There was something to be said for sneaking off and being a hermit.

Savon Lang sipped his drink, Mera’s finest–the strange burning, bitter aftertaste of the brew made it his favorite. Not immediately. At thirteen, the peculiar taste turned him off alcohol, but curiosity got the best of him, and each subsequent drink endeared him more to the Beserk Bee mead. It was an acquired taste, much like this bar. A tiny shit hole place that’s only merit was that the patrons mostly minded their own business.

The too-small bar stank of sweat and blood and people crowded around, almost sitting atop one another. The sell-swords, mercenaries, and adventures that frequented the establishment cared little for niceties and were celebrating living for another day. Whore's moonlighting as barmaids solicited customers while serving drinks. The later it got and the more the men drank the less inclined they were to take business to the alley outside.

Savon drowning his sorrows in the only uncrowded corner of the bar was unimportant. He hated and loved being unimportant. It was a matter of who viewed him as such.

He huffed a bitter laugh, taking another sip, scowling at his mug when he saw the bottom. Five–he should stop now. Showing up drunk wasn’t a good look.

His hand raised, signaling the barkeep.

I’ve made my choice.

You can still run.

Savon’s hands clenched, thoughts better left buried bubbled to the surface, trying to swallow him.

Failure.

Useless.

Better off dead.

His jaw ticked, and he worked to unclench it.

Savon accepted the mug, tipped his head back, and drained it. The sweet bitterness of the brew burned his throat in the best way.

Savon snapped his finger, watching a spark appear, hopping from finger to finger. The light danced; a slight sting where it touched his skin. It took effort, but he guided it to his palm before closing his fist around the little light, smothering it. The magic exploded in his hand. It didn’t hurt. It gave him something else to focus on–a jolt to clear his mind.

Mera’s finest was a temporary solution. Six tankards deep had given him a pleasant buzz, making it almost impossible for any thoughts to stick. They flickered past like butterflies, something beautiful about their haziness.

It was a pity he would remember everything in the morning.

You'll have to make it through the night first.

There was nothing funny about his situation, but throughout the day, every so often, Savon started chuckling for no reason.

As he looked at the suspiciously colored wood at the bottom of his tankard, he regretted drinking so fast.

Seven was pushing it.

It wasn’t the best decision to come here. Not that Savon was known for making good decisions, not anymore. His judgment was a little impaired at the best of times and alcohol wasn’t helping. He had things to think about. Decisions to make. Decisions he'd made to stick to. All of which he avoided in his day-to-day.

Soli be damned. Coming here was the only break from a tedious life he clung to with a desperateness that even he thought was pathetic. His position offered him protection. Something no one else would offer him, and he needed it until he was strong enough to protect himself.

Eyes closed, he listened to the distinct hum of a full bar: laughter, talking, and cursing coexisting. He held tight to that pleasant place where everything seemed–inconsequential.

Savon’s head thumped against the table as he grabbed his hair. Inconsequential–the perfect frame of mind to make a life-altering decision.

Savon slumped in his chair, drinking in the atmosphere, and letting the mead settle warmly in his stomach. He’d searched for ways to extend this quiet moment for years, but only a cold drink, a crowded bar, and a little magic did the trick. But, only for a breath, for a moment, before something reminded him of who and what he was.

Six more bottles and he’d touch oblivion, but he couldn’t do that today. He shouldn’t do that today. He shouldn’t do it ever.

Too late, that little voice inside said. The one that sounded like Savon but said the most vile things. He’d expected it to sound like Katlyn or Jeff. He’d prefer it if it sounded like someone else. There was something awful about not being in control of his thoughts and having his mind try to eat him.

It wasn’t anything new. He was always on someone’s dinner menu.

Savon remembered his father’s reaction when he asked about the ritual. That characteristic heavy silence, grey-haired head held high with his hands behind his back as he looked out the window instead of facing his goddamn son. His mother was worse. She’d sat across from him over an expensive cup of tea and stared at him with those dead eyes, expecting him to divine her thoughts. There was no disappointment from either of them, as if they expected Savon to be pathetic.

Only Savon cared about the consequences. Only he understood his desperation. That ritual left half the participants dead and the ones alive—

“Young master,” a simpering voice spewed.

Savon let out a long sigh, his shoulders tensing. A headache grew as the bar’s noise quieted, all eyes focusing on them.

Jeff slinked closer, wringing his hands as his eyes darted around the room. A whimper leaked from his mouth as Savon glanced at him.

Run, his mind screamed. The walls closed in as each breath became harder to pull into his lungs.

Hold it together, pathetic little shit. Are you going to make a show of yourself? Disgrace the Lang name, the other voice said.

Savon used to listen to his mind. He used to trust it, but over time, that other voice won. It became louder and louder until warring opinions tore his mind in two.

The silence swallowed him. Right now, he wasn’t as unimportant as he would like. He rubbed sweaty palms against his pants. “What is it, Jeff?”

Whispered chatter started, and sharp gazes pierced his back.

It was gone, polluted. His hard-earned peace shattered into a million pieces. However, his thoughts were clear considering how much he'd drank. Savon rolled his eyes, taking steadying breaths. Dramatic and useless, he didn’t need to wait for his inner voice to tell him.

“Should I get you another drink?” Jeff asked, his voice low.

Savon’s throat rolled. He’d already had more than he planned. He rubbed his heart, a characteristic burn telling him he’d had too much.

The ritual doesn’t need your participation, and the pain — “I’ll have another,” Savon said, his throat dry.

You can run!

What would that look like?

Where would he go?

This is my decision.

It was even though it didn’t feel like it most days.

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Jeff started whimpering, his head bobbing. It was a miracle it didn’t pop right off his spindly neck. The sounds of distress grew louder. The people closest to us started looking over at Jeff with concern.

Savon pinched the bridge of his nose. He deserved another drink. Plus, a little distance would make it easier to accept his choice between possible physical death and social death or failing his parent’s expectations–again. Savon wondered what it said about him that he feared his parents more than death.

Didn’t that give him his answer?

If he’d left earlier, it would have been weeks before anyone noticed he was gone, but if he left today, they’d be hunting him down in hours.

Would his father care to look?

Yes. Savon was an only child, like his father. The Duchy needed an heir and his distant cousin, while eligible, didn’t have acceptable breeding or backing. No one would say Savon was suitable, but he was better than third cousin Count Monty.

“Maybe you’ve had enough?” Jeff’s voice cut through the chatter. It amazed Savon how such a watery voice could resonate when needed.

Savon would have doubted whether Jeff had offered to get him a drink in the first place if this routine wasn’t so familiar. Savon had to give Jeff credit. His footman was talented. If only he were half as good at his job, though his incompetence was probably intentional.

Savon knew this song and dance. They did it often enough, and each time he came out feeling crazier than the last. He lifted his hand, signaling for a mead. As expected, the barkeep’s expression darkened. The barkeep wanted to say no or start an argument, which had happened once or twice, but his stormy expression eased to pity as Jeff approached him. They had a brief conversation, with both glancing at Savon before Jeff scampered back, bouncing into people and chairs as he went.

Jeff held the bottle in both hands while bowing and apologizing to the people he bumped into. “Here, young master,” Jeff said, on the verge of tears.

Savon scoffed, snatching the bottle. He took a drink, wincing as the hot liquid hit his tongue. Still, the pressure in his chest eased.

Jeff hovered, rubbing his hands together, shifting from foot to foot, and capturing everyone's attention.

Savon knew his lines and this little play reminded him why the threat of death didn’t matter. He refused to continue living like this. He played his part with practiced ease, knowing what the finale would be. “What?”

Jeff closed his eyes, chest heaving as he took stuttering breaths. His baggy clothes emphasized his skinny frame. Even Savon felt pity, and he knew it was a performance.

Savon sipped his drink, looking for a way out but not finding it. Trial and error proved his situation would worsen if he didn’t play along.

Savon loathed his own inaction. He accepted his role in this farce. He was an active participant and didn't fight it anymore when Jeff got like this.

To the uninformed observer, Savon was berating and close to hitting Jeff for his mistakes. Ask anyone. He abused servants who annoyed him.

Stop simmering and answer me. Would that work? No, not tonight. He wanted this to end quickly and that phrase always riled the other man up; something about sounding too much like an order, as if Jeff weren’t Savon’s servant.

“Alright, enough!” Simple and safe.

Jeff painted a pretty picture with his threadbare shirt, hunched shoulders, and trembling body. Small, squinted, sly eyes absorbed all the light, noting every reaction with smug satisfaction. “Don’t you have a meeting tonight? The lord–”

Jeff’s eyes were insistent when their gazes met.

Savon sighed, shoulders slumping. He tossed the empty bottle, wondering why no one questioned why he had a bottle in the first place. It shattered, silencing the bar before shouts and curses sounded.

“Shut up,” he growled, his skin sticking too tight to his body. “Bring me another.” He’d ride this high, consequences be damned, ritual be damned. By Soli, he deserved this. He was his father’s only son. They didn’t have to like Savon or respect him, but they weren’t foolish enough to attack him.

Who is Jeff’s master for him to act without fear?

The thought skittered by. He’d pondered it a million times and was no closer to an answer. He probably didn’t want an answer. Savon would only find ruin down that rabbit hole.

Tears streamed down Jeff’s face–a nick on his ankle bled. Savon would pay for that. Injuring Jeff was a cardinal sin.

“Why are you still standing here?” he asked, shifting in his seat, feeling uncomfortable from where Jeff’s arm was lodged up his ass, puppeteering him.

Jeff ran to the bar where the burly barkeep had a bottle waiting for him. The man laid a comforting hand on Jeff’s shoulder, squeezing it. Jeff was the picture of gratitude.

Savon gazed out the door at the setting sun. The inevitableness of everything settled on his shoulders. Someone might as well have slipped him a sobering potion. Something nasty and fiery settled in his stomach.

“Young–”

“Just shut up!” Savon slammed his hands on the table, half rising as his hands reached toward the snake’s neck.

Savon pulled back, seeing the smile in Jeff’s eyes. He pushed away from the table, grabbed the bottle, and headed to the door.

Stay, his mind screamed. Stay in the crowd. Stay with people. He looked around the bar, hating the gazes that watched him like a specimen pinned for examination.

There was a heavy thud. He turned to see Jeff on the floor. One hand held his check, and the other braced his body on the floor.

Savon marched out of the bar, people cursing his name. For how clear his mind was, his steps were heavy and stumbling. Any attempt to walk faster failed. His legs were uncooperative. He glanced at the drink in his hand, tossing it away before regretting it instantly. The amber liquid spilled on the cobblestone and reflected the glow of the sky, making Savon thirsty.

If he went to a different bar, he’d be late–

Duke Orik Lang had little patience for his son on a good day, as few and far between as those were. His father wouldn’t be happy if he set up the ritual room only for Savon to back out.

What was the worst that could happen? Another conversation about the duties and responsibilities of his position? They brought forward his wedding day, placing the Duchy’s hope on their failure of a son’s child.

Dread filled him–fast, light steps echoing, drawing closer.

Run.

A hand wrapped around his shoulders, dragging him to the side. “It’s almost too easy,” Jeff said. He watched Savon with a smile, head tilted, hand squeezing Savon’s shoulder. “Have you noticed everyone is always willing to think the worst of you? It’s pretty pathetic if you ask me. Not you, well, you’re pathetic, don’t get me wrong, but I’m talking about the idiots with a single shared thought who believe everything they're told. Hmm, that doesn’t exclude you either.”

Savon’s back hunched, carrying Jeff’s weight. His tongue felt laden. He wanted a second alone, a second away from this man. “I…I—” The memory of their conversation being recorded, spliced, and sold caused the words to lodge in his throat. The beatings—Savon took halting breaths, his palms sweaty.

I’ll kill him. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll kill him.

“Look here, young master, I’m just doing my job.” Jeff pranced in front, twisting and wiggling, his eyes always searching to ensure they were alone. Jeff placed a hand on his puffed-out chest. “You should resent my boss, not me. I’m just here to get you home on time.”

Savon didn’t have a home. The castle was a prison, and the looming ritual was a death sentence.

Maybe that was what it was? Assisted suicide?

Jeff claimed his boss lived in the castle, though Jeff hinted at over thirteen bosses in the years Savon knew him. Savon ignored the most probable candidates because he just couldn’t right now. There was no reason for either of his parents—but Savon couldn’t fire Jeff. He’d tried for five years, and Savon still suffered from this plague.

He tripped, falling to the floor, Jeff’s laughter the usual score accompanying his misery.

A small part of him, the twelve-year-old boy still full of joy, wanted to ask why him.

Jeff retracted his foot. He looked down at Savon, a gleam in his eyes. It was clear who was lord and master. The script flipped and the characters read the wrong lines.

Savon struggled to stand. He brushed the grime off his clothes and straightened them, suiting the role of a drunk who took a tumble, which he assumed was Jeff’s goal. He'd had put off meeting his father for so long that there would be no time to change.

Jeff wouldn’t help with Cleanse, so he’d be meeting the Duke with beer on his breath and dirt on his clothes.

“Want some help, younger master?” Jeff asked.

Savon marveled at how much mockery and malice Jeff could infuse into his whiny voice. “No, thanks.” Savon ignored the pain, limping along the back alleys leading to the castle. Blood dripped from a slight cut on his ankle. Retribution. Payback for a similar injury.

Six months ago, he would have glared at Jeff. Now he didn't dare look the other man in the eye. That's why he had to do the ritual now before it was too late.

The lights on the main road flicker to life, casting deeper shadows where he walked. The brightness called to him, but he imagined the weight of mocking gazes. It didn't feel right to walk there. Yet, the back paths left him open to whatever Jeff had in store.

He took a step.

Katlyn passed by with Cole and some other noble children.

He pulled his foot back, hiding in the shadows.

With a last look, Savon trudged on. As he got closer, grey stone walls rose high against the darkening sky. The castle was imposing, with tall towers. At the front, heavy wooden gates sat within a wide archway, reinforced with iron bands. They were always open since there hadn't been a war in years, but the guards were suspiciously absent.

At the entrance of the castle, Kurt stood beside Sia. Their bodies were rigid. A tense silence hung as they ignored each other. Savon imagined the stiff, courteous greetings as they did the bare minimum required of polite society.

These head servants demonstrated his parent’s happy marriage.