The atmosphere is rather rambunctious as the family of seven chatters among themselves while they eat their dinner.

  In a quieter wing of the mansion, where the squeaky twitters of humming birds filtered through windows half shielded by paper screens, is the informal dining room. It is smaller than their grand hall, which is used for hosting political guests, a deliberate design choice that provides the area with a warmer feel, one that the larger chamber lacked. A rectangular table of lacquered darkwood, stained by years of service, stood at the center, long enough to seat the family but not so wide as to feel distant. The table is accompanied by matching chairs with cushions on their seats, providing comfort while eating.

  At the ends of the table sat their mother and father. Cian and Keegan sat to their father’s right and left, respectively, as they are the eldest. Their younger siblings were clustered near their mother, Baby Dove, sitting on her lap, picking at the food but still a month away from being allowed to take a bite. Silent-footed servants in simple robes and black aprons brought courses one by one, moving at the individual eating pace of each person. The servants had a rougher time meeting the needs of Cian, their young Scion, polishing off plates the moment they were set down. Although Cian is cheerful as he speaks to those around him, recounting stories from his and Keegan’s time at The Cornucopia, he is nervous, hence why he has an enormous appetite this night.

  His nerves become skybound when his uncle gently claps his hands to gather his family’s attention. “Before we conclude this glorious meal provided by God and our dutiful servants, I have news to share with all of you.” Cian pointedly tore into his loaf of bread, focusing on it as though it held great importance. “Come, my two eldest sons’ sixteenth birthdays, I with them will travel to Faux Point and then to the city of Semper Dante Luce. There, at the Kemp Vekoslav Collisium, they will partake in a rightful heir ceremony.”

  “Why would we need to do that?” Keegan asked, his voice containing the same perplexity visible on his face. “Cian and I agreed I would be heir.” Cian can feel his brother’s eyes on him, but he refuses to meet his gaze, preferring to let his uncle handle the situation he caused. “Your brother has matured much under the tutelage of Davar, and he recognized the honor behind vieing for the patriarchy.”

  “How awesome it is that we're going to see our brothers battle!” Destin interrupted, his anticipation like a bubbling cauldron. “I've always wondered who's strongest.”

  “Cian obviously,” Bedisa said, earning her a bewildered look from the boy across from her. “Every time I've ever witnessed Keegan pick a fight, Cian is always behind him, prepared to finish it.”

  “But they’ve both undergone training, and Keegan has become even more adept at poison making. I think he would have the advantage.”

  The two younger siblings would have delved into a long-winded disagreement had their mother not intervened. “Quiet, both of you,” Mila commanded, her voice like a whip. She was not looking at the younger ones, her eyes solely trained on her elder sons and their father. Cian continued to eat, his head down, as he brought another forkful of food to his mouth. Meanwhile, Keegan was visibly distraught, his face pinched as he tried to ingest his father’s words.

  “Is what my father says true?” Keegan asked, causing Cian to slow down in his chewing. He swallowed harshly, tapping his fork against his final piece of meat. “It is.”

  Keegan slumped against his chair. “Both of you will have until your birthday to prepare. I’ve already instructed Warden to aid you, Keegan, in whatever capacity required. As for you, Cian, Kumo will see to your needs,” Bomin said, directing the conversation forward. “Also, Destin, you and your sister will not be joining us. You will stay behind with your mother.”

  “Why!” both children cried in unison. “This is no simple wrestle between siblings. It is a sober affair that requires the utmost respect, and can be a tad cumbersome for young eyes to bear witness to,” Bomin replied. “You will stay home with your mother, but I will send word of the outcome.”

  “Uncle, is this the only thing you wished to tell us about?”

  “Yes. There is nothing further.”

  “Then may I be excused?” As soon as his uncle nodded his head at him, Cain scooted his chair back, the legs scraping harshly against the stone tiles of the floor. Cian would like to think that he walked out of the dining room calmly, rather than scurrying out like a frightened rat.

  —————

  The bedroom is quiet, neither extravagant nor plain, but purposeful. A simple bed rests in the back corner, its frame low to the ground, the cot firm but neatly kept with folded purple bedding. In the center of the room sits a low wooden table, the top of which is visibly scuffed from years of writing and from the many crafts Cian put together. Sturdy shelves take up one wall. On them are bundles of parchment, books with weathered spines, pots of ink, quills, and pencils. Hanging as decoration are several paintings, some depicting fantastical scenery with fairy-tale creatures and monstrosities, while others capture joyful moments between him and his family. Also hanging amongst the portraits is a singular black frame with a grainy and slightly faded photograph of his whole family.

  In the opposite corner of the bed, a small water fountain murmurs. It is made of smooth stone, stacked, and nestled at the bottom are blooming Wild Pansies, their tri-colored faces nodding from the gentle breeze that caresses them. The breeze comes from the window, a rectangular cutout set high along the east-facing wall. The delicate paper screen that was blocking the window has been slid to the side, and the outer shutters are propped open with a pair of simple wooden rods. This is where Cian stands, soaking in the late evening air and watching the many twinkling stars scattered across the canvas of the night sky. This is how Keegan finds him.

  At first, Cian had thought about locking his door, leaning toward solitary confinement within his room, so he would not have to think about the ruckus his uncle stirred. It would have been pointless because either Keegan would have pounded on the door to be let in, or he simply would have picked the lock, and how peculiar it was that such a skill was a required class they had taken. He preferred not to be involved in either scenario, and so he did not flinch when the door to his bedroom swung open, bouncing off the wall before being slammed shut. Keegan walked in, bringing with him an onslaught of emotions that clogged the room, making Cian glad he had opened his window. “What did you and Father speak about in his study?”

  Cian took in one more peaceful breath before turning to face his brother. “My less-than-ideal behavior at The Cornucopia. Apparently, Grandmaster Edwin has been keeping Uncle informed about all of my escapades over the years.” His response earned him a heated glare. “What? That’s all we discussed, Keegan.”

  “You’re lying! Otherwise, explain why Father chose tonight to inform us about the upcoming ceremony. Both of you were talking about me and…what happened with that man, weren’t you?”

  “The ceremony had been decided long before today. I just never dared to tell you.”

  Keegan reared back, looking at Cian imploringly. For his part, the cogs in Cian’s mind began to spin rapidly as he thought up a lie to ease his brother’s mood. “It was during the trials that I realized my potential to be patriarch,” Cian said. The trials are a series of mock scenarios set by The Cornucopia to give the children a taste of what it means to be a tribal and clan leader. They were meant for the second-year pupils and those above them, taking place toward the end of the year. Each child would have a turn to lead their respective year, and those playing civilians would act as though they were facing war, drought, famine, or a devastating storm. Their faux leader had to devise a plan that would lessen the loss of lives and ensure they did not squander all their wealth along the way. Teachers would score the students based on their effectiveness, whether the child was able to maintain a clear head, and how they chose to handle the weight of leadership. It is not entirely untrue to say that Cian performed well during the trials, which gave him confidence that he could lead should the need arise. “I had sent word to Uncle Bomin after they were concluded, informing him that I wouldn’t mind if I became heir. We traded further letters, and it was decided that I would have to challenge you. He had advised me to tell you as soon as possible, but I kept holding off because I didn’t want you to hate me. We had always assumed you would take over after my Uncle, and it felt wrong to go against that.”

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  He spoke evenly, and the inflection in his tone was real. Cian felt awful, but not for he reasons he needed Keegan to believe. The other boy eyed him, scrutinizing him with intensity, and Cian held firm. After a moment, Keegan sagged, the fight that had been brimming left him. Cian had to refrain from sighing out in relief. “Are you disappointed with me?”

  Keegan shook his head before going to join his brother at the window. He criss-crossed his arms on the edge, then he rested his head on them. “I want to be. You should have been forward, but I understand why you were reluctant. I probably wouldn’t have taken the news so well. The only reason I do now is because I’m not so sure that I’d make for a good leader.”

  Cian scoffed. “Of course you would! You actually remained still during classes, while I fidgeted like a squirrel who got into the coffee beans. Can you imagine me as a diplomat? I don’t think any of the other tribes would take me seriously, let alone entire continents full of clans. During Primary Summits, I would try the tribal leaders’ patience, and ruin the good relations between them and Heartsease.”

  “People adore you, and I wager that they would love you more as their patriarch.”

  “Adoration can only go so far; being a leader requires more than that,” Cian retorted, watching his brother mull over his words. It took a beat of silence until Keegan’s demonor brightened, and he was able to smile slightly. “It’s good that you changed your mind.”

  Cian quirked a brow. “How so?”

  “It will be more fulfilling to beat you outright than simply accepting your forfeit.” The confidence in his brother’s words brought a chuckle out of Cian. “Then I will give it my all as I expect you to.”

  “It’s a deal, Cian. May the best man win.”

  —————

  The candle flickers, its flame licking away at the melting wax, having already consumed most of it from being lit for so long. An hour more and the flame will die out, having exhausted its fuel source, but this is not something he pays attention to. Karun is meticulous as he folds the letter in front of him, ensuring the creases are straight and the paper flat before putting it in an envelope and sealing it. He runs a finger over the wax seal, over the imprinted symbol of his tribe, before moving on to fold the following letter. There are two letters in total, each holding written instructions that were painstakingly thought out. They might come off convoluted, but Karun has been that way since he was little. If he is put in charge of something, whether it is running a shop or planning a birthday celebration, Karun will handle it with unrivaled finesse. The smallest detail will not be overlooked, and in the end, his plans come together to form a spectacular piece of art.

  “Mauta,” Karun called gently. The room he is in acts as his study. It is at the end of the storehouse, and is large enough to fit a table, chair, and bookshelf. On the wall behind him is a circular window that sits high above, and its sill is where his Messenger Pigeon sits. The bird shakes its body, its feathers ruffling as it rids itself of the last remnants of sleep. It hops off the sill, its wings spreading so that it can glide toward his desk, but its smooth flight is interrupted by the sinuous body of scales that strikes out. “Don’t!” Karun commands in a voice that holds such strict authority that the looming predator halts its movements instantly. “You hunt when I say, Vasuki.”

  The serpent recoiled most of its body back under the desk, its weight settling comfortably around Karun’s legs. It never failed to astonish Karun how a creature four meters in length had such control over its body that it could maneuver with grace and agility. What also amazed him was how despondent a creature lacking facial features could appear. Vasuki looked at his master as if Karun were purposefully being cruel. His empty eye sockets, rightfully disturbing but endearing to Karun, took on a pleading note, however impossible that seemed.

  “Quit your sulking. It's unbecoming of a creature of your infamy to behave like a child,” Karun scolded, although there is no true heat in his words as he reaches out to pet the serpent's head. Vasuki’s tongue flicks out to taste the skin of his master's wrist, and Karun taps him on his muzzle. “I will allow you to play soon enough. Until that time, leave Mauta alone before you send that poor bird to an early grave.”

  After waiting to ensure the serpent no longer meant harm, the pigeon flew to stand before its master on the desk. Karun strokes the side of the bird's neck before pointing at his forearm, a silent command to have the hefty bird rest there so he can carry it. He leaves the room, Vasuki slithering after him, but the serpent does not do so through conventional means. It heads to a corner where the candle’s light cannot reach, and when it touches it, it is as though the serpent melts into the darkness, the entirety of its body disappearing. As Karun walks, an unmistakable silhouette of a serpent coiling around the body of his shadow is visible, accompanied by a soft hissing sound.

  As he walks through the storehouse, his workers are busy moving large crates, barrels, and unpacking merchandise for their shop. They respectfully acknowledge Karun, but do not deviate from their tasks. He leaves them, eventually walking through a door that takes him to the front of their shop, where there are rows of shelves for customers to peruse, and in the corner is a counter where they pay for their goods. It had been a pleasant surprise that they were blessed with a steady stream of customers on their opening day, and since then, they have continued to receive a consistent flow of people. Word of mouth had spread that their shop claimed to sell used wares, but that the items looked as if they came from some prestigious household.

  Those people are not wrong, Karun mused. The Adeola Clan had such rich belongings—even a piece of stone from their castle had value in it. They were streaked with genuine silver, and how gaudy must one be to squander money on such a lavish detail in a building block? Then again, the Adeolas were like a parakeet enarmored with its visage. They loved to flaunt their wealth and never failed to mention to anyone that their lineage was partially descended from Halo.

  Such a pointless boast that had not saved them as they were slain one by one, their cries of anguish echoing through the hallways of their elegant home. They had thought their bloodline was special, something unique, but when their blood dripped down the stone to pool on their polished marble floor, it looked no different than the blood of vermin. “Do you not know who we are?” they had questioned in urgency as if there had been some mistake. For his amusement, Karun replied that he did not, and he laughed at their mortified expressions. An arbitrary act of violence without reason is frightening in its own right, and would have been enough, but Karun had wanted to add to their fear, so he said a name. A single name that caused the leader of their house to become a blubbering mess.

  Karun hesitates as he is about to pass a jade hairpin; the sculpted stone glistens in the moonlight seeping through the cracks of the closed shutters of the front windows. His eyes trace over the long accessory, reminiscing about how it had been used to pluck out an eye. It has been thoroughly cleansed and will undoubtedly be bought by the old woman who has come back several times to inquire about it. For supposedly such a prominent clan, no one has realized their absence, nor does anyone question how Karun’s shop has come to own items engraved with an amaryllis.

  A hiss sounds next to his ear, and Karun decides he has done enough reminiscing. He steps outside the shop onto the street that is not entirely empty. As a port town, Nora Zora can never truly sleep; many of its inhabitants work late into the night, and it is those people who mill about in the streets. Their way is bathed in lamp light from the many lamp posts intentionally placed along the walkways. Karun moves away from them so that his view will not be obstructed. He then offers both letters to Mauta, and the bird grasps them in its beak, shifting them to a more comfortable position. Messenger Pigeons are bred to hold great strength in their beaks, wings, and feet. Whatever they grasp in their talons or beak will not easily get away from them, and their wings can carry them far despite being encumbered. “Go to her first,” Karun directed before stretching out his arm for Mauta to fly into the night sky.

  As Karun watched Mauta go, he felt a giddiness arise in his chest. There is still a good amount of days until the rightful heir ceremony, but the wait does not perturb Karun. He is a patient man, and there is still much to be done before then.

  “I wonder who shall win the fight,” Karun said, turning to walk back into his shop. An invisible weight settled on his shoulder, accompanied by a flicking wetness that tickled his cheek as he thought about the boy who, weeks ago, fell on him. It had been a chance encounter, and he could not help but feel fondness for that memory. Cian is different from his father, or perhaps Cian is how his father would have been had things gone differently. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. They will all perish in the end.”