The hallway had torches in sconces that Idris would have lit, had he been carrying flints or a spark stick. He trailed his free hand on the wall and trusted the ground under his single foot. The death aria was not gone, but it felt less insistent, more like background noise than anything else. The gaps between brick and cement under his fingertips were wide. Whatever the hallway led to, it was going to be large.

At the end of the hall, he could see a gentle, orange haze.

Idris took the hand from the wall, placed it instead on the hilt of his grandfather’s stiletto dagger inside his coat. He was not going to be surprised.

It was slow going, with only one crutch. By the time he reached the light, he was too tired to go much further. The torchlight flickered, illuminating a deep staircase, with a rail, that jutted out at an angle, then tucked itself inwards. Idris frowned.

Another pentagon.

To his left, however, was an entryway into some kind of waiting area. A series of chairs settled around a low table, in front of a roaring fireplace. It was large, with a low ceiling – larger than Idris’s rooms in the palace.

Carefully, Idris took the stairs. The rail was stone; he was forced to let go of the dagger to use it, which he loathed. Everything was eerily quiet. There were no windows in the staircase wall, only more torches, their lights pooling on the black bricks.

On the next floor was a dining hall, the table long enough to seat ten, with a runner decorated with ravens and silver pentagons. The floor after, a practice room, the floor marked out in chalk for stances, with shelves and shelves of scrolls and books. Idris recognised most of the marks on the floor, but he did not dwell on them.

When he reached the next floor, the stairs stopped. The room ahead was a parlour. Couches and tables lounged on rugs and by vases of flowers. Here, there were windows, letting the soft moonlight in. Somehow, this room was higher up than most of Outer Arbedes.

Idris entered slowly, placing his hand back on his dagger. The rugs muffled the tap of his crutch on the brickwork. The fireplace was lit here, too.

Then, as if appearing from nowhere, a man stepped out from an armchair and held up both of his hands in a gesture of peace.

Idris took hard, forced breaths, gripped his crutch tight. The man blinked a few times, smiled somewhat timidly.

“I opened a bottle of wine,” the man said gently. “I would very much like to share it with you.”

Idris said nothing. He could not. His body felt stiff and awkward. He gazed upon the man with the straw-coloured hair and grey-green eyes and he wanted, so much, to pull the dagger from its sheath and run at him, and plunge the blade into his chest at least once, probably twice –

But he could do none of it.

“I saw you coming,” the man said. He gestured vaguely to an item on one of the tables that Idris could not properly see. “That was some rather impressive aria work, at the curtain. I thought perhaps I would have to lift it for you, but you managed very well on your own. Please… please, do come and sit. You look liable to fall if you stand any longer.”

The man moved, seemingly to grab a chair, but Idris, at the man’s impetus, took the dagger out and held it as threateningly as he could manage.

“Do not approach me,” he said. He was surprised how much his hand shook, his voice.

The man stopped, raised his hands again.

“You do not need that here,” he said. “I mean you no harm.”

The sheer whirlwind of the day was affecting Idris’s purpose. He forgot, for a moment, why this even had to happen, why he was threatening this man. He wanted, just once, to say ‘father’ and for it to be the right thing to say. His heart was louder than any aria he had ever heard.

“You are The Remaker,” he said.

The man nodded. “I am.”

“Your name… your name is Layton.”

The man paused, then nodded wordlessly.

“I should cut your throat out,” said Idris, choked with tears, ready to scream.

“That would be messy,” said Layton quietly.

“You jest with me?” Idris said, his skin burning. “Do you know who I am? Do you know what you did?”

“I think,” said the man, “you are my son. I know I disappointed you, most likely. And I would dearly wish to share a cup of wine with you and speak like gentlemen.”

“You think yourself a gentleman?” Idris laughed wildly, the tears spilling all at once. “A gentleman who abandoned his child? Who brought a woman to shame?”

At this, Layton looked disturbed. His thin eyebrows wrinkled.

“You have it wrong,” he said. “No, I did not abandon you –“

“You cursed me!” screamed Idris, letting the hatred spill out. “You ruined me! Look what you did to me! Look –“

But the anger was too much, and he was too tired for it, and the dagger slipped from his fingers and he dropped to his knees and he sobbed, one hand on his face, and could do nothing else.

Eventually, he looked up and he saw that Layton had moved a table and turned his armchair, so the chair was facing Idris and the table was between them. A cup sat at Idris’s side; Layton poured some wine into it and then settled back into his chair quietly. For a man who was supposed to be an adult’s father, he looked remarkably young as he sat, looking down across the table, as if the mantle of ‘father’ was a coat that did not quite fit. There was nothing inherently evil or malintent about him. He simply… was. That was what made Idris feel impotent. He had all of this anger and hatred and trauma that did not fit on Layton’s small, weak shoulders.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“We have much to discuss, I think,” Layton said. “I will not insult you by… by telling you that I am sorry, or that I want to make everything right. I do not enjoy seeing you upset and angry. If I can explain my position, I am certain that we can come to an understanding of each other. You are, after all, my blood, and I do not want any bitterness between us. Please drink with me.” Then, very timidly, he said, “I am glad to see you, son.”

Idris closed his eyes, trying to make it sink in.

“You can take any chair you like,” said Layton. “Do you need assistance?”

“I can do it,” Idris whispered, and he opened his eyes and picked his crutch up again.

There was an awkward, long silence while he dragged a chair to the table and sat in it. Layton’s eyes remained on his cup the whole time. Idris put his grandfather’s dagger within reach on the table.

“For the record,” he said, his voice still shaking, “I do not want you to address me as ‘son’. It is an insult to me.”

Layton raised his eyebrows but did not start. He pursed his lips, nodded.

“What did your mother call you, in the end?”

“My name is Idris.”

“A good name.”

“An Eremont name,” Idris said.

“Of course. You are an Eremont, after all,” said Layton, lifting his cup.

“Is this amusing to you?” demanded Idris, and Layton laughed mirthlessly and shook his head.

“Not amusing at all.” He sipped, seemed to consider the taste. “Your uncle told you, I presume. That is why you are angry, yes?”

“Nobody told me,” said Idris.

It was silent, again.

“Oh,” said Layton, sounding thoroughly disappointed. “Then… that makes sense.” He put down his cup, placed his hands demurely on his lap. “I came to Temple Hill to meet you, on your sixteenth birthday,” he said, looking right at Idris, now. “Nobody was there. When I wrote to your mother, she did not respond. I had every intention, Idris, of being with you.”

“Before or after your magic took my foot?” said Idris furiously.

Layton tensed. He blinked rapidly.

“Is that what happened?” he whispered.

“At what point were you going to come down from this tower and help me?” said Idris, shaking again. “Sixteen was too late. By sixteen I was doing all of this on my own. When exactly were you going to come and be responsible for the mess you made? What… what possessed you?”

Layton said nothing. Something in Idris’s words appeared to have upset him. His pale face seemed paler still; his eyes glittered with tears in the firelight.

“You are too upset to listen, and not yourself, I am sure,” he said. “This all appears to be an awful shock to you, and I assure you, Idris, it was not meant to be that way. I had only good intentions –“

“When you lay with my mother and forced me into existence?”

“There was no force,” said Layton tersely, his cheeks pink. “I am not an animal. I will not speak to you while you are so tightly wound, it is pointless.”

Idris picked up the dagger and stabbed it into the table so it wobbled.

“If you will not talk, then I will do what I said I would and cut your throat out. Maybe your corpse will be more forthcoming.”

Layton closed his eyes, took deep breaths. Wordlessly, he took up his cup, drained it, poured a second measure and then, with a gravity unbecoming of such a thin, soft man, he stared right at Idris.

“I did what this family has done for generations,” he said. “I passed down the bloodline, like I am supposed to. Like you will, one day. I chose a good, noble family for you, one I knew would raise you well, somewhere you would want for nothing. I was patient. I watched when I could. I wrote to your mother, often. Occasionally, she deigned to respond, but only occasionally. If I could have ridden down to Temple Hill and announced myself without fear of retribution or pitchforks or a stake to burn me on, I would have done it. You and I, Idris, we do not have that luxury, surely you know that? The people fear us. Your uncle would have killed me where I stood.”

“He would have been right to,” said Idris.

“Come now,” scoffed Layton, “these… idle threats? I can feel the necrosis in your leg, do you think I know so little about my craft that I could not make you scream and beg if I wanted?”

This time, Idris was mute. The little man in front of him was fearsome in his anger. His sea-storm eyes lit with grey fire.

And then, as if nothing had happened, it was gone. Layton composed himself, sighed and looked at the burning logs.

“Had I known,” he said softly, “that your mother was going to renege on our deal, I would have come sooner.”

“What deal?”

“I told her I would come and get you. She said not until you were sixteen. Then, she reasoned, you would be ready for the truth and your training and all would be well.”

“Did she know any of this before she was pregnant, or after?”

Layton closed his eyes, his face pained. “After. There was not much time for the luxury of conversation before.”

“Just enough conversation to make her pliable,” said Idris bitterly, hating the implication. Layton sighed tersely.

“It is not as depraved as you make it sound. Do other noble houses not pick and choose as I did? Do you think your grandfather would have been proud to marry your mother off to a necromancer? Use your brain, Idris, I assume you have one.” He shook his head. “I presume she is no longer on the continent.”

“She is not.”

“Obrin?”

“He is not.”

“Your uncle?”

Idris sucked his cheeks. “My uncle is dead.”

Layton frowned, put a tongue in his cheek. “When did you find me out?”

“This afternoon,” said Idris.

“You have been busy, today.”

“Do not tease me –“

“I know, I am sorry. This is all… raw, then.”

“Raw enough.”

“You do look like an Eremont. If anything had been even slightly suspicious, I suppose she might have let me train you. Perhaps she thought she could hide you.” Tentatively, he looked at Idris’s right leg. “Your foot. You said…”

“A fine gift you gave me,” said Idris. “Would you like to take a closer look?”

Layton shook his head, as if the suggestion was the most distasteful thing he had ever heard. “Goodness, no. How old…?”

“Eleven.”

“Eleven. I see.” He pursed his lips again. “Necrotising living flesh is… quite advanced, actually.”

“That brings a great deal of comfort, I thank you,” said Idris, scoffing.

“Your training, then? Who trained you?”

“Others.” Idris did not want to tell this man about the palace and the Queen. “My uncle, mostly. Books.”

Layton paused. There was a funny edge to the atmosphere, as if the interview was over and what happened next was down to fate.

“Have you eaten, Idris? Are you well? You dragged yourself before me like food for birds and I did not even ask.” Then, “Unless you do plan to kill me.”

Idris was quiet. It was not the right time to be making those sorts of decisions. The day had been long. He was exhausted. Besides, he needed to gain Layton’s trust at least partially if he wanted to know where the breastplate was, or anything more about Dravid Orrost and the Spirit Dagger.

“I am… too tired for murder, actually,” he said. Layton gave a small, friendly smile. “I could eat. And sleep. Perhaps in the morning, I will be more in the mood to kill you. Can you wait until sunup?”

“I think so,” said Layton, rising from his chair. “It does not do, to murder on an empty stomach. Let me put a plate together for you. In the morning, we can discuss the means and motive for my death, if that pleases you?”

“That pleases me.”

“Excellent. Wait here, in the warm. Drink. There is time enough for bloodshed tomorrow.”

“Layton,” said Idris, as the man who was his father moved around the table.

“Hmm?”

“It would… would have been nice. To have a tutor.”

“Well,” said Layton, and he laid a timid hand on Idris’s shoulder, “there is time enough for that, too.”

Idris sat alone in the parlour, the warmth of the fire sticky on his skin, and he finally picked up his cup and drank.