“That’s hardly necessary,” came a light, familiar voice with the crystal-clear lilt of Cyrilian nobility. A man had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, by the turn to the next corridor. His indigo silk coat flapped lightly over his slight figure, and his gold-tipped shoes tapped rhythmically with each step as he approached.
“Hello again, Ramson,” said Alaric Kerlan, his eyes twinkling. “I’ve come to extend you a very personal welcome.”
Felyks straightened at the sight of his boss, who strolled past him as though he were a part of the wall. Ramson stood where he was, though something stretched taut within him. He felt rooted to the place as a strange helplessness descended upon him, trapping him under the presence of Alaric Kerlan once again.
“Ramson, my son.” Kerlan’s teeth glinted very white when he smiled. “It’s been so long.”
“I’ve counted every day.” Ramson’s cheeks felt frozen, his mouth stuck in a smile.
“I’m so honored.” Kerlan gestured at the nearest door. “It seems I’d be an extremely bad-mannered host to not have you for tea. Please, after you.”
Ramson stepped through the door to a nondescript study, walls lined with bookshelves that boasted gilded tomes and dusty books, as well as the occasional eccentric piece of decoration—or, as Kerlan preferred to call it, exotic. A jade-sculpted dragon from Kemeira; a curved brass lamp that looked to be from one of the southern crowns; a piece of rainbow-hued rock from the depths of the Silent Sea itself. In the corner was a large brass clock, its rhythmic ticks punctuating the silence.
Yet as Ramson took in the room around him, he was suddenly struck with a realization so stark that it left him reeling. He remembered this room well, too well—it was almost as though he had been standing in it yesterday, rain-soaked and lost and wild, a boy with nowhere to hide and nowhere to run.
* * *
—
After Jonah’s death, Ramson had wanted nothing more than to get away from the military, from his father, from Bregon, from every single bit of the world that he’d thought of as safe and good, but that had betrayed him.
Twelve years old, he’d boarded one of the supply wagons from the military in the dead of night, with nothing on him but a pouch of coins and a name and address hastily scrawled on a piece of paper. He still remembered huddling in the back of the wagon between crates of stale vegetables and rotting meat, watching as the winking torchlights of the Blue Fort grew smaller and smaller.
The wagon driver found him curled up in the back the next morning and kicked him out. Ramson clambered to his feet alone but for the cloud-filled skies, rolling moors, and endless rain in all directions. He was lost then, without Jonah or his compass. He wanted to crawl into a water-soaked ditch and die right there in the mud, but he was too afraid, and he was too angry.
So he put one foot in front of the other, and every day, he told himself, Just one more day. Just one more day and you can see Jonah again.
Somehow, either by the Deities’ will or by some other miracle, he made it to a town. He stumbled into a bar, holding his pouch of dimes and begging for food and water.
Later that day, a group of older boys waylaid him. They dragged him, screaming and kicking, into a back alley, beat him, took his money and his dagger, and left him to die.
Still, Ramson did not die.
When he finally summoned the courage to hobble out of the alley, night had fallen. His lip was cut and swelling, his nose broken, and his ribs bruised, but he was alive.
This was the world as it really was. Not good and bright and filled with light—but rather, the gray place that Jonah had painted for him, where the strong prevailed over the weak and evil triumphed and flourished.
There was no goodness or kindness in this world. Jonah had told Ramson that—and eventually, the darkness had claimed even him.
Ramson begged the first person he saw, an old man in a horse cart, for shelter. That night, he curled up in the old man’s barn, unable to sleep. He pulled out the balled-up, soaked piece of paper with the name. The ink had bled into the parchment and smudged on his fingers when he tried to smooth out the wrinkles. But he whispered the name to