Rather than the dining room, Mother took us to her favorite salon. Bright morning sun shone through the open windows, the plants around us green and vibrant despite the time of year. Never mind that the room was ostensibly for guests, I greatly preferred it to the cavernous dining room.

  Unfortunately, the food we were served did little to stave off my hunger for vitae. That and the lingering bruises laid the foundation for an uncomfortable atmosphere.

  To those outside my family, it would seem appalling that the lady of the house would converse with her son still dirt-covered from a sparring loss. To me, however, this was the mother I knew, who had just finished recounting the spar in exhausting detail.

  All while pointing out every single flaw and three ways to correct each. Mother the diplomat? Yes, she wore that hat. Mother the whip-cracking martial trainer?

  That was who sat across from me. Her dress was a declaration of superiority rather than a fashion statement; her long crimson hair a vow when undone.

  I stared at my hands as she spoke, looking at the familiar-unfamiliar lines of my palms, the dull nails, the thick digits. Still, the silken skin of my guise felt smooth, even as I tried reassuring myself that I was back to myself. Only to be met with the pit in my stomach deepening in a way that hunger and fear of discovery did little to distract from.

  Mother’s conversation was the best thing to focus on: it grounded me, promised actionable solutions to problems I somehow—barely—managed to care about. Lost within it, I ate food I should have loved and tried my best to enjoy the smell of out-of-season flowers and the sun that warmed my back.

  Eventually, she finished her breakdown with a grin and snatched a macaron, popping it whole into her mouth. I was just glad my guise held back the blush. Frankly, I’d been a mess in that fight; a prime example of the exact type of nimble fighter opponents of the Shimmering Shadows sect derided.

  Not that we were formally members. To do so would mean giving up one’s title, something Mother had very nearly done until she’d met Father at the sect.

  “Were you my student, I would fail you for that fight,” she said in a lilting tone. “But since you are my son, I can go a step further.”

  My stomach sank, my last hopes of a relaxing evening after a conversation with Father sailing right out the open windows, across the garden, and over the walls. “When do we begin?”

  “In the morning.”

  I choked on my tea, covering my mouth with my hand. “Really?”

  “Look at yourself.” She snagged another macaron. “You clearly need the rest.”

  There were no hairs on the back of my neck to rise up, but that didn’t stop the phantom sensation. “This isn’t like you.”

  “Correct.” She eyed another treat, but went for her tea instead, taking a moment to look out the window over the garden. “Your Father will want you in one piece tonight. While I don’t much care for the whys and hows of your achievement, he will. Though I must say it pleases me that you show refinement beyond those brutish rocks you men seem so very fond of.”

  I felt myself blush at the unexpected praise, though a pang of guilt burned in my gut. “Thank you, Mother.”

  “Should you say the same this time tomorrow, then I shall believe your sincerity. Now eat; you need it and I shouldn’t.” She took another macaron anyway.

  We finished eating and drank tea in silence, the crisp warmth of the autumn sun lifting my spirits even as the food did little for my hunger. Not that it wasn’t delicious.

  “Mother?” I broke the peace with a sudden thought. “Do you think I might convince Father to… diversify my wardrobe?”

  She smiled sadly. “You can certainly try.”

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  “How do you feel about it?” The words slipped out before I could stop them, sounding exactly like something Azalea would say.

  Mother raised an eyebrow and set her cup down. She leaned forward and studied me, and I jumped when she brushed aside my hair.

  “Mother?”

  “I feel like you look a little brighter, Slate.”

  “What?”

  She laughed, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. “Your face, child. Even covered in dirt, I can tell. Mother’s wisdom.”

  “So…”

  “How do I feel, yes? I feel like earth tones stifle you. And I do believe Schist should understand you deserve the brilliance of gemstones.”

  Warmth bloomed in my chest and a smile forced its way onto my face. Though in the back of my mind, I couldn’t help but wonder, Is this all because I achieved First Ring? Would she show this same care if I were a disappointment?

  If she noticed the dark pall over my emotions, she didn’t show it. Rather, she refilled her teacup and carried on like nothing was amiss.

  “What was your breakthrough moment, what finally pushed you to First Ring?” she asked as easily as you’d ask after the weather. “I know I said I wouldn’t ask.”

  Something deeply personal. Something I didn’t think she’d ever asked Shale. Something I doubted she even knew about Father.

  Worse, I couldn’t answer here. There wasn’t an answer, because I wasn’t truly First Ring. If demons had an equivalent, I met that threshold, but even if I knew the name I couldn’t just tell her. As she stared at me waiting for an answer I couldn’t give, I shrunk down in my seat. This wasn’t prey; I needed to run.

  “I suspect your father will ask you this.” She blinked and the world expanded again from the pinpricks of her piercing gaze. Does she know? “Whatever the answer is, be prepared to weave a narrative fitting of the Graystone heir.”

  “U-understood.”

  Her brow furrowed at my stutter. “Go rest and get cleaned up.”

  I nodded, unwilling to trust my traitorous tongue. No sooner had I stood than a maid knocked on the salon’s door. “His Grace wishes to see the young master.”

  “The young master has only just returned from a spar and is not presentable,” Mother answered.

  “My apologies, but he requested the young master’s presence immediately. It is of the utmost importance.”

  Mother’s lips twitched. “Hold still,” she whispered.

  I did as she asked, and a wave of shining scarlet sand washed over me. For a moment, I panicked as it plucked at the surface of my silken guise, but it was gone before I could so much as take a breath. When I looked down, the arena dust was gone from my training outfit, exposing all the old stains, cuts, and tears.

  Mother stood behind me, last macaron in hand. “I don’t suppose that’s much better, but now I won’t have to hear complaints that I let you track dust into our chambers. Go, and fix your hair on the way.”

  I followed the maid out of the salon, running my fingers through my hair to get it back into place. One of the conceits I’d long allowed had been a maid to brush my hair. As I grew older and decided more on independence, it had been one of the last things I’d outgrown.

  I checked my reflection in a passing mirror. My skin was smooth, my face a little more slender, bordering on gaunt. What surprised me the most was the half smile I didn’t know I had under my tired eyes. My hair had smoothed down as well, looking more effortlessly tamed than when I’d put serious effort towards it in past months.

  I was a little pale, but far from porcelain white, and for just a fraction of a second as I turned to leave, the angle was just right for my heart to skip a beat. Surprised, I froze, and the maid stopped as well, concern passing across her features.

  “I do not believe His Grace will begrudge your choice of attire, young master.”

  “What?” I turned; the reverie snapped like a tired thread and the illusion was gone. Just my face in the mirror.

  We stared at each other for an awkward second, and I straightened myself, trying to regain composure. “My apologies, I fear I am still tired from this morning. Shale requested a spar and I’ve not had quite the rest I’d like since my return yesterday.”

  “Of course, young master.” She bowed.

  I knew her name. Almost called her by it to try to lighten the atmosphere. But that would be stalling, and Father deserved better than a whiny son… heir. So I strode with my head held high to his chambers. Between study and sitting room, he’d chosen the former, which surprised me. I’d only ever been called here for matters pertaining to inheritance, or because I was to be reprimanded. Surely it was the former, based on my achievement.

  It wasn’t until I was at the door that I realized my sample of “bloodstone” from the mine had been left in my chambers. There was no time to get it, but certainly Father would take my word until I was able to fetch it. Certainly the mine was an illicit operation that had simply been too well hidden and too remote to be noticed and shut down. A wash of sudden, frigid doubt ran down my spine.

  “Young master is here,” the maid said simply as she stepped to one side.

  “Enter,” Father’s voice replied through the door.

  I took a deep breath, straightened my shoulders, and stepped inside.