CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 5

Lord Everstone stood at the head of the grand dining table, his palms flat against the polished wood, knuckles white with rage.

"What do you mean, he has powers?" he snarled, his voice low but deadly.

Across from him, a cloaked figure stood calmly, the firelight casting deep shadows over his face. His voice was steady, almost eerily calm.

"Elias is not what he appears to be. His blood is old. Powerful. He carries within him magic that predates even your House."

A crack of lightning split the sky outside, illuminating Lady Everstone where she sat, pale and rigid, her hands trembling slightly in her lap.

Lord Everstone’s glare was murderous. He turned on Tristan, who stood by the door, eyes wide and face pale.

"You worthless, spineless brat!" Lord Everstone roared.

Before Tristan could react, Lord Everstone’s hand whipped across his face with a brutal crack. Tristan stumbled backward, one hand flying to his burning cheek.

"Father…" he croaked, but the word died in his throat under his father’s glare.

"You let him go!" Lord Everstone shouted, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. "You humiliated this family, let a creature of unknown power slip through our fingers because you couldn't control your urges!"

Tristan lowered his head, lips trembling, but said nothing. Speaking now would only make it worse.

The cloaked figure stepped forward. His voice cut through the rage like a knife.

"Had he stayed," he said softly, "he would have been yours to mold. But now… now he is beyond your walls. His magic, if awakened, will be a force you cannot contain."

Lady Everstone rose shakily from her chair, her voice brittle. "We must find him. Before it's too late."

"Too late?" Lord Everstone sneered. He turned to her, fury radiating from every inch of his body. "The boy has been wandering the wilds. Gods know who he's fallen into the hands of!"

The cloaked figure’s mouth curled into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"He is not alone," he said ominously. "The fates have moved. Another has already found him."

Silence fell.

For a moment, only the storm spoke, battering the ancient walls.

Lord Everstone’s jaw clenched so hard the muscles popped. He spun back toward Tristan, who flinched instinctively.

"You disgrace," Lord Everstone hissed. "You brought shame to our name and you’ve doomed us all with your weakness."

Tristan bit the inside of his cheek, hard enough to taste blood, but kept his head bowed. Deep inside him, buried beneath the fear, a spark of hatred flickered to life.

"He's just a mere servant." Tristan thought.

"A servant that has powers, fool." The cloaked figure hissed.

The cloaked figure’s voice rose again, deeper now, almost chanting.

"The boy’s blood sings to the old magic. If he bonds to another—if he trusts another—his loyalty will never return to you. You will lose him forever."

Lady Everstone’s voice shook. "Then we must act. We must act now."

Lord Everstone nodded once, sharply. He turned to the assembled guards standing by the door.

"Gather every man," he barked. "Every tracker, every scout. Spread out across the forests, the mountains, the villages. Tear down every den of rogues if you must."

He stepped closer to the guards, voice dropping into a lethal growl.

"Find him. Find him."

He paused, then added, deadly soft:

"Bring him back alive. Or don't bother coming back at all."

The guards bowed quickly and scattered, boots thundering against the marble floor.

The storm outside raged harder, as if the heavens themselves rebelled at what had been set into motion.

Lady Everstone crossed to her husband, voice low and frantic.

"If we bring him back… what then?" she whispered. "Will we chain him? Break him?"

Lord Everstone sneered.

"We will do what we must."

His hand closed around the back of a heavy chair and, in one savage motion, he threw it across the room. It shattered against the wall, splinters flying.

"He belongs to us," he snarled.

Tristan remained by the door, a silent, shaking figure, hatred and humiliation burning a hole through his heart.

He watched as his father and mother plotted the capture of the boy he had once touched, once kissed—the boy he had betrayed.

The cloaked figure turned slightly, as if sensing Tristan’s thoughts.

"You had your chance," the figure murmured, almost pityingly. "Now the boy's heart… will never be yours."

“Find Him.”