---
The smell was the first thing that greeted him.
Spilled wine. Sweat. The smoke of extinguished candles. Mixed with something else... something he couldn't quite identify. Then came the pain. Throbbing in his head like a blacksmith hammering on his skull with a tiny tool.
"Ugh..." Zephyr muttered, trying to open his eyes.
The room was spinning. Or maybe he was the one spinning. He couldn't remember how he'd ended up here. The last thing in his mind was raising a glass for a toast... What was he drinking to? He couldn't recall. Then darkness.
He tried to sit up. Failed. His body felt heavy, as if stuffed with lead.
"Time to wake up, young lord."
The voice came from far away. Or close by. He couldn't tell. Then he realized there were shapes standing around his bed. Three. No, four. Wearing...
His eyes widened suddenly.
Dark blue robes. Silver badges on their sleeves. Short swords at their waists.
The Ducal Guard.
He sat up instantly, forgetting his headache. He looked around quickly. The Libertine tavern was empty except for these four standing around his wooden bed. The windows were shuttered. The door was blocked by a fifth guard.
"By whose order?" His voice came out hoarse as he straightened his dirty clothes. "Did my father send you? Because I drank too much?"
The scarred soldier—a massive man with a scar running from his brow to his jaw—didn't answer. He just gestured with his hand. Two guards stepped forward, grabbed him by the arms, and lifted him as if he were a feather.
"Wait! I can walk! I'm not a criminal!"
But the guards ignored him completely. They dragged him out of the tavern like a sack of grain.
---
The trip to the palace was short but humiliating.
They bound his hands with coarse rope and sat him in an open wooden cart pulled by an old mule. They paraded him through the small capital's streets while people stared. Him! Zephyr, son of the Duke! The most spoiled brat in the duchy! But he was their spoiled brat! No guard had the right to drag him around like a thief!
"Father will hear about this!" he shouted at them once. "Do you know who I am?"
They didn't reply. They remained silent the entire way. Scar-face—he seemed to be their leader—stared at the horizon indifferently.
At the small palace gate, the situation shifted slightly. The Duke's personal guard stood there. They looked at Zephyr with expressions mixing pity and embarrassment. They helped him down from the cart, untied him, and quietly led him inside.
The short hallways covered with ordinary carpets. The brass chandeliers. The paintings commemorating his grandfather, the duchy's founder. He knew every corner of this palace. This palace was his home. And now he felt like a stranger.
At the study door, the guards stopped. One opened the door for him. He entered.
His father stood behind the wooden desk. His face was lined with age and gray hair, but his eyes remained sharp. He was staring at a paper before him. He didn't look up when Zephyr entered.
"Close the door."
Zephyr obeyed. Then he stood there, waiting. Seconds passed. Minutes. His father still read the same paper. Zephyr felt a lump rising in his throat.
"Father..."
"Silence."
The word cut through the room like a whip. The Duke finally raised his eyes. They were cold.
"Do you know how many complaints I've received about you this month?"
Zephyr opened his mouth. Then closed it.
"Thirteen," the Duke answered himself. "Thirteen complaints from merchants and city dwellers. Destroying The Libertine tavern—and this is the sixth time you've destroyed the same tavern. Insulting a merchant. Gambling with debts you can't pay. Public drunkenness. And..." He pointed to the paper in his hand. "And here you are, arrested by the Ducal Guard for disturbing the night."
"Father, I was with friends and—"
"Friends?" The Duke interrupted bitterly. "What friends? The merchants' sons whose money you steal and then throw into wine?"
Zephyr felt blood rush to his face. "I'm not—"
"You're a failure," the Duke said with deadly calm. "You're the greatest failure in the history of this duchy."
The words stuck in his throat. He froze. He'd expected anger. He'd expected punishment. But he hadn't expected this. These words coming from his father's mouth with such coldness.
Minutes passed in heavy silence. The Duke sat in his chair. He looked at his tall son, with his lazy brown eyes and messy black hair covering his forehead. He was a handsome young man. Everyone who saw him said so. But beauty without intelligence...
"Do you know what they said about you in the small council?" the Duke said quietly. "They said: Your son, Duke, isn't fit to be a simple soldier in the Ducal Guard."
Zephyr bit his lower lip. He didn't reply.
"And unfortunately... I believed them."
His head shot up. He looked at his father with wide eyes. "Father, I—"
"I've made my decision." The Duke interrupted. His voice was now formal. Cold. "In three days, you'll go to the northern garrison. You'll enlist for mandatory military service in the Imperial Army, like any ordinary citizen. The duchy can't exempt you this time."
Zephyr felt the ground disappear beneath his feet.
"What?"
"Military service. Two years. There, in the northern army."
"No... Father, you can't... I'm not a soldier! I'm not fit for the army! The northern army fights monsters out there!"
"Then either you learn, or you die," the Duke said coldly. "At least if you die there, I'll be proud that you died as a man, not drowned in wine at The Libertine."
Zephyr stepped back. His chest heaved rapidly. He searched for words. For a scream. For anything.
But the Duke had returned to reading his paper. As if his son no longer existed.
---
His mother rushed into his room an hour later.
He sat on the edge of his wooden bed, staring at the wall. His eyes were dry. His lips trembled. He tried to cry but couldn't. The shock was greater than tears.
"Zephyr... my son..." his mother whispered, embracing him. She was a gentle woman, her eyes resembling his. Her graying hair peeked out from under her scarf. "I spoke to him. I begged him. I told him you're still young... but he said this decision is final."
Zephyr didn't move. He remained still in her embrace.
"Only two years, my darling," she tried to reassure him. "Two years and you'll return to me safely. I'll send you whatever you need every month. And your father will speak to the garrison commander to watch over you from afar and—"
"Mother." His voice was faint. Strange. "Does he hate me this much?"
His mother fell silent. Then she began to tremble, crying silently. She didn't answer. She couldn't.
Zephyr closed his eyes.
Finally, as planned...
He was tired. So tired of the worry. So tired of the fear. Tired of looking over his shoulder every moment, wondering if today was the day they'd find out.
Finally, I'm getting closer to my goal.
His mother held him tighter, crying, whispering: "My little boy... my only one... you'll travel far from me..."
Zephyr closed his eyes.
Three more days of pretending.
Then freedom.
---
End of Chapter One