"Can we have a moment?" Sebastian raised the note he had found in between the stack of letters, the paper still moist from the tea it had been drenched in. "Privately?"

He didn't dare to reveal more information, not with Captain Oswald in the room. Had it been the General or Captain Jonathan, he would have had no problem asking Uncle Tom why in the Seven Hells Aunt Crystal was writing him secret messages about Father, but he didn't trust this man with the bulgy eyes; his long feet had seemed too eager to fill Captain's Jonathan's shoes.

Uncle Tom peered at him, rubbing his pursed lips. "Give me fifteen minutes to wrap things up with the Captain."

"But it's important!" Sebastian clenched his teeth to keep the God of Wrath at bay. His cheeks were growing hot, his fists itching with the urge to bang on his uncle's desk and order Captain Oswald and his pathetic smug grin to leave at once. "More important than anything you've talked about today."

"Rude, Seb." His uncle didn't blink as he continued staring at him. With a quick wave, he dismissed him. "Go to your chamber. I'll be there shortly."

"But..."

"No. Your chamber."

Sebastian stomped his foot. "Don't cut me off. I only wanted to tell you I'm in the garden—like you told me to!"

As he darted off,  Uncle Tom was mumbling an unnecessary apology to the Captain. Sebastian slammed the door with so much force that the portrait of his great-grandfather rocked back and forth.

"And what are you smiling at!" he sneered as the man with deep green eyes and a large frowning wrinkle on his brow came to a standstill.  "I hate you. I hate all of you!"

Why he did not know, but it didn't stop him from giving the painting of King Edward another spin, the back of the canvas swishing against the wall. Stupid Uncle Tom who believed he was but a muttonhead who couldn't handle the truth.

He crumbled the note into his hand and threw it around, not caring where it would land. It bounced off one of the window panes and landed at the feet of Lieutenant Peter. The blonde-haired man reached for the ball and picked it up. He stretched out his hand. "I guess this is yours, My Lord."

"No, it's Aunt Crystal's!" Sebastian walked up to the Lieutenant, snatching the note. 

Not paying the man any more attention, he strutted on. He unfolded the paper, the cursive font—seemingly bigger than before—screamed in his face: Darling, don't you think it's time we tell Sebastian about Brandon?

Time to tell what; why Father didn't become King? He already knew what had happened all those years ago. Father and Uncle Tom had been bantering, which had resulted in Father accidentally injuring Uncle Tom's ear. It had been the final straw for Grandpa William, who had given Father the permission to marry Mother and become Lord of Laneby.

The God of Diligence tugged at his hair. Instead of going back to the royal garden and wait until Uncle Tom found it necessary to meet up with him, he needed to talk to the writer of the note: Aunt Crystal. If there was more to that story, he wanted to hear it now.

Sebastian glanced over his shoulder. "Lieutenant Peter."

The Lieutenant halted and turned around. "Yes, My Lord?"

"Where's my aunt?"

"In her parlour."

"Should have known." It was no secret that she spent most of the afternoons knitting, sewing, or reading mushy romance novels. The only visitors she got were noblewomen or Lady Viviane, who oversaw the other servants in the castle. Still, he wanted no repeat of what had happened in his uncle's office. "Is she alone?"

"I'm not sure, My Lord."

"I'll see for myself then."

And send whoever was there away. 

Sebastian dashed down the stairs, placed his hand on the golden cap of the newel and jumped down, his stupid, bruised knee protesting as his feet landed with a thump on the marble tiles. 

Ignoring the pain, he cruised on. There were no guards near her parlour. He rapped his knuckles against the dark mahogany wood and took a deep breath. Patience was slowly settling in his mind, chasing Wrath out, but the God of Sin was still there.

"Yes?"

He turned the handle and walked in. His aunt was sitting in a high armchair, surrounded by an unhealthy amount of small tables with porcelain figures. A thick book laid open on her lap. Flicking the page, she looked up at him, her eyes crinkled in motherly concern. "Sebastian, what's the matter?"

"I found this." His heart picked up speed as he carefully threaded between the fragile statues, not wanting to knock them over in anger. He showed her the scrunched piece of paper. "You said to Uncle Tom there's something I must know about Father."

"Your father?" Blinking her eyes, she placed the book on the white lace cloth that covered her side table and leant forward. "I don't know. I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You must know it." He flicked the letter. "You wrote it to Uncle Tom."

 "Sebastian, I don't see why I should write your uncle letters when we live in the same castle."

"I don't believe you." Sebastian's voice scratched as he handed her the note. "You may lie, Aunt Crystal, but ink doesn't."

"I'm not lying. I've never seen this before." Her hand brushed over the paper. She turned it around, then held it up so the beam of sunlight kissed all the wrinkles. "Whoever copied my handwriting did a fine job. It's nearly perfect, except that I cross my t's lower and the loop of my l's is a lot thinner."

"Are you sure?"

She placed her hand on her bosom. "I swear it to all the Gods, both northern and southern. I did not write this."

"But then who did?"

"I don't know." She twisted her mouth, biting her lip. "Someone keen on creating chaos, stirring up our family. Did you show Tom?"

"I tried." He crossed his arms in front of him and pouted. "But of course he found his stupid meeting with stupid Oswald more important than me."

"Did you tell anyone you came here?"

Sebastian nodded. "Lieutenant Peter."

"Good, he'll pass along the message. We wait for your uncle, then we talk. I did not write that letter but I do agree with its content. There are things we should no longer keep from you..."

"What things? I don't understand."

"All in due time." She stretched out her arms. "Come here. You seem upset."

He stayed put. He needed answers, not a hug. "Isn't there anything you can already tell me now—without Uncle Tom present?"

"I'm afraid not. Your uncle would never forgive me if I did." She grabbed the thick book from the side table. "While we wait, why don't I show you the plans I have made for Alexandra's wedding?"

He let out a silent sigh and shrugged. He wasn't very interested in anything Aunt Crystal ever did, but looking at drawings and sketches was a better alternative than sitting tight until Uncle Tom showed himself. Besides, Alex was his friend. Whatever suitor his aunt had picked for her, he needed to give his blessing too. He owed her that.

He grabbed the fluffy wool stool from the corner of the room and placed it in the only porcelain-free spot next to her armchair. He sat down. "When she comes back home, you won't marry her off right away, will you Aunt Crystal? She's my friend."

"Your friend, or more?" she chuckled.

"Aunt Crystal! I don't like her—not like that, anyway." He squirmed on the stool, avoiding his aunt's mocking grin. Evidently, she knew about his little stunt in Eastpond, when he had kissed Alex for the entire village to see. "Besides, I'm a Prince, and she's... she's....."

"A commoner."

"But still my friend. If there were one person to guard me until the end of my days, I'd be her. I trust her more than Nick, and that's the truth."

His aunt didn't react to that. Instead, she overwhelmed him with too many drawings of dresses and table pieces. He didn't care for the height of the cake or which guests would be invited. He showed a mild interest in the endless list of songs that would be played during the feast, only because it was a good opportunity to whack the note onto the book and compare the handwriting. The t's did get crossed too high, and the loop of Aunt Crystal's l was nearly inexistent.

With every page she turned, Sebastian looked up and whispered a silent prayer, asking the Gods to send Uncle Tom quicker. He was about to ask the God of Sloth to put Uncle Tom's chair on fire when the door handle moved down and Uncle Tom came in. 

His curled lip and the pulsing veins in his neck predicted nothing good. "Peter told me you were here," he said stoically.

"I thought Aunt Crystal could help me," Sebastian said. He wasn't going to apologise for trying to find answers.

"He did the best thing he could do, Tom. Sit." Aunt Crystal gestured at the armchair opposite of hers. "There's something we should discuss."

"Do we?" He remained standing. If looks could bring damage, all porcelain figures would instantly splinter into a million pieces. 

Aunt Crystal didn't seem too worried. She closed the planning book with a thud and grabbed the letter from her side table before handing it to Uncle Tom. "I'll make it my top priority to find out who wrote this, but we have to consider telling Sebastian before anyone else does. It's in everybody's interests that he hears it from us, from you."

As Uncle Tom studied the piece of paper, his eyes widened. "It's like you wrote it."

"Yes, but I didn't. I will get to the bottom of this, Tom."

"You better." Uncle Tom reached for the jewel on his ear and touched it. "Who would do this? Seb's too young to—"

"To what?" Sebastian jumped up from his stool, his hands balled up in fists. The God of Wrath had returned, and He wouldn't back off until he finally knew the truth. "Whatever it is, I deserve to know. He was my father."

Not meeting his gaze, Uncle Tom walked past him, shoulder bumping into shoulder, then headed towards the window. He placed his hands between two purple, star-shaped flowers blooming on the sill and sighed deeply. "You wouldn't understand."

"I would. You can tell me!"

"Darling, this note is a warning." Aunt Crystal smacked her hands onto her lap. "If you don't tell him, then someone else will. It could be a note under his pillow or a letter hidden in the pockets of his clothes."

"That's not gonna happen. You'll take care of that—the serving girls get interrogated first. Then the guards, and then—"

"And what if I can't find the culprit before the next message comes?" She flailed her arms around, her voice rising to a shout. "It has to be you. Why can't you see that?"

 "You know what, Crystal?" Uncle Tom turned his head around and sniffed. "The longer I hear you talk, the more it sounds like you planted the letter in the first place."

"Tom, in the Bear's name. You're being absurd."

"I'm the absurd one?" He dug his finger into his chest. "Meanwhile, our nephew is receiving secret messages about the very things you've been pestering me with since he first stepped into my office. But of course, I'm the absurd one. I see intrigues where there are none!"

Occasionally, he had heard his aunt and uncle fighting in their bedroom. There was no pillow thick enough to hide under and block out their snarls. 

Right here and now, the porcelain trembled on the marble tables, a teaspoon rattled on its plate. Uncle Tom clutched the window sill harder in his desperate grasp, his replies coming out like short snaps while Aunt Crystal raised her voice louder and louder.

"You're no longer the man you were a few moons ago. This dispute with Ariel is consuming you."

"I'm trying to keep the peace."

"But at what cost?"

"The highest, if I must!"

"Then who are you doing it for?"

Sebastian couldn't bear to listen to it any longer. "Stop!"

His aunt and uncle shot their eyes at him, but it was Aunt Crystal who addressed him. "I'm sorry, Sebastian. You shouldn't be hearing all of this."

"I'm glad I am." He gave his aunt a quick nod and walked up to his uncle. "Uncle Tom, I'm ready, even if you think I'm not. I've been through so much already that this can't be worse. Please allow me to learn the truth. Even if it's bad, I need to know it."

"Seb." Uncle Tom closed his eyes and shook his head.

"Please, Uncle Tom. I'm ready. I really am."

Then after a silence that lasted far too long, his uncle ran his hands through his hair, ruffling it into a messy poof that freed up his entire right ear. He removed the black jewel, revealing the thick scar once more. "Fifteen years. One hundred and eighty moons. Almost five thousand five hundred days, of a constant itch I can't scratch. A pain so deep and omnipresent that I can't recall living without it. Bran did this to me."

"And for that, he was banished—that's not new information."

"But you don't know how it happened." Uncle Tom's gaze dropped. "Few people do. Ask anyone who was around at the time and they'll either tell you that Bran planted a dagger in my ear, or that it was an arrow that pierced it. An ordinary hunting accident—nothing more, nothing less."

Sebastian cocked his head. "So it wasn't a hunting accident."

Uncle Tom's adam's apple visibly bobbed up and down as he swallowed. He looked at Aunt Crystal, who nodded, then he put his hand on Sebastian's shoulder and squeezed it. "Air." His voice scratched.

"Air, as in the wind?"

Uncle Tom opened his mouth, but the words seemed stuck in his throat. He pressed his lips tightly before attempting a second time. "Your father... he was a magician. An Air Magician." 

"You're wrong. I've never seen... never noticed. He wasn't." Sebastian took a step back, bumping into the sharp edge of the key keeping Aunt Crystal's books safely in her cabinets. Aware of his own breathing, he shuffled aside, accidentally kicking over a porcelain figurine of a boy and his dog. A blink later, both now laid separated on the floor.

The figurines had been as hollow as his heart.

"He was." Uncle Tom winced as he reattached the jewel. "Healer Mark first spotted the odd behaviour when Bran was but eight or nine years old. The way he climbed the statues and the trees in the garden. Even his fighting—always with this special leap—it wasn't just some self-taught technique, it was a scandal. Father paid off all the servants and guards with gold, ordered them to keep quiet—upon punishment of death. Any rumour was always denied. We were the only heirs. Bran had to become King and I his General. Yet, I didn't know  about him being... until..."

"Did he do it on purpose?" Sebastian's hands were turning clammy. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. His mind didn't allow the information to sink in.

"No." Aunt Crystal crouched to pick up the broken figurine. She held the three pieces in her hand. "It was as much an accident as this was. Only the impact was bigger."

"After the incident, Father rapidly changed his mind. While Healer Mark was butchering my ear to convince the world it was the result of a hunt gone wrong, Bran left for Laneby and I became next in line." Uncle Tom had pushed the two flowers aside and was now sitting on the windowsill, his arms clutched tightly to his chest. "I was heavily under the influence of poppy seeds, but Father convinced me it was for the best. Laneby needed a new Lord after the death of Lord Ian, and Karen loved my brother—curse and all. Bran vowed to never lose his temper again, never resort to such sinful force. It was easier to pretend than to explain to the folk why their Crown Prince should be executed."

"Life in Laneby was good," Sebastian said, unsure whether he should defend Father or not. "We were happy there. Nobody knew about Father being... special."

"Only a handful people did." Uncle Tom banged his head against the window. "It was too dangerous; it still is today. A magician's powers are hereditary. If our citizens were to find out about Bran, our bloodline would be deemed contaminated. It would be the end of our reign."

"I don't understand," Sebastian's voice slipped into a squeak. "Why would anyone blame us? You're not a magician. I'm not a magician."

"But Magical powers are passed along from parent to child, Sebastian," Aunt Crystal explained. "My mother is an Air Magician, and so is my brother."

Sebastian gasped. "Lana is a magician too?"

"The only power she has is the power to lose herself in a book." Aunt Crystal smiled an uneasy smile. "For the outside world, especially the Greenlanders, we pretend there's no magic blood coursing through our veins. Mother hasn't used her magic in years, and Storm lives far from court. Any business is handled by River. Not every child born from magicians has the power to wield the elements."

"I don't mean to be rude, but I don't care about the Icians, Aunt Crystal. Who did Father get his powers from? Grandpa William? Grandma Ophelia?"

"My mother, yes." Uncle Tom rubbed his finger along his ear in thought. "By the time Bran's powers began to develop, she had already died. But there's more, Seb. I haven't even gotten to the most important part of the explanation yet."

"What could more important?" Sebastian's heart skipped a beat, then continued galloping through his body. 

"You're not your father's only son."  His uncle stared at him with a strange look in his eyes, as if he was waiting for Sebastian to figure it all out himself. "There's a second boy. A magician."

"No."

"I'm sorry. Not every child inherits the sin, but some do." As the thought entered Sebastian's mind, Uncle Tom said it out loud, "Fox is your brother, Seb. Your father's bastard child."

"No, you're lying. You wouldn't let me..." He paused, realising what he had done and why Uncle Tom had been so keen on getting Fox out of the way, "sentence him to die."

"I had to," Uncle Tom whispered. "You understand that, don't you? He could..."

" I don't care. I would never have... if I had known... I..."

"Seb."

As every muscle in his body yearned to dart out of the room and never coming back, Uncle Tom stood in front of him, blocking his way. Ignoring the black spots forming in his eyes, he pushed his uncle out of the way and bolted, half tripping and bumping into one of the side tables. The porcelain figures plunged to the ground. "No, don't touch me. Just leave me alone!"

"Let him go, Tom," came the wise words of his aunt. "Let him process this by himself in his chamber."

Sebastian ran like he had never run before. Past a startled guard. Past his chamber. Past the stairs leading to the royal garden. He zigzagged between the servants and jolted into the unguarded tunnel.

He didn't stop running until he was standing in the stables, the smell of fresh manure hitting him. Horseshoes clopped on the floor as stable boys moved the horses down the narrow, straw-filled corridors.  

He was out. Out of the castle.

But for how long? Behind him came the threatening thud of heavy footsteps. A black horse was munching on hay, still saddled. 

A Godsent gift.