Cerid was looking forward to escaping from his home with Dorothea and Shark, but it wasn’t to be so. They had just passed his father’s office when Cinder called out as if he had been waiting.

“Cerid,” he said in the amiable, steady voice he used for diplomatic situations, which was most of the time, “mind chatting with me for a few minutes?”

It wasn’t a request. His father was like Commander Nobelis in that way, Cerid figured. Maybe that was why it felt so natural to be submissive to her. “Of course, Father.” He nodded to his companions. “Please excuse me.”

“I won’t keep him long,” Cinder assured as he placed a hand on Cerid’s shoulder to usher him into his office.

Cerid saw Shark and Dorothea share one of those glances they constantly did, always filled with meaning and managing full conversation in the span of a second. Maybe he’d be able to do that someday.

Cinder kept his space neat and rather sterile, but one could still see traces of who the man was. A paperweight with a shasta daisy encased within it revealed his pride for his family. Not one room in the house didn’t have a nod to the family crest within it. The books organized by both height, width and subject matter displayed his taste for order. That there were no seats other than for himself revealed that he expected to work in solitude, unquestioned. His empty wastebasket paired with the dozens of elegantly scripted documents on his desk showed that he wasn’t a man to make mistakes.

Cerid found it hard to speak in his father’s presence; it had been this way since he was a child. He gulped and cleared his throat, then asked, “What may I do for you, Father?”

“I wanted to remind you of my expectations. This isn’t to insult your intelligence, as I know that you’re a smart young man. But Cerid, I won’t be the family head forever. It’s high time for you to get a few of your affairs in order now that you’ve matured.” He offered a kind, indulgent smile. “Do you understand? You’ve been putting off the matter of courtship for too long.”

Give nothing away. Remain innocent and ignorant. Fighting for this mask, Cerid replied, “I understand, Father. And I agree that I need to be more proactive. I shall be attending the upcoming Zeal’s Web festivities with Miss Dorothea.” Was his guilt showing? The more he tried to be placid, the more certain he became that his expression was twisted to reveal the truth somehow.

Cinder leaned back in his chair and let out a surprised laugh. “My, my! How proactive indeed.” Calculations bursted alight in his eyes. “She would be an optimal mate.”

“I knew that it would please you.” Cerid felt despicable for using Dorothea in such a way, not that she hadn’t seemed fine with the idea, and it was only a temporary solution to get his father off his scent, but it was something. He couldn’t seem to find the words to convince anyone, much less those with the most power over him, that the way his heart was swayed was not wrong. Until just recently, he hadn’t even been able to convince himself.

“And I had arranged a date ahead of time, too. I’ll have to cancel. She shouldn’t be too offended… Tell me, Cerid, do you feel that Miss Atlin is a suitable prospect for marriage?”

“She…would be.” Rotten. The feel of these words. The nature of this talk. “But we are not near that point.”

His father spoke as if he wasn’t truly listening. “Her appearance leaves something to be desired, of course. But so long as she’s capable of bearing children and you aren’t too repulsed, it should be just fine.”

Cerid swallowed anger on Dorothea’s behalf. “Father, Miss Dorothea has a weak constitution. It would be unwise to expect her to bear as many children as either of your spouses have borne you.”

“A complication, certainly, but I would still call your pairing ideal. The head of the Creed line alongside the bearer of Juncture, who helped bring Sacer to peace by acting as the final nail in the coffin alongside Commander Nobelis’ plans, so to speak. Miss Nobelis wouldn’t be a terrible choice either, on that note. I’m sure she would leap at the opportunity to use your standing to raise her own.”

“Her plans?” Cerid hadn’t heard anything of the sort from the commander. He had no clue what their next tactic would be.

“I assume she has one. Knowing her, she’s just waiting for the right moment to present it to the council.” Cinder folded his hands. “Let me be clear, Cerid. You’ve lost the opportunity to be idle. Find your mate.”

Mate. As if they were nothing but animals put together to breed. Well, that was the truth, wasn’t it? “Father, do you…” He swallowed hard again. “Love? Any of your wives.”

“Of course I do. They’re all equally dear to me. Cerid, I know how daunting it is to rush these matters, but love grows. I have never known a man or woman of the Creed family who did not come to hold affection for their partners.”

“That does not bother me.” Cerid couldn’t ask about what really perturbed him without giving himself away. There had to have been others like him, though. He couldn’t imagine himself as the only Creed whose desires conflicted with his duty to procreate. So those in the past had simply bowed down and denied themselves forever? Conducted illicit affairs while maintaining a charade? Cerid couldn’t do either. His soul would die under the weight of it.

“What is it, then?”

“What person… What woman would want to bear my company, Father? And will I be able to conduct myself properly to fulfill my duties?” All of Sacer would be on his shoulders. Yes, the council had a say, but that was all a farce. The other representatives were so eager to follow Cinder’s lead that it was laughable. His questions tied in to the concern and mystery that had plagued him from the start. “Why me? Why did you choose me?”

“Because you are kind,” Cinder stated without missing a beat.

“Eh?” Cerid gaped, dumb. Was that all? “That seems to be an awfully low standard. Anyone can be kind.”

Cinder chuckled. “I’ll give you an example to make it clear.” He skimmed a finger through the air in a diagonal line from his left shoulder downwards towards his right hip, mimicking the long trail of a scar Cerid bore. “That.”

“Oh.” Cerid put a hand to his chest, shocked. Now he realized what Cinder was referring to. In his mind, the incident was rather banal.

The Creed soldiers attended training with the rest of the general recruits but also conducted sessions within the home through the use of wooden swords. However useful Thaw was, it was not a combative magic. Cerid saw the sword as more of an unnecessary reassurance. Commander Nobelis’ Pyre, Captain Tamlin’s Shower and Ariana’s Sprout made him feel quite secure.

The day in question had been when Cerid was sixteen years of age, just two years prior. He and his elder brother Chetwin were facing off with real steel for the first time. Minor bloodshed was expected, but cuts and scrapes were all that other siblings had suffered in previous bouts. It would be foolish to expect to go into battle having never tested what the true bite of a blade was, and so, once a week, the Creeds took a day to clash against each other. They were told to pretend that the other was a Ghurian and aim for a killing blow but stop short. Things generally went well, and there was little spite between the winners and losers. Most of the time. What happened to Cerid in the only near fatal result of this practice was completely unexpected and entirely his own fault.

To avoid slicing perfectly good clothes in the course of their training, Cerid and his eldest brother Chetwin, who was predicted to be the next head, were both shirtless. That made the small cuts they’d given one another evident as rivulets of blood ran down their skin. Most of the family was watching. As the runt of the litter, Cerid was accustomed to most of the children rooting for his opponent by default. hetwin’s wife, toting their child Calla, was also in attendance, and that was what sealed the matter.

Cerid would never boast this to anyone’s face, but he was stronger than he looked. All of his weakness stemmed from hesitation and self-doubt. In truth, he pored over diagrams of swordplay techniques in his spare time, practiced strokes with a wooden sword he’d snuck into his room years ago, forced memory of dodges and sweeps into his muscles. He felt certain, not smugly or happily so, that Chetwin would lose. Watching Ariana as a fellow user of blades had also taught Cerid more than training with his family ever could. In his pocket, he carried her swift brutality and embodied it as he stood facing his brother.

A yell from Cinder began the next round. Cerid heard none of the screams or cheers from the bystanders. In a flash, he closed the distance between himself and his brother with his sword raised for an overhead strike. Chetwin lifted his own blade to parry, falling neatly into Cerid’s trap. Instead of swinging downwards, Cerid landed a sharp kick to his opponent’s midsection. In a real life or death struggle, he would have followed up with a lethal blow while Chetwin staggered, but here he backed away and let him recover. It wouldn’t do to humiliate him with such a clean defeat, what with his daughter watching with such wide eyes that sparkled with love and pride.

Teeth gritted, Chetwin flew in for an overhead strike of his own. When Cerid parried without much effort, he drew back to repeat the same strike. His eyes were trained on Cerid’s head, but Cerid knew that that wouldn’t be where he actually aimed. One of Chetwin’s hands had already loosened some on the hilt of his sword, revealing that he was in fact going to attack with one hand and aim for Cerid’s leg next. Cerid waited, letting Chetwin think he was fooled, but jumped back to avoid the strike at his right leg at the last second. Chetwin straightened, eyes widening when he saw Cerid closing in, blade aimed for his heart. He would stop its momentum just short of breaking skin. Chetwin reacted, swinging his blade above his head and bringing it down with heavy force, but it was too late. Cinder was already raising his hands to call the match.

“Daddy!” A scream cut into Cerid’s senses, stopping him in his tracks. Calla. She didn’t understand that Cerid was going to stop, or her fear removed logic. In the worst possible instant, Cerid understood her fear and reacted to it. He stood up straight and lifted his arms in surrender, dropping his sword with a clatter.