Hellion's Reckoning

“My lord, you must reconsider,” Sylvis heard a pleading voice emanating from his father’s office, the sound muffled as it reached his ears. He knew better than to try tiptoeing again. Instead, he remained out of sight and listened.

“If they won’t obey, then why should we pay them?!” His father’s voice boomed, “Let them suffer—I guarantee you; poverty has a way of reminding people where their true loyalties lie.” There was a sigh, then a shuffling of feet. “It does, my lord, it certainly does.”

Sylvis quickly turned away when he caught one of his father’s advisors rushing out of the room. “Hopeless, it’s all hopeless,” the man muttered as he walked several feet behind Sylvis. The young lordling hoped he wouldn’t notice him. Whatever horrible crimes his father committed, he wanted to remain blissfully ignorant. The more he learned, the more he grew to hate the man.

As the advisor passed by Sylvis, his wavy blonde hair and wild green eyes caught the man’s attention. Startled, he stopped in his tracks and squinted at the young lordling. With a grumpy expression, he growled, “Spying on your father, are we?” He asked.

Sylvis rolled his eyes and waved the advisor away, “What I do is none of your business,” He said brushing past him hoping the conservation would end there. Sylvis wasn’t in the mood to be questioned by one of his father’s goons.

The advisor scoffed at Sylvis’ dismissive attitude. “None of my business, is it?” he muttered, his voice laced with irritation. “Well, you certainly have your father’s charm, don’t you?” His eyes narrowed. “Did you hear it? Your father’s gone mad, cut the army’s pay in half. If were you, I’d return to Knivae before they vow to end your clan.” The anger would spiral. They would see Sylvis and the rest of their family as allies to a despot. Devilsbane made him the biggest obstacle, left the biggest target on his back.

Sylvis clenched his jaw, the weight of the advisor’s words settling in. Despite his desire to remain ignorant of his father’s actions, the gravity of the situation was impossible to ignore. He nodded curtly at the advisor, acknowledging the warning before turning away, his mind racing with thoughts of what lay ahead for both him and the Emberstone clan. Cutting the army’s pay over some complaints.

Sylvis would have raised it to buy them off, found another place for those soldiers to serve. If they couldn’t handle the brutal savagery of the front lines, there were many other duties an army needed attending to. How could his father not see the danger he had put them in? They could storm the palace any day. Even Devilsbane wasn’t powerful enough to hold off thousands of angry soldiers.

As he reached his room, Sylvis slammed the door shut and let out a frustrated growl. His fist slammed into the wall. Chunks of marble to the floor. This wasn’t about loyalty or honor anymore. His father had left them in a desperate situation.

Sylvis swung the door open again and left the room. The tapestries adorning the walls now depicted the glory of the Emberstone family, their crest—a serpentine dragon encircled by bolts of lightning—serving as a constant reminder of their power and lineage. The proud image seemed to mock him now, a stark contrast to the grim reality of his father’s choices.

As Sylvis stormed through the corridors of the palace, his mood matched the dark clouds gathering outside. The grand halls that once echoed with the whispers of power and intrigue now seemed to loom over him like silent sentinels, bearing witness to his growing frustration.

Sylvis pushed open the heavy doors that led to the barracks, the sound reverberating through the corridor like a thunderclap. The soldiers within turned to look at him, their expressions a mix of surprise and wariness. He made his way through the rows of bunks and training grounds, his grumpy demeanor only intensifying as he scanned the faces of the men and women who served under his father’s command. Once at the general’s door, he flung it open to find a man with dark hair and blue eyes staring back at him.

“Where’s General Hector?” Sylvis asked the man, shutting the door to his office behind him. The stench of booze breath lingered in the air, and he had to cover his nose. “They deserted milord. Him and general Tamil,” the man answered, “Once his lordship discovered their treason, they ran away. To hell with them, joining those hellions!” He slurred, then brought the bottle to his lips.

Sylvis growled and swung his spear, shattering the bottle before he could have a taste. He scowled at the drunken man, the shards of glass now littering the desk. Cheap whiskey soaked the papers, making the smell of the room worse. Hector and Tamil may have had concerns with his father’s leadership, but it was foolish to think they’d up and ally with those heathens. The two were firm in their belief of cleansing the land.

“I’m sorry milord,” The man fell to his knees, hands raised high as Sylvis pointed the spear at him, “It’s all I know, I swear it! Mercy, please.” Sylvis had heard that same groveling whine from his own lips. He looked at how pathetic and weak the drunken man looked, shaking when he was just a moment ago confidently drinking his liquor, cursing their most loyal generals. Sylvis doubted this man had ever seen a battlefield in his life.

All those times he groveled in fear of his father. Sylvis wasn’t weak. He wasn’t pathetic. The power of their clan was with him, not Ailog. If he didn’t claim that power now, the Emberstone clan would meet the same fate as the Redwoods.