The Infernal King | 1 ✓

CHAPTER XLII | BLOOD OF THE SON

BEFORE.

THEODORACIUS WARPS HIS knuckles around the edge of the dinner table, trying his best to pretend he isn't listening.

He is seated at the end of the table opposite his father, who enjoys putting as much distance as possible between himself and the boy—that is, until he gets a weapon in his hands. King Tevenot is in the middle of a deep conversation with his friend and comrade, Captain Todorov. As they speak in low tones, Todorov's head is bowed towards the king slightly, as a subtle sign of submission. Occasionally, Theodoracius manages to catch a word here and there, but not enough to piece together what it is they're currently discussing.

Embedded into the surface of the wooden table are four crescent-shaped indentations, from all the time Theodoracius has spent sitting in this spot. He immediately fits his fingernails into the crescents and digs them in; the fifth one, for his thumbnail, is on the underside of the table. Other than the whitening of his knuckles, the boy's appearance is unreadable. At fourteen years old, he has already mastered the art of stoicism; he can turn his own face to stone at the drop of a pin.

Theodoracius turns his gaze to the castle windows, looking out at what little sky he can see from within the cage of stone. Sometimes, he allows himself to think about what it would feel like to sit beneath the night sky and inhale the stars. The day after his mother died, he saw a comet from the window in his room. He never forgot about that, because it felt like kismet. He thinks he'd like to see one again, maybe on a night that isn't quite so desolate.

His nails dig deeper into the table.

There is a tiredness that has manifested itself in the marrow Theodoracius's bones ever since he witnessed Tevenot slaughtering his mother—a tiredness that he is too young to possess, but has grown accustomed to. He carries it everywhere with him, just as he carries the scars on his back. Only sometimes does this perennial exhaustion fade away, if only briefly, to be replaced with flicker of a flame. Tonight is one of those nights.

Tonight, he feels awake. Alive, even.

The idea has been building in him for years, but every time he had weighed the possibility in the past, he'd hear his father's voice in his head: You are nothing but a coward, Theodoracius. He has daydreamed about fleeing the castle more times than he can count.

He glances sideways at the king.

Then back out the window.

The castle is silent as usual, other than the murmurs of the two men. The servants have retreated to the kitchens. Most of the guards have been dismissed...

Theodoracius rises from his seat tentatively. "Your Majesty?" he asks, mustering his most casual tone.

The conversation between Tevenot and Todorov comes to an abrupt halt.

Tevenot turns his beady-eyed gaze to his son. "Boy, you had better have a very good reason for interrupting me," he says coolly. There is a hint of a threat in his tone. There always is.

Theodoracius's pulse quickens. He suddenly finds it hard to swallow, as though there is a wad of cotton caught in his throat. "I apologize, Your Majesty," he replies. "I was only wondering if I could be dismissed. I would like to go to the library to practice my Latin reading."

The king's eyes narrow further. "At this hour, Theodoracius?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," he responds, biting back his retort about how it's better than just sitting in the dining hall, staring at the table.