"Sire, please open the door." It was the voice of a servant. Édoard Siwelzac, however, rested his head against the pillow and wished the earth would swallow him.

"I'm very sick," said Édoard in the hoarse voice of someone newly awakened. And he was right, after that day, every Monday of recounting in his father's court, his stomach churned. He stayed in his room the whole day, biting his nails and looking shyly out the window so he would not feel suffocated.

Suddenly, the knocking on the door sounded louder, as if made by someone wearing iron armor gloves, and he heard the voice of Indaraz, the captain of his father's guard.

"What's up, stud? Are you going to let your father do all the planning?"

"I don't feel well," said Édoard. "I think it's something I ate."

"Don't be a coward! We eat the same things, and look at me!"

"I'm..." He coughed. "I'm very sick, ask the guy who cleans the latrines."

"And sitting like a lady in court is unbearable to you?"

"I must rest. Tell my father I'm still sick."

"Stop crying like a baby! If you were not Siwelzac's son, I'd beat you to death. Good thing I was not your instructor!"

Something in the mind of Édoard said face him, but the will of his heart was to throw jump off that window, or return to the academy. Yes, life had been exquisite for him while he was training in the Brightlands, far west; he wished he had never come back to reality and remembered how mad his father was, and how mad his counselors and generals were.

He remembered what the priest said the last time. Fulfill your duty as a son and warrior, fulfill your duty. It was easy to say. But was it his duty to be a savage and to treat people like scum?

"I'm coming, Indaraz," he growled finally and stood up.

He looked at himself in that pristine mirror. His hair was ruffled, but he ignored it. He did not take off his white tunic, but instead he put on his armor, with the white breastplate engraved with the blue tree and the sumptuous cloak. He moved his neck from side to side and it creaked.

He opened the wooden door and found Indaraz in front of him, with a grimace of disgust, which he seemed to try to hide when facing the heir of his boss.

"Come on," Édoard muttered.

The sun pierced through colored glass in that room built in dark wood, in the style of the ancestors of the clan. In front were three jesters doing tricks, one with a big mustache in the style of his father, with a brass armor and a wooden sword. In front of him, a bearded dwarf with false horns on his head struggled with him.

"And so, Galiam Siwelzac defeats the farting dwarf of Yorek!" said the third buffoon, while the dwarf turned and another assistant imitated the sound of a fart.A group of laughter echoed, including Indaraz walking beside Édoard, who smiled. Meanwhile, a pale figure with snow-white hair, dressed in blue, coughed with laughter and spat into a bucket on the floor. He stretched his back against the padded throne and coughed again, trying to catch his breath.

"Look who decided to come down," said the man, the real Galiam Siwelzac, speaking with a brittle voice and incomprehensible consonants due to his only three teeth. He looked at the buffoons and applauded. "Good job! This story will be perfect for the opening of the City Theater of the West-Wing."

Édoard bowed his head reverently but wanted to cringe with embarrassment.

"I greet you, Father," he said, his eyes fixed on the floor.

"Come closer so I can see you better, my flesh and blood!"

Édoard swallowed and approached his father, standing by the dark throne adorned with silver eagles on the armrests.

"Where have you been, my son?"

"I was sick, Father."

"It hurts that you didn't want to come. Did something happen? What did they do to you in the Brightlands for you to not want to follow in your father's path?"

"Father, I'm more than happy to continue with your work. It's just..."

"What's the problem, my son?"

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His father pulled him close to his chest and enveloped him in his arms. Édoard sighed. He knew that if he truly stated what he thought, things would only get worse. His father was stubborn beyond reason, but he had to release the weight from his heart.

Better to be as honest as possible, he thought. After all, he was his father's son.

"It's the methods, Father," he lifted his head and looked into his eyes.

"What methods do you speak of, my son?"

Édoard freed himself from his father's frail arms and stood up. "Can we talk later?" he whispered.

"What did you say, son? Why don't we talk about it now? Are you ashamed of your words? Why not discuss it here, with all our wise counselors and friends?"

Édoard swallowed. "No, Father."

"Then? Speak. Which methods?"

Édoard took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. "You know, the pillaging, the robbing, the... accusing of innocents. You know the Varunas didn't really steal that investment, do you?"

Galiam smiled with his three teeth and patted his legs, while the rest of his court joined in with laughter.

"Son! I don't know what they teach over there in the Islands, but that's how things are done here." He looked at one of the officers beside him, old Dhanus, and signaled to him. "You, young one, bring the souvenir from last week."

"Yes, Your Highness," Dhanus said, then returned with a handmade necklace adorned with white, flat ornaments resembling seashells, but seemingly more delicate. Dhanus held it out in his hand, facing Édoard. He looked at it, and as soon as he understood what it was, he shuddered.

Those were human nails.

"These were taken from the old Murugas. Do you remember Murugas?"

Édoard blinked. Was this really happening? His father continued, "He said he had not had a good harvest. He had several sacks of wheat stored under the bed and hadn't told us. After crying, he mentioned that the tax was very high and begged us for forgiveness. Of course, we forgave him, but we confiscated what he had." He laughed again.

Édoard nodded, his face pale and his eyelids trembling.

"What's wrong, my son? You look like you've seen a ghost."

He took a deep breath. "It's nothing, Father."

"Well, if you don't agree with how I dealt with the man, I have to be honest with you. This is business. Listen to this wonderful, happy ending: Murugas gave us what he had stored under the bed, and his production is twice what we expected. And he'll remember, you know? That's the good thing. Without the methods, people don't remember."

Édoard nodded painfully.

"Now let's get back to business." Galiam addressed the other members of his court. "The play seems succesful, but the characters need more development, you understand? The unlikeable dwarf needs more... You know, he should be easier to hate. Like what you did with the Varunas story, Sir Reynhard."

The dwarf in the yellow suit spoke with his screechy voice.

"Yes, good master. I believe we can make him…dislikeable. May I suggest turning him into a deviant?"

Galiam stroked his beard.

"Make him kidnap an innocent woman, or something along those lines. More than one. At least three."

Édoard took a step back, unable to focus on his father, as he thought of old Murugas, the mayor of Harkas, howling like a wolf while his nails were mercilessly torn out. He felt nauseous and pouted.

"Son? Are you okay?" His father looked at him with concern.

"My stomach hurts, Father."

"Ah, yes, you said you're sick."

"Yes, Father."

"Well, I want you to be present for this council, because you'll be in charge of these orders." He snapped his fingers and pointed to a couple of boys. "Bring a chair for this boy."

The servants placed a chair behind them and seated the stiff Édoard in front.

"How many showings for the play?" asked a chubby courtier.

Siwelzac grimaced. "One. Ensure the theater is packed. Then we'll do another one. But let's create posters and display them on the streets! You know! We need to prepare a sequel on the Varunas theme, since the last one was a hit! By the way." He looked at Édoard. "Boy, in two months, you'll go to collect from Varunas. How are they doing now?"

"F-f-father. You know, I don't think we can collect from their crop. It's just that, when we were there...we burned the vineyards. There was nothing left. And the last time I went to the village, someone told me that a doctor amputated the boy's leg."

"That's not a problem." His father grinned. "I wish I'd been there when that poor redhead had that horse step on him! And there's always something to take, no matter how severe the drought is."

Édoard looked at the floor tiles."Son, do not worry! You still have two and a half months to go and charge them."

"But Father, if they can't pay, what should we do? Wouldn't it be more convenient for us to wait a little longer?"

Galiam looked at his court and burst into laughter, tears coming to his eyes.

"Son, you still don't understand. It's not about money or grain. We won't recover that money, even in twenty years."

"So, what is it, Father?"

"There are people who need to be kept in their place, never allowed to rise."

"But Father, why?"

"You see, if you let a dog do as he pleases, he will defecate in the middle of the room. If you don't give him a few lashes, he won't behave properly. We must keep these people under control."

"Why? What have they done?"

"If losing our cargo doesn't warrant a punishment, I don't know what does."

"Father, but they didn't do anything wrong. And if it was Varunas who owed, why should his children have to pay...?"

"A clan is like a body. One dead limb is still a functioning body, but with no legs, it can't move very far. We don't have to kill them, but we can keep them crawling forever."

"But..."

"Anyway, getting back to the topic at hand. There are reports that Varunas's daughter was seen in the city. It seems she managed to sneak out before, but it won't happen again, will it, son? She needs to learn a lesson too."

Édoard felt his heart skip a beat.

"Sir," a courtier interjected, "I overheard something while I was at the king's palace. They mentioned her in connection with an expedition to the East."

"What?" he coughed. "Ah, so she thinks she can make money that way. This is quite unexpected, my children. But she won't get very far... Going to the Eastlands is a desperate move. And she's leaving the poor ginger behind. How careless! Someone could enter his house and who knows what could happen? If I were her, I wouldn't leave his side." He chuckled. "Perhaps we should pay them a surprise visit. It wouldn't be a bad idea."