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The throng of boys clustered together in the Baron throne room. All of them were covered in the kicked up dust of the training field, many of them had cuts, scrapes, and bruises. Two, the king’s adopted sons, had set themselves apart from the rest. They had taken the brunt of the damage; Kain’s mouth and nose were bloodied, as was the ragged cut on Cecil’s forehead. The bruise beneath it, along with every other, stood out prominently on his pale skin.
Farrell’s daughter lingered by their side. The hems of her skirts had trailed in the dust, but she was none the worse for wear; she had not been in the fight, merely witness to it. Still, her allegiances were clear.
The King of Baron sighed.
“Who started the fight?” he asked, this time with the emphasis that he would not be asking a third time.
The tallest boy of the throng eyed the king’s sons. Kain eyed him right back, before bowing his head again; he bit his lip, and swallowed. Cecil had turned inward, present but not.
All at once, all three of them spoke.
“They started it.”
“I did.”
“I did,” Cecil said softly.
The king’s eyebrows raised, and he stared at his heir presumptive. “You, Cecil?”
“I...”
“I threw the first punch,” Kain insisted.
The king eyed him, then each of the others. Finally, he asked, “Why?”
Kain’s gaze was fixed on the carpet beneath his hand. Cecil was staring at him. “Because, I-...”
“How did you start the fight, Cecil?”
Cecil bowed his head, “Because I’m...”
“Because you’re...?”
“He’s bad luck,” the knight’s son snapped, and Cecil flinched. “And he can’t be trusted. He’s elf-blooded. Everyone knows he’s elf-blooded. He doesn’t belong here, he’ll bring ruin upon our army and our kingdom.”
“Everyone knows?” the king wondered aloud. “Kain?”
“Yes, sire?”
“Did you know Cecil was elf-blooded?”
“No, sire.”
“Cecil?” The king’s voice was soft.
Cecil had drawn himself smaller. Young as he was, his hair had always been a stark white; and his skin was a cool alabaster, the color of the pale moon, no matter how long he spent beneath the sun. If nothing else, knew he was different. The king prodded him, gently, “Did you know?”
The boy shook his head. The barest of movements. “No.”
The king eyed each of the three in turn.
“I know why the fight started. I know who threw the first punch. Does anyone present wish to tell me who threw the first rock?”
The bravado of the knight’s son wavered, and his followers shrunk back from him. The king eyed him quietly.
“I will have words with your father,” he said. He flicked his fingers. “You may leave us now.”
The boys fidgeted and glanced among themselves, then bowed their heads. They began to file out, escorted by the guard. The king waited until they were gone, leaving just the three children within his throne room.
His attention fell upon Kain.
“It is a noble man who seeks to protect his friend,” the king said. “You may leave us now. And you,” his gaze turned to Rosa, “were never summoned.”
Kain bowed deeply against the floor before finding his feet again. Rosa bowed demurely, and took Kain’s hand when he offered it over Cecil’s head to help her stand. They left together, though Kain lingered at the door before the girl dragged him out.
Leaving Cecil before the king, and the two of them alone.
“Cecil. Come here.”
Bowing his head, Cecil rose to obey. Even as he stood before the throne, his eyes were on his shoes.
“Give me your hands.”
The king’s fingers were scarred, nicked, and calloused from years of holding a sword. Cecil’s, in comparison, were still new. The boy raised his eyes, hesitantly, to meet the those of the only father he had ever known.
“Our parents give us life, but they do not define us. Only by our actions do we know ours true selves.” The King of Baron smiled. “Heed your friends; those who would know you. The words of strangers are less than nothing.”
Letting go of the boy’s hands, the king rose from his seat. His fingers brushed the gash in Cecil’s forehead, and with a spark of white magic it began to close.
“You may leave now.”