Lifeless button eyes stared at the young man. He stroked the worn limbs of the poorly sewn doll, its simple dress torn at the hem. Ash smeared the white fabric.
Heavy boots echoed near.
He shoved the toy into his desk drawer before the door swung wide.
“Your father requests you, Lord Quaid.”
A tingle ran across his back, a reminder to obey. Yet the hidden doll begged him to stay. Memory won, Quaid straightening his fur cape before exiting. He traversed the halls of uncut stone, stained glass giving glimpses of the dark clouds outside.
The banquet hall seemed empty despite the full table. His eleven brothers had already begun to dig into the spread of pork, turkey, lamb, and venison, skipping the roasted vegetables and steaming mash. Father occupied the head of the table, Mother the chair opposite him. Both ate respectfully, utilizing fork and knife to consume their balanced portions.
Quaid swallowed the growing nausea. Passing the threshold, he glared at the mural on the wall. Of his father and their army overtaking villages. Horses trampling children, men bludgeoned from behind.
Whatever fascination he’d had with the imagery was now dross.
He dragged his chair from the table and sat, a step away from his father’s right hand. His churning stomach quelched his appetite.
Eldon nudged hard with his scarred bicep. Thick eyebrows rising to his hairline, he nodded to the food.
Quaid complied, filling his plate with a little of everything. The food was never flavorful, but it had never been this bland. Salty dryness scratched his tongue, steam filling his nostrils.
Yet it smelled of ash.
Stabbing a carrot seemed like piercing flesh. Smoothing mash felt like sifting through rubble. The shouts of his brothers couldn’t mask the cries. Rain seemed to beat on his neck just like it had that day.
“Quaid.”
He lifted his head.
The table silenced for Father, his wrinkled skin and weathered eyes demanding fear. “Congratulations on your pillage. The commander told me you fought valiantly and claimed twenty-three lives.”
Twenty-three. His throat clenched, knuckles whitening around the fork.
“You will accompany Eldon and Garreth on their next expedition. Perhaps you’ll slay more dross.”
Quaid straightened, clenching his fists under his seat while staring at the wall. Veins bulged in his neck, but he kept his jaw shut.
“I’ve given you opportunity to gain more favor. You should be grateful.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The silence held, every breath anticipating another outburst or beating from Father. The younger half of the table practically begged for it with their hungry eyes.
But he bobbed his head, satisfying the warlord.
The meal continued, but he didn’t eat. As soon as Father had risen, Quaid made his escape to his room. To the lonely doll in his desk. Some of the men had called it a trophy from their massacre.
He saw different. The stringy hair resembled that of the little girl who’d been holding it. Frozen in terror as they ambushed the farmers and charged through the muddy streets. She’d stared at him with the same blank eyes as the doll, knowing the end was near.
She hadn’t been a waste. Yet he didn’t protect her.
The glass vibrated, an obnoxious hum increasing in pitch. He covered his ears, trying to see through the clear panes.
A glittering mass descended on the landing pad.
Tucking the doll into her hiding place, he ran through the castle. Upon exiting the squat structure, he discovered a sleek spaceship with red and orange streaks. Ferriday only came once a cycle, and her ship resembled a box with several doors for storing various cargo. Whoever this was didn’t belong.
Soldiers came running as wind swept underneath the jets and landing gear. Brandishing swords and spears, they waited for the hangar to open.
Clicks and whirs preceded the descension of the ramp. Black boots thunked along the metal, a red leather jacket catching the light from the ship. The man had motley black hair and a firm jawline, lip perpetually crooked.
He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Take me to your leader.”
Quaid stepped up, widening his stance. “Who are you and what is your presence?”
His eyebrow rose. “Think you mean business. I represent the Raven Flame and have come to bargain for trade rights.”
“We only trade with Ferriday.”
The smirk returned. “Sad to say you won’t see her for a while.” He looked Quaid over with a deepening curiosity. “How old are you?”
“I’m the third born, meaning I have every right to tell you to leave.” One quick gesture and the soldiers stepped in unison, ready to force him back into the ship.
The representative didn’t budge, merely dropping his hands. “Who’d you lose?”
His eyes tightened.
With no response given, the man shrugged. “You seem a little young for that look in your eye.”
His brow clenched, trying to understand what this man supposedly saw. That’s when he noticed the flickering spark, a desire to hope despite drowning in mourning.
“Stay your blades.” Father’s command settled the troops, his presence towering over nearly everyone. “What business do you wish to conduct?”
The man adjusted his jacket, following his father into the castle. The soldiers returned to their work, hoping to finish before the rain poured.
Quaid took a spear and entered the ship. It wreaked of gasoline and dross, the cargo hold littered with empty cages and spare parts. The panels hadn’t been cleaned in ages, his boots clinging to the floor.
His eye caught one thing that felt familiar, a leatherbound book with a simple tie. Retrieving the small novel, he hoped to discover what this man’s intentions were.
A drawing met him on the inside cover. The woman appeared simple yet beautiful as she held a newborn babe. It lacked detail, but the image reminded him of the small portraits he’d torn off the villagers’ walls. If the concept were tradition across the galaxy, this would be the man’s wife.
“Snooping ain’t very nice.”
Quaid turned the spear on the man.
He grabbed it in the crook of his hand, shoving it away. “I’ll take that back.”
“Your family?”
The man snatched the book, not glancing at the woman. “Was.”
“What happened?”
“Pirates.”
Quaid’s brow tightened. “But you are a brigadier.”
He scoffed, stepping around the young man. “Your vocab is something else. Yeah, I’m a pirate, but it’s a means to an end.”
“What end requires piracy?”
He leaned in with a hushed tone. “Righting wrongs. Like whoever died and got under your skin.”
Quaid held his ground, holding his stare.
The man needed no provocation, speaking freely as he circled like a buzzard. “Based on my conversation with your pops, I’d bet the story isn’t so simple. Not to mention all you on Xandele find death enjoyable. But perhaps one, being you, can’t stomach the needless death.”
His brow clenched.
The man smirked, wagging his finger by his nose. “That look says it all. But don’t worry, I can get you away from all this nasty death.”
Quaid glanced from the corner of his eye. “Not for free.”
“He speaks,” the representative exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air mockingly. “I don’t ask much, though I do require something.” He stopped walking, face drawn in a sudden seriousness. “You work for me.”
“Slavery.”
His head bobbed back and forth. “More like a lieutenant. I expect loyalty and backtalk, you get off this world and decent pay.”
Eyes hooded from the artificial light, he tried to read the secret motives. But he found none. “My father would be cross.”
The man shrugged. “He didn’t accept my terms, so I don’t plan on coming back. Either you get off my ship or stay onboard. Choice is yours.”
The world he knew lay out before him. Clouded grays over rivers of blood. He could feel the doll in his grasp, reminding him of what would be his near future. What would be his life as a Lord of the Bellenthall family.
Squaring his shoulders, he folded his hands behind his back. “I’m at your service, sir.”
Wrinkles creased around his lips. “Leave it at Jax, and we’ll be square.”