Fallen Eagle-Chapter 33: Tinged in the Color of Blood

Fallen Eagle-Chapter 33: Tinged in the Color of Blood

“Welcome, Stratiotes.” Theodorus bade the grizzled veteran into the small, windowless records room adjacent to the main archives – a space smelling faintly of beeswax, decaying parchment, and the cold sweat of stressed clerks. A single table, commandeered from some forgotten corner, served as his desk, piled high with ledgers and lists. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of light piercing the gloom from a high ventilation slit near the ceiling. The only other furniture was a pair of simple wooden stools. “Please state your name and rank for the record.” Theodorus eased down onto one stool, leaving the opposite one empty and the soldier to remain standing stiffly at attention.
“Paris, Stratiotes, Sir.”
Theodorus scanned the list Steward Theophylact had provided - a list of the names of the professional garrison men-at-arms - to assist in the latest menial work Lord Adanis had assigned to him. Since the confrontation in the garden, Theodorus had navigated a series of such tedious but necessary assignments, designed by the hapless Steward and enforced by Adanis to keep him occupied and isolated. Each, Theodorus had completed with a speed and thoroughness that bordered on insolent, deliberately exceeding expectations.
Reviewing patrol s had become a meticulously cross-referenced "Threat Analysis Map," pinpointing likely bandit routes and even a probable outpost location by painstakingly mapping out all known Tatar sightings and bandit raids in the north over the last five years. When asked to rework the rotational duty roster - previously a chaotic, informal affair organized by the senior sergeants and rife with bribery and favoritism - he’d created a sensible, equitable system, posted publicly in the barrack halls. He’d even finagled a tiny pay rise for Othon Zervas from steward Thephylact, granting him the responsibility of managing the shift transfers between squads in exchange for easier shift hours and duties for his own team - a small piece of nepotism that elevated the sergeant’s status and neatly paid him back for the help he’d provided with the armory inventory.
Adanis, uninterested in the administrative minutiae but pleased by the sudden efficiency, had weaponized Theodorus into the de facto solution to Suyren’s organizational backlog. Theodorus threw himself into the secretarial work with a dogged determination. His 21st-century historian’s mind, accustomed to indexing and cross-referencing vast amounts of data, was a finely honed weapon of mass destruction upon a medieval administrative system that had not even invented alphabetical indexing.
Demetrios and Stefanos were, of course, dragged along through the tumultuous schedule of their Lord, who managed to make requisition and resupply orders feel as though they were executing a Cavalry charge, setting an excruciating pace.
Demetrios was the necessary bridge to Theodorus’s plans, helping ground his advanced concepts in the more grounded, mundane reality of 15th-Century Europe. For example, when Theodorus proposed a system of color-coding requisitions by urgency, Demetrios served as a steady paperweight.
"My Lord," the old servant explained, "acquiring enough pigments for such a scheme would bankrupt a small village. Perhaps," he'd suggested, his quill already scratching out an alternative, "we could simply use different sizes of parchment?" While no steward, he was familiar with the bureaucratic work done back at the Sideris estate, and this experience was invaluable in evaluating the feasibility of each new bold plan or reform.
“…you from originally?” Theodorus’s interview droned on, running parallel to the meandering thoughts in his head. He kept his tone crisp and approachable, masking the bone-deep weariness that threatened to engulf him after questioning seventy-nine other professional soldiers.
“From Melanthos, my Lord,” Stratiotes Paris replied, his tone clipped and eager to be done with the interview quickly.
“And what did your family do there?”
“My father was a blacksmith,” Paris stated. The information snagged Theodorus’s attention, a rare spark in the monotonous data collection.
“Did you sometimes help at the forge?”
“Yes,” Paris nodded, the movement pulling at the old scar tissue that split his lip into a perpetual cleft. “Pumping the bellows, feeding charcoal, basic maintenance."
“And did you ever learn any skills in basic blacksmithing?” Theodorus pressed, he was using the latest drudgery work of updating the garrison muster rolls to map out the different skills of the men present. Unearthing small, valuable skills that might not have been noticed by the lax higher command. Although specialists, such as actual woodcarving and blacksmithing apprentices, were valued and utilized, some background skills were not as clearly unearthed and, thus, fell through the cracks.
“Not much, Captain.” The veteran men-at-arms shrugged. “I never held any real passion for it, though the old man did teach me basic shapes and how to maintain the tools before he croaked. But I never had any real talent for it, couldn’t twist the metal for the life of me.” His tone was quieter now, nostalgic. “And it has been a long time; I doubt I could hammer a nail straight at this point.”
Demetrios, standing unobtrusively beside Theodorus’s makeshift desk, jotted the note onto the parchment, his quill a familiar whisper.
“And the pay?” Theodorus continued, moving to the next section of the muster roll update – discrepancies in issued pay, schedules, or times of leave. It was a simple clerking job, but one that had not been properly conducted in years. “Always timely? Any issues to note?”
“Generally, sir,” Paris replied, his posture stiffening slightly with the common propriety of the men under Nomikos employ.
“Generally, Stratiotes?” Some men covered up some of the wrinkles in their story, leaving Theodorus to coax the truth out of them.
“Yes, Captain.” Paris appeared reticent to speak poorly of his Lord, to not appear ungrateful for someone under whose employ he had worked for many a year.
“You can elaborate, Stratiotes. This is merely for bookkeeping services and to help address any future discrepancies.” Theodorus spoke softly. His growing reputation and rapport with the men worked to his favour here, setting them more at ease. It had also allowed him to organize 80 sequential interviews in a single day. An act not as simple as one might think, since they had to be wedged in between the soldier’s demanding workload.
“The payment… it’s always on time, Captain,” Paris admitted, his voice low, “but sometimes… not in coin.” Like most of the men, he seemed embarrassed by the admission. “Grain, sometimes mutton. Once or twice, ale."
“But you can’t live off of ale.” Theodorus said, observing him quietly.
“No, Captain,” Paris agreed, his face grim. “You can’t."
While Adanis, focused on appearances, ensured his men were paid on time, the practicalities sometimes lagged. Ready lower-value coin wasn't always available, forcing payments in kind – grain, mutton, even ale – a common enough administrative hiccup, but one that frayed morale.
“I’ll talk to the Steward, Stratiotes, you can rest assured of that.” Theodorus promised. He already had an easy idea of how to fix this particular problem, and this was an easy way to curry favour with the soldiers that cost him nothing. He was trying to wring out any little benefit from this ignoble task. The veteran, however, offered only a noncommittal grunt, his skepticism plain.
“Thank you, Captain. Is that all?” The rugged veteran asked rotely.
“Yes, Stratiotes.” Theodorus assured him.
As the veteran filed out, Theodorus turned to Demetrios. “Is that the last of them?”
“Yes, my Lord.” Demetrios scanned the list he’d meticulously compiled throughout the day, a synthesized record of skills, grievances, and names – data Theodorus insisted upon gathering. “All that remains is the profile.” This was another of Theodorus’s unorthodox methods: building rough psychological assessments from these brief encounters.
“Obedient,” Theodorus began dictating, his eyes distant as he processed the interaction. “Stood at attention despite the empty stool. Downplayed his blacksmithing ability – suggests humility, possibly low confidence.” He employed several subtle tests – the empty chair opposite his own cushioned one, the directness of questioning – to gauge reactions. “Not confrontational regarding the pay, but revealed details when pressed and made comfortable. Skeptical of my promise regarding the steward – indicates independent thought, not just blind trust."
Demetrios’s quill scratched across two separate sheets. One, the sanitized version for Steward Theophylact:
Paris Anestis – Obedient, humble, non-confrontational, potential blacksmithing skills.
The other, for Theodorus’s private files:
Independent thinker, can be pressed for information if put at ease, skeptical of authority
.
“That’s the last, my Lord,” Demetrios confirmed, setting down his quill with finality.
“The swiftest, most meaningless task yet,” Theodorus muttered sullenly, rubbing his temples. While the last few weeks had brought a slow, trickling measure of progress in building his influence in the castle’s lower caste, impressing and gaining Lord Adanis’s confidence continued a distant, faraway dream. He had made no progress on his main mission, nor on the institution of the Shepherd system. His true mission and its dual objectives remained stalled.
“Ever since that meeting in the loggia with the Hypostrategos…” Demetrios left the thought unfinished, the implication hanging heavy in the air.
Theodorus’s face darkened at the mention. “So you also suspect his hand in this.”
Hypatius Nomikos, the newly minted secondary commander of the fortress, had descended upon the fortress inventories with a ferociously quick pounce. Ever since his arrival, rare was the moment you did not see clusters of servants buzzing about in whichever direction, swamped with work. A hive in perpetual motion. It was a far cry from the slow monotony of the more hands-off Adanis. And Theodorus had, of course, been keeping tabs on the man’s work.
Hypatius was a whirlwind of pragmatic efficiency. Carts laden with locally sourced Nomikos timber and iron rumbled through the gates daily, bypassing expensive merchant middlemen and nearly halving the costs of goods and transportation. Village blacksmiths and woodworkers had been temporarily relocated to Suyren from surrounding villages, ostensibly to serve for a season on a few projects, their help requested as favours from the various villagers Hypatius already had dealings with. They supplemented the fortress’s own small staff, already hard at work repairing shields and fletching arrows. He’d even leveraged family connections in Mangup to secure a bulk order of crossbow parts at a reduced cost.
Watching Hypatius operate – achieving in days what would have taken Theodorus weeks of careful negotiation and strained finances – was a galling lesson in how to masterfully leverage existing connections. Established networks Theodorus himself lacked. It irked him more than he cared to admit that many of the strategies he planned to employ were being followed through on in a manner and timeframe he never would have been able to.
“They’ve saddled us with one meaningless task after another,” Theodorus muttered, clenching his fist on the tabletop. “We are no closer to uncovering any real intelligence than we were the day we arrived.”
“Do you think they suspect us, my Lord?” Demetrios whispered, leaning closer across the stacks of parchment, his voice tight with the same fear Theodorus felt coiling inside him.
Before Theodorus could voice a reassurance he didn't feel, a firm knock sounded on the records room door.
“Captain.” Stefanos’s voice came through the wood, clearer and steadier than it had been weeks ago, although still tinged with his customary hesitation. “I’ve brought Kyriakos Nomikos.” Theodorus had sent him on relentless errands to force the boy to navigate the fortress hierarchy. He had to learn to become an instrument of Theodorus’s will - a measure of his voice in the castle - but the lessons had yet to stick.
“Send him in.” Theodorus exchanged a look with Demetrios, tabling their anxieties for now.
Kyriakos Nomikos ambled into the cramped room, his usual lazy slouch somehow looking elegant against the backdrop of dusty ledgers. An amused grin played on his lips.
“So,” Kyriakos drawled, taking in the scene. “To what do I owe the honor of this summons? Some vital debate on the proper storage of beeswax candles again?” Kyriakos had been an unfortunate victim of one of the meandering quests Adanis had handed out, as if suddenly realizing the efficacy and results of burdening the aides with such work.
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He’d assigned a detailed inventory of military records in the archives to Theodorus and Kyriakos both, stating it would help the older man learn ‘proper motivation and diligence from the good captain’. To the Lord’s credit, being told to learn from someone six years his junior had brought to heel the rebellious Kyriakos at least somewhat.
“Nothing quite so thrilling,” Theodorus replied, matching his light tone with an easy smile, remembering their fumbling attempts that night as they sorted through the papers in the darkness, after Kyriakos had dropped the only serviceable candle they had.
“I was reviewing the leave rosters,” It was one of the few records Steward Theophylact seemed to have kept somewhat updated, “And something caught my eye. Something I hoped you could clarify." He gestured to Demetrios, who produced the relevant parchment.
“Oh?” Kyriakos’s easy grin faded slightly, replaced by a flicker of caution. “And what might that be?”
“I noticed a pattern in the leave requests.” Theodorus tapped the parchment Demetrios had provided. “Yours, specifically. Averaging nearly half a week per month away from the fortress. A significantly higher rate than any other officer.” He met Kyriakos’s gaze directly. “The records became less precise a few months back, but I needed to verify if this pattern continues."
“Ah, that.” Kyriakos waved a dismissive hand, attempting to recapture his earlier nonchalance. “Less so now, perhaps. It’s nothing important, Theodorus. Never more than two days at a time. Hardly worth noting."
“Official procedure requires a reason for the leave stated in the record,” Theodorus pressed gently, his tone apologetic but firm.
Kyriakos affected a thoughtful pose, stroking his smooth chin. An exaggerated spark lit his eyes. “Ah! Visiting my ailing mother. You can jot that down.” He beamed, the excuse offered with blatant, almost mocking insincerity.
Demetrios paused, quill hovering, and shot Theodorus a questioning look.
“Kyriakos,” Theodorus began carefully, “A reason like that… for such frequent leave… I’m not certain Lord Adanis would approve it consistently."
“Don’t worry about that.”
The casual dismissal was telling. Theodorus held Kyriakos’s gaze, the unspoken question hanging heavy between them.
Why not?
Kyriakos’s plastered smile vanished. His face became unnervingly still, the playful light in his eyes extinguished, replaced by something flat and hard. “Drop it, Theodorus.” His voice lost its drawl, dropping an octave, becoming clipped and cold. The temperature in the small records room seemed to plummet. It was the first time Theodorus had seen him without the jester’s mask, and the raw intensity beneath was startling. Theodorus held the silence, his own posture relaxed but unyielding, a quiet refusal to be intimidated. The tension stretched, thin and sharp.
“Very well, Kyriakos,” Theodorus conceded finally, his tone amicable but carrying no trace of fear. He made a subtle gesture to Demetrios, who dutifully scratched the flimsy excuse onto the parchment. “I’ll note down your reason. I merely sought clarity for the records." He let Kyriakos see that he was backing down not from pressure, but from a conscious choice not to pry into clearly personal affairs. He would not derelict his duty to help Kyriakos, but he did not want to create any lasting animosities over such a small detail. He knew well enough how a little grudge amongst colleagues could quickly lead to whispered threats and lifelong feuds.
The acquiescence dispelled the dangerous mood, but a heavy silence filled its wake, Kyriakos looked both mollified and conflicted, struggling to fill the vacuum.
“The Lord is… aware of my arrangements, Theodorus.” Kyriakos’s voice softened unexpectedly, the hardness giving way to a strange, almost melancholic weariness. He looked away, his gaze finding a crack in the stone wall, a sudden vulnerability showing through the cracks in his persona. “I simply prefer privacy. My apologies for my reaction.” He sounded genuinely abashed. “I…I did not mean to cause offense.”
Theodorus saw the genuine regret, the discomfort of a man unused to showing his hand, let alone apologizing for it. He extended a hand, palm open, across the small table. “No offense taken,” he said, offering a disarming smile. Kyriakos met it with a hesitant, almost nervous one of his own.
“In truth,” Theodorus continued, deliberately shifting the mood, his voice regaining its earlier lightness, “this was mostly an excuse. Really, I just wanted to ask how a man gets invited to these dice games I keep hearing whispers about." The abrupt pivot back to familiar banter, a language Kyriakos thrived in, served as a welcome bridge from the awkward silence.
“Hah! You’ve shared our table for nearly a month, my good Theodorus,” Kyriakos scoffed, sliding back into his familiar, easygoing persona, though the tension hadn't fully left his shoulders. “All you had to do was ask. We’re always glad to welcome another victim-ah,
player
, I mean."
“You know I couldn’t impose in front of everyone,” Theodorus countered, playing along, his tone deliberately tongue-in-cheek. “I’m much too shy. And think of what would happen to my reputation.” The jest earned him a rough bark of laughter from Kyriakos, who clapped him companionably on the back.
“You should know, however, Captain,” Kyriakos added, already turning to leave, his wrinkled tunic swaying with the movement, a fitting match for his disheveled bedhair. “That we do not play dice anymore. We have since switched to cards after a… collective agreement.”
“Oh? Why the change?” Theodorus asked nonchalantly, his hands automatically moving to square the stack of parchments on the table into a perfect, crisp-edged block. He smoothed an imagined wrinkle on his own collar, the gesture small and fastidious.
“Because I won too much,” Kyriakos winked, disappearing through the doorway with a final flash of playful arrogance.
Theodorus’s smile remained even after the door clicked shut.
“He’s a good lad, beneath the bluster,” Demetrios observed, a faint smile touching his own lips.
“Aye, he is,” Theodorus agreed quietly. Demetrios turned, one eyebrow arching skeptically as he took in Theodorus’s youthful frame.
“And you’d know? Having lived so many long years yourself?” Demetrios asked dryly.
“I am wise beyond my years, Demetrios, you know this.” Theodorus stroked the barely-there fuzz on his chin with mock seriousness, picturing the carefully cultivated beard of his previous life in his mind’s eye.
“Speaking of years, your sixteenth birthday approaches,” Demetrios stroked his own respectable grey beard meaningfully, goading Theodorus. “Soon you might finally start acting your age."
“It is?” Theodorus looked genuinely surprised, the detail entirely new to him.
Demetrios heaved a grand, theatrical sigh. “Perhaps the added year will bring some sense along with it.”
Theodorus ignored the familiar performance. “Stefanos,” he called.
“The Steward, my lord?” the young man asked immediately, his voice clear, fighting back a small grin at the back and forth.
“Ah, I do not even have to ask.” It was Theodorus’s turn to heave a contented sigh. “See, Demetrios? Why can’t you be more like Stefanos?” The old servant shook his head in barely contained mirth.
“Come,” Theodorus said, gathering the newly updated muster rolls. “Let’s deliver this dreadful assignment and discover what fresh ignominy awaits us."
The three men filed out of the cramped records room. Theodorus walked ahead, his stride purposeful, his mind already three steps ahead, plotting his next move in the intricate game unfolding within Suyren's walls. Stefanos followed, carrying a stack of discarded drafts, his quick pitter-patter step echoing off the weary stones. Demetrios brought up the rear, pausing to ensure the door was properly latched, muttering about the illogical placement of the Steward’s office relative to the archives.
Their easy, familiar rhythm was a small pocket of sanity in the fortress’s stifling formality.
Oil paintings, dark and heavy with varnish, lined the inner sanctum of Lord Adanis Nomikos. A massive fireplace dominated one wall, its roaring blaze casting a flickering, benevolent warmth that soaked into the thick-furred comforts draped over Adanis’s armchair. He took a particular pleasure in the softness of these pelts – wolf, bear, lynx – trophies of his own hunts, their past danger now transformed into his luxurious comfort. The irony was a private balm, almost as satisfying as the heat itself.
His Steward wore no such comforts, as he had no accomplishments to speak of. He shivered from the cold stone striking his knee and the thin thread that stood between them. That or from fearful subservience. Adonis could never tell, but both outcomes pleased him, so he didn’t concern himself overly much about it.
“H-He suggests we exempt the stratiotai’s families f-from taxation in the cases where we c-cannot readily pay.” The Steward’s head did not rise, even as he concluded his lengthy, droning on the fortress’s daily minutiae.“H-He has also requested yet another task from you, m-my Lord.”
“Just send him off with another administrative task,” Adonis replied offhandedly, half-listening. His mind had already drifted from the steward’s tedious, droning accounting to the much more pleasant prospect of the evening’s gathering with his inner circle.
“B-But, my Lord… there is n-nothing suitable…” The Steward insisted, the stutter grating on Adanis’s nerves more than usual. He had initially appreciated the anxious quality to its beat. But the novelty of it had long since passed. “N-Nothing that is n-not flagrantly scribe’s w-work. It w-would be… unseemly. F-For his station.”
Adonis sighed. The mindless drudgery of these tedious bureaucratic issues failed to arouse any sense of care from his part. He knew he was not perfect in that regard. Men won prestige with arms and renown, it was true. But dusty ledgers and their tiresome numbers were also an unfortunate part of the equation. Which was why he suffered the annoyance of surrounding himself with creatures familiar with their habits.
A low whistle sounded from the matching armchair opposite, bathed in the fire’s glow. “Well now, this is quite something.” Hypatius shook the detailed, flowery that Adanis had gotten used to seeing come through from their young war hero. “He’s used the muster roll update to conduct a full census of the garrison’s secondary skills and trades. Blacksmithing aptitude, rudimentary carpentry, even tracking experience… information we usually waste coin on day-laborers for.” Hypatius spoke as he scanned the neat columns. Adanis would have never pegged Konstantinos’s son to be a talented scholar, on top of being a promising military officer. The boy could seemingly do it all. “He’s even included assessments of temperament and reliability.” Hypatius shook his head at the absurdity of it all. “He’s handed us a treasure trove of information in a day’s work.” Adanis merely swirled his goblet, unimpressed.
“M-my Lord,” The Steward pressed, his voice tight. Adonis really ought to remember the man’s name, but it did not roll easily off the tongue, so he hadn’t bothered. “W-What should I t-tell the captain?”
Adanis watched the wine coat the silver, streams of firelight shifting through the deep claret. A man’s public face was much the same, he mused, swirling, adapting, hiding the true depths. “My Lord?” The steward’s reedy voice pulled him back. Adanis took a slow, deliberate sip, savoring the sweetness.
“Give him some of the new recruits,” Adanis stated, the words lazy, uncurling like smoke in the warm air.
Theophylact’s bowed head snapped up, his watery eyes wide. Across the hearth, Hypatius paused, the parchment rustling in his still hands. “Already, brother?” he asked,
Adanis merely waved a dismissive hand, a languid gesture that sealed the decision. He disliked repeating himself. The steward bowed again, lower this time, and practically scuttled from the room, leaving a heavier silence in his wake.
“I thought we agreed to wait,” Hypatius said, setting Sideris’s aside. His voice, usually brisk and confident, swirled with caution, much like the wine Adanis idly turned in his goblet.
“There is no longer any need.”
“Oh?” Hypatius rose, retrieving the wine jug from a nearby sideboard. He refilled Adanis’s cup, the dark liquid spilling like a slow bleed against the silver.
“I have already taken the measure of our new friend,” Adanis said, watching the pour.
Hypatius nursed his own drink, holding Adanis’s eyes over the rim of his cup.
“Our Captain Sideris has been almost desperately agreeable,” Adanis mused, taking a slow, measured sip – a gentleman must always maintain refinement. “Eager, even, for these menial chores. Do you know what his response was when I tasked him with inventorying the armory?” He allowed a small, knowing smile. “He claimed he would be
honored
.”
“What victorious captain feels
honored
by administrative tedium?” Adanis leaned forward slightly, fixing Hypatius with an intent look. “Someone who wishes to impress. Someone who is playing a part.”
“Surely that is everyone here in Suyren, brother. He is but one of many, no?” His little brother was a master of numbers and swords, much like the Sideris boy. But in matters of intrigue, he still had much to learn. He thought he was being clever, probing Adanis for information by playing the part of the ignorant brother. It was amusing how easily people underestimated the lion just because he lounged. They seemingly didn’t realize a predator never lets down its guard.
“One of many, yes.” Adanis set his cup down carefully on the small inlaid table beside his chair. “I have, over the years, become… intimately acquainted with the postures of deference. I know their type, their demeanour.” He met Hypatius’s gaze. “Our captain is no tame beast, genuinely eager to impress. He is playing the part of one.”
He turned back to the wine in his goblet, watching it ease down into a placid stillness. “So I have placed him in a pretty little pen he thinks I mean to keep him in.” His laugh was a low, rich rumble, “But I built the gate flimsy on purpose, brother. I
want
him to break out. I want to see precisely which latch he tries, which fence he tests, and how he goes about it.” His eyes held a dangerous, predatory gleam as he eyed up his little brother.
Hypatius was silent for a moment, absorbing the revelation. “And what have you learned?” he asked finally, his voice a low murmur.
“He is cultivating the lower ranks,” Adanis stated, his voice flat. “Building influence among the common soldiers, the servants, even the stable hands.”
“Why do you think he’s building power?” Hypatius asked, keeping up the pretense of the innocent warrior, despite the skill Adanis knew he possessed in secrets and lies.
“That is the wrong question.” Adonis barked, his tone stark and commanding.
Hypatius leaned forward, his eyes sharpening under Adanis’s intensity, doing away with the flimsy pretense. “What
do you think he is after?”
“That,” Adanis replied, a slow, predatory smile touching his lips, “is precisely what I intend to discover. His current pen has served its purpose. It’s time to place him in a new habitat. To observe his true nature.”
A heavy silence descended, thick with unspoken strategy, the fire crackling softly against the sudden stillness. The atmosphere had changed, like the electric calm before a storm breaks.
A soft knock echoed from the heavy oaken door, breaking the men out of their reverie. “Milord” echoed a small, tentative voice from outside.
“Iason” Adanis bade his nephew inside, the boy shuffling awkwardly into the stuffy room, looking overwhelmed by the presence of the two powerful men.
“A letter for you, milord.” He held out the missive. Adanis extended a languid hand, taking the parchment gently. “Thank you.” He offered a practiced, fatherly smile as a way of dismissal. The boy returned a shy, fleeting smile before retreating, leaving the brothers alone once more.
The parchment was thick, expensive vellum, folded crisply. A dollop of deep burgundy wax sealed it, impressed with the intricate shape of a slender, elegant goblet. Adanis’s fingers traced the seal’s outline, his gaze distant, thoughtful, lingering on the emblem.
“Leave me,” Adanis stated, his voice suddenly devoid of warmth, final. Hypatius hesitated, his gaze lingering on the letter, then shifting to Adanis’s unreadable expression. Adanis took hold of his goblet once more.
The deep red liquid was a perfect, placid mirror. It was only in these quiet moments, when the ripples ceased, that one could truly see the reflection beneath the surface. And in the wine-dark mirror of his silver cup, he saw it clearly: the fleeting, venomous glare in Hypatius’s eyes just before the mask of geniality snapped back into place. “Good night, brother,” Hypatius said, rising with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
Adanis watched him go. It was fitting, he mused as he lifted the cup to his lips, that the truth revealed itself tinged in the color of blood.

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Chapter 33: Tinged in the Color of Blood