing the honor to another warrior.
Now that they were retreating from the front lines, the boy felt like a mutt with its tail between its legs. He felt as though he had only caused trouble. His father spoke so little, and every word was clean, sharp, and necessary. The silence made Andras feel small, as if he had disappointed him beyond repair. Hot tears gathered again at the corners of his eyes, threatening to fall.
As they neared their residence, another fear crept into his chest. His mother. In all the excitement and pride he had felt after the kill, he had forgotten about her. The realization made him sink deeper into the saddle. He had been joyful over taking a life, completely oblivious to how she must have worried for him. Only now did the weight of what he had done crash onto him like a cold wave.
He refused to look at his hands, but whenever he accidentally caught sight of them, he imagined the captain's blood smeared across his palms. His guilt twisted his stomach until it hurt. His chest felt heavy and compressed, as though something inside him was clawing for escape.
When they passed through the main gate of their manor, he barely had time to lift his head before a woman rushed toward him. She crossed the grounds with no regard for dignity or etiquette. Her hair streamed behind her like wild ribbons and her dress dragged through the mud as she ran.
"Andras!"
Her voice broke, thin and trembling. She reached him in seconds.
"Oh, my sweet boy," she gasped. Her rich brown curls fell around him like a curtain as she wrapped him in her arms. Her dress was soaked with dirt, yet she held him as if nothing else mattered. Her fingers traced his cheeks and jaw. Tears streamed freely down her face. She sobbed so loudly it startled the horses and crushed him against her in an embrace almost too tight for his still-growing frame.
"Love, why would you ever do that? Why?" She cupped his face in both hands. Her eyes were red, raw from crying, and filled with fear.
Andras broke. His arms wrapped around her waist. Despite being tall for his age, strong for a lad, he felt like a small boy again.
He had expected scolding, shouting, accusations. Instead, he received warmth and trembling relief. Her whispering soothed the jagged edges of his fear. The tight shell he had worn on the ride home began to crack. He suspected she would still lecture him later, firm and frightening in her own way, but for now he buried himself in her embrace and allowed himself to breathe.
"Are you hurt?" she asked, pressing gentle hands along his shoulders and sides, checking for injuries with trembling fingers.
Andras shook his head slightly. "No, mother. I am fine."
His smile faded the moment he caught sight of his father's sharp gaze over his mother's shoulder. He swallowed. "And I am sorry. I apologize for worrying you and for behaving recklessly."
Trivinia shook her head, her tears softening. "I know how curious you are, love, and I do not blame you for wanting answers. But please cherish your health, and never gamble your life simply to feed that curiosity. I was worried. Very worried. I was angry too when I heard you ran away. But what can anger give me now?"
She brushed the tears from his cheeks. Her warm smile was full of understanding, steady and gentle.
Andras felt the weight lift slightly. His guilt over worrying her loosened its grip. Yet another weight remained, the guilt of finding joy in a man's death. That one did not leave him so easily.
His mother passed him to the butler, who draped a fresh towel around his shoulders. Andras bowed his head and apologized to the old man. He apologized to the servants who greeted him at the entrance, each one offering soft words and small bows.
As the boy approached the main door, he glanced back, expecting to see his parents behind him.
What he saw instead made him stiffen.
His mother stood feet from his father, her expression twisted in distress. She was shouting, though Andras could not hear a single word. Not even the beating of his own heart. She flung a hand toward Lord Aule, her anger sharp and clear in her movements.
Before he could understand what he was seeing, the butler stepped in front of him and guided him inside, blocking the view completely.