Matron Elen Ravelyn did not like the nobility, as a rule.

  In her experience, they are arrogant, conceited, and prone to catastrophic tantrums that drag all parties involved to a bitter end.

  Lord Draevan didn’t really fit any of those three qualities, but Elen knew the man was trouble, nonetheless.

  Too bad the brat saw fit to throw his lot in with him.

  “Tea?” Lord Draevan offered as he pulled a seat for Elen. The matron snorted at his gentlemanly display.

  “Sure. Though if you have something stronger in your office, I will take it,” Elen said as she passed the man her coat. “It was a long journey. Winds won’t stop howling.”

  “I suppose the trip back to Footfall at this time of the year would be harsh,” Draevan bowed. “Nonetheless, I thank you for doing so on my behalf. Time was short. If you require compensation—”

  “Save it. We both know gold means shit to us,” Elen sighed tiredly, slumping into her chair.

  She had just returned to Castle Elathion mere hours ago. It took arduous weeks of rushed travel for her to make it to the orphanage in Footfall and back to Kaldreach in time.

  Lord Draevan would be leaving for his grand expedition to the West in another week; she had been lucky to have arrived as quickly as she did with the papers in hand.

  The office was dark, courtesy of the minor snowstorm outside. The documents were still in her satchel. Though she was already seated, Elen had yet to present the papers.

  There was an uncomfortable weight to those simple sheets. Just the thought of handing them over stirred a turmoil in her chest, even as her mind told her such feelings were irrational.

  Draevan poured her a cup of tea. To her surprise, he took out an expensive-looking bottle of whiskey from his cabinet as well.

  At her questioning look, he shrugged. “A little indulgence is no harm. This is a fairly momentous occasion, after all.”

  For you, perhaps. The words were at the tip of her tongue, though she held them back. Lord Draevan did not deserve her venom.

  The Matron’s failings were her own.

  Elen exhaled, downing her cup of tea in one go, before taking her satchel and producing the thin sheets of documents she had travelled all the way to Footfall’s orphanage to collect.

  Adoption papers — all filled and ready to transfer custodianship of Eri White over to House Elathion. All that was left with her signature, Lord Draevan’s, and Eri’s.

  She set them on the table. Lord Draevan offered Elen some whiskey, though he drank none. The man looked through the papers carefully while the Matron gently swirled her cup.

  “Everything appears to be in order,” he said, his expression kept politely neutral. “I must admit, I had not thought your ward would go through with it, in the end.”

  He still might not. His signature is not there yet. Once more, Elen kept her caustic words silent, instead giving a non-committal grunt. “How is the brat?”

  “He misses you,” Draevan said. Elen involuntarily tensed. “He worried for you constantly. It shows in his training.”

  “He needs to be more independent. I was only gone for two months,” Elen snorted. “And besides, it wasn’t as if I travelled anywhere dangerous. The brat worries needlessly.”

  “He cares for you.”

  “Hm. Where is he now?”

  “Out on a scouting expedition at the port. Don’t worry, he’s with Joarris Dervaine and my daughter. He should be back soon — perhaps even within the hour, if the weather permits.”

  “That better not be your attempt at trying to tie all three together. What you do with your daughter is your business, but Eri is mi—”

  She cut herself short.

  There was a length of silence after that. Lord Draevan said nothing. Elen’s face was set in stone.

  After a few seconds, Lord Draevan spoke. “I was hoping we might discuss the matter of his adoption once more, in a manner more… candid than our previous conversations.”

  “What, you suddenly change your mind?” Elen shot back. “Don’t be stupid. I didn’t waste my time rushing my ass to get you these adoption papers just so you can back out now.”

  “There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that Eri White would be an asset to House Elathion,” Draevan replied. “In the six months I have known him, he has proven himself to be every ounce the respectable and kind hero he hopes himself to be. It is both an honour and a great joy that he has decided to take up my House’s name.”

  “Good for you. Then sign the papers.”

  “You approve of this, then?”

  “My approval has little to do with this. This is between you and him.”

  “And yet, you have not added your signature to the documents. The papers’ authenticity is yet to be finalised without the matron’s signing, and therefore, their purpose may be made… flexible.”

  “What the hell are you trying to say?” Elen demanded, patience flaring.

  Lord Draevan gently pushed the papers towards Elen’s end of the table. “I do not have to be the one who signs this and takes formal guardianship over him.”

  Elen said nothing.

  “Please do not misunderstand. I mean no insult,” Draevan clarified. “I know little of your circumstances or the reason for your hesitation. However, I know you care for him deeply, and so I cannot in good conscience sign this paper until I ask you this: Are you sure you wish for this adoption to go through?”

  “You think I would not adopt him by now if I wanted to? You must think me an idiot.”

  “I think you were conflicted. Are conflicted.” He gently tapped the papers again. “But it is not too late.”

  “Careful,” Elen warned. “A man of your position should know better than to make careless assumptions.”

  “As I’ve said, I do not mean to insult.” The Lord bowed. “You have led a complicated life. It is, therefore, only right to guess that the reason for your… misgivings would be equally complex.”

  “I was a simple soldier of the Church. Nothing complicated about it.”

  “We both know that is not remotely true.”

  A lengthy silence again. Lord Draevan used that time to pour Elen another cup of tea.

  The whiskey in her hand remained untouched.

  “What of your misgivings, then?” Elen finally said. “All those mysteries surrounding him… Even after six months of him staying in your home, you still have yet to pry much, have you? His abilities, his powers… All of it unknown.”

  “Either he will tell me in time, or he will not. If he believes that telling me more about himself would be detrimental to all parties involved, then I will be stupid to pry.”

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  Elen barked a laugh. “You are hopelessly naive. What blind trust in a child.”

  “No. Not blind trust. Never again. Not after Armael,” Draevan quietly denied. “I have rational reasons for my faith in him.”

  “And what would those asinine reasons be?” Elen chuckled, her laughter mocking.

  Draevan looked at her straight in the eye. “Any child raised by a Saint cannot be evil.”

  Elen stopped laughing. The howl of the winds echoed lightly in the room. The storm outside was beginning to die down.

  “I looked into your history. I apologise,” Draevan said with some remorse. “It is true that Eri holds much of my curiosity, but you were an enigma yourself, Miss Ravelyn. The report my Captain gave me after the failed assassination attempt only heightened my interest. As you may know, I hold certain… connections to the Aurelian Academy. The Home of Saints.”

  “I know what the Aurelian Academy is,” Elen murmured. “The ‘imperial jewel’ of the Empire… More of a joke now than anything.”

  “A Saint never dies, not truly,” Draevan mused. “When a Chosen who reaches the Mythic ranks passes this world, it is said that the Goddess takes their soul into her personal embrace and grants them Sainthood. With her blessings, they may be resurrected by the land in times of great need. There are many Saints produced over the course of this five-thousand-year war, and Thalmyra’s needs have never been more dire. Rumours have it that more Saints have been resurrected in this past century alone than in the previous five millennia.”

  “Is there a rest stop between here and the fucking point you are trying to make?” Elen snapped. “You don’t have to explain this to me. I was the Church-assigned Matron of an orphanage. It was my literal job to identify children with unusual talents so that they might be tested for signs of Sainthood and be made an Aspirant. None of this is new.”

  “Yet you never sent Eri to the Aurelian Academy, even though his talents were clearly unnatural,” Draevan continued calmly. “You allowed him to take the Goddess Trial at nine — the bare minimum age requirement — and though he passed with flying colours, you never reported his existence to your superiors. You hid him well, nurtured him, but if your authority was that of a mere Matron alone, you could never have kept him from the Church or the Imperial Administration. Someone would have found out. No, someone did find out. But they let you keep him anyway. You can understand my surprise when I reached out to the Academy, and a certain… common friend of ours replied to my missive.”

  “... So you are acquainted with the Headmaster of the Aurelian Academy,” Elen bitterly chuckled. “Small world… Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised. You were the one who rescued Garion Sunpyre all those years ago, after all. That would have bought you certain connections.”

  “I do not place much trust in Imperial Authority or the Church. Few do at this stage of the demonic conflict, I think,” Draevan admitted. “But I do trust Saints and the judgment they make. They are the ones most intimate with the nature of Good and Evil. They have felt the Goddess’s embrace and faced the might of Demon Kings. And that is why I can trust you, and why I can trust Eri. You, who wholeheartedly love the boy, despite whatever his origins are.”

  “How lucky for you, then, that this supposed ‘love’ I have for him will bind me to your House so long as he remains here,” Elen smiled, showing teeth. “Does the thought of having a broken Saint in your retinue please you? I assure you, whatever reasons led to me leaving the warfront behind, it wasn’t pleasant.”

  Draevan shook his head. “You are free to go. As is Eri. Even now, I firmly believe that if you were to ask him, he would gladly accept you as his formal guardian. You are already practically his Mother. Why won’t you—”

  Elen moved.

  It was fast — far faster than she should be capable of. Faster than even Draevan — a Sapphire-Core Chosen — could react.

  Something sharp and impossibly light tickled his throat.

  It was not a blade. Neither was it her shield.

  Something entirely unseen… Beyond his perception…

  It was only for a flicker of a moment. Then it was gone.

  Elen was standing, breathing heavily.

  “Do not,” she snarled. “Use that word.”

  Draevan willed his heart to calm. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady. “I apologise. But my point remains.”

  “I will not adopt him,” Elen vehemently said.

  “We do not always choose the ones we love, and affection of a genuine nature is not without its responsibilities,” Draevan pushed carefully. “You cannot give that boy your care and expect him not to reciprocate. That is cruel, both to him and yourself.”

  “It’s not that simple. It never is! Besides, why do you care?” Elen demanded, her frustration leaking through. “If I actually adopt him, you lose access to both me and him. Hell, even those twin minstrels are tied more closely to the brat than House Elathion. If he leaves, they would likely leave with him. It would be the worst possible outcome for your House. Why are you trying to persuade me to do this?”

  Draevan hesitated.

  The silence was heavy, almost uncomfortable. Elen looked ready to storm off. Just as she was about to turn, he said, “It is advice from one parent to another. Do not let grief damn you into neglecting those who still love you. That is all.”

  Draevan still remembered the day he lost Justinina. Though a slim hope now moved him to save her, the grief he carried in the wake of her death had cost him. It was as if a piece of him had died.

  He saw how that pain had briefly reflected in the matron’s eyes. And so he understood her hesitation, if only a little.

  Once more, he pushed the paper towards Elen, a steel dip pen already prepared.

  The matron wavered. Slowly, she picked up the pen.

  Seconds passed. A full minute. The ink hovered over the empty space, where the signature of the adoptive guardian was required.

  Then, with a face of stone, Elen instead flipped the paper over and signed in the space pending the matron’s approval, transferring full legal custody of the child from the orphanage to House Elathion.

  She set the pen aside.

  “After both you and Eri sign your names on the documents, give the papers to Kaldreach’s administration,” Elen said neutrally. “He will be recognised as your son under Imperial Law and be elevated to nobility under your House’s name.”

  She turned around, then paused.

  Draevan half-hoped she had changed her mind, but instead, she reached over and grabbed the entire body of whiskey from his table.

  “That’s for pissing me off,” she said. “We will call it even.”

  She left the room after that, slamming the door. Draevan allowed himself a moment of weakness and sighed heavily.

  When he moved, something fell from his neck.

  Unfathomably light, yet sharp as steel. It drifted gently in the air, swaying with inexplicable grace before landing on his table. Draevan stared at it in wonderment.

  Nestled upon the hastily signed papers was a single, solitary feather — pure and white as dawnlight caught in the morning’s mist.

  ~~~

  She did not make a mistake.

  Even then, as her heart kept trying to turn her around and tear those adoption papers to shreds, Elen forced herself to keep moving forward.

  It was not a mistake. Her mind remained rational.

  But rationality did not always win. She nearly gave in for a moment there.

  Damn that Lord. I take back everything nice I ever said about him, she thought to herself, teeth gritted as she stalked down the halls with a bottle in hand. Screw everything. I’m going to find a nice, quiet corner and get blackout drunk before I change my mind and ruin everything! Damn it all, I—!

  “Matron!”

  Someone called out to her excitedly. It was a voice far too familiar for her to miss.

  Elen barely had time to turn around before Eri slammed into her, pulling her into a tight hug.

  “You’re back!” The boy looked up at her, smiling widely. “I was worried the storm would delay you.”

  “I, eh, I got lucky with the weather,” Elen stuttered. “Weren’t you supposed to be out on an expedition?”

  “I got back earlier, too. Dulcina received an arcane missive from the castle saying you were back. We were already finished with the mission, so I asked to quickly return home first.”

  He was still in his winter cloak — he didn’t even take it off before rushing to find her in the castle.

  “‘Home’, huh?” she muttered. “You settled in well when I was gone.”

  “Well, I have been living here quite a while. The place looks much nicer now, don’t you think?” Eri cheered. “House Elathion had some spare gold, as Dulcina and I helped with the redecorating efforts. Joarris and his group were around, too. We spent a whole week arguing about the furniture. Bori had the worst taste in decor, and Raharim tried getting a portrait of mine commissioned. It was embarrassing… Oh! The fire at the port is finally starting to die, too! The corruption at the lake is still pretty bad, though. A few demons from the steppes have even moved in and set up a nest. We can go there together sometimes, it’s been a while since we went hunting together…”

  The boy kept babbling about all she had missed over the last two months, unaware of the turmoil boiling within her.

  Somehow, looking at him like this…

  She was reminded of a memory she had buried a lifetime ago.

  “Mama, look! I made you a seashell necklace! Can we go see the beach again tomorrow?”

  … No. She would never see that beach ever again.

  Elen sighed, then flicked her finger gently on the boy’s forehead.

  “Don’t talk my ear off, brat. I’m exhausted,” she lightly scolded. “C’mon, let’s eat. I’ve missed your food. Road rations taste like garbage compared to your cooking.”

  “Oh, don’t worry! I’ve made lots of your favourites! It was strange, not cooking for you every day, so I used the time to try crafting out a few new dishes for you…”

  The rest of the evening was spent between the two of them, fresh meals keeping them warm as they bickered and talked about the casual happenings of the last two months.

  When Elen retired for the night, she eyed the whiskey bottle she had taken. She sighed and set it aside.

  I didn’t make a mistake, she told herself as she slept. I’ll never make that mistake again.

  That night, she dreamt of the ocean.

  And of the Drowned Demon King she slew three millennia ago.