“Are you a loyal man?” The voice that raised that horrid query echoed through the halls, the shimmering veins of gold webbed through the marble columns accentuating the authority through which that voice tremored.


    The mage that bowed before the Golden Throne kept his forehead adhered to the ground. To falter now would be  to betray all the expectations of those that laid the path to this place. He could either speak truth to power or suffer his art a shadow of an existence.


    The iron that salt his step brayed for his truth.


    But the gold upon the throne demanded his lie.


    His lips parted, and he said his piece.


    —-


    It was not easy, finding a way to cast a man into damnation. Even if this were the illusion he still hypothesized, the boy could not help but ponder upon the morality of his decision. On the one hand- his life had already been lived. His mistakes were still his own. But on the other, he… could not simply let go.


    Perhaps it was the sight of a Princess still… whole? Was that the word? She still smiled, poked and prodded like the girl he had known, but she was not afraid of her true self- her eyes would still dart, her observations would still cut to the bone, and she was unafraid to show him the gold that lurked beneath her dark lashes. Who was this? This was not the girl he remembered, and yet she was not the Empress he had last seen.


    Was his vain curiosity enough justification to cast a cloud upon someone else’s destiny?


    Then again…


    If this were indeed a relapse, a revisitation of his past, a complete circle rather than an inexorable path into the future, then he could, potentially, prevent a future betrayal. There was many such potential avenues. There was a maid who stole his mother’s garments… but considering his mother, there was an equal chance she had donated her worn silks to an all too eager young lady. Hardly worth casting a light upon. There was the chef.. .no, never. The man worked tirelessly to perfect his craft. What was the boy if not respectful of a man devoted to his craft?


    No, he needed to establish several things. Motive, Opportunity, and a quote that would fit their lips. He racked his brain, and consulting the annals of history that had been granted to him either in divine jest or miraculous fortune. There was only one person he could think of who would dare to betray his father so openly and profanely, with access to the right information and the opportunity to inform him of this unholy truth.


    Yes, there was him.


    —--


    Ballidor Spinnaker was a loyal man. He knew this from the very base of his character. What was he if not a man of the Verduryne manor? Each morning he woke with nothing but thanks for the life he was allowed to live, serving a great house of the West. To look upon plains of golden wheat and now that, beneath his stewardship, three generations of the Verduryne family would bloom.


    And yet, there was a… bothersome twist. A secret that weighed heavy upon his soul.


    At first, he could have dismissed it as a dalliance, a passing interest in a smart young lass by a budding lord. But then he could see it in the man’s eyes… Thouslyn’s gaze grew softer, possessive. He had to put an end to it, and so Ballidor had betrayed the intentions of his lord… and allowed his distraction to slip away into the night.


    A necessary evil, he had assumed.


    And yet, nearly two decades later, the vixen had returned, a child in her hands. At first, Ballidor had feared the worst- that his lord had somehow slunk behind his back and coupled with her, betraying his home and wife. Thankfully, it took but a passing glance over the girl to figure out she was no product of the Verduryne line.


    His relief was short lived.


    Within the span of a conversation, she was invited in, offered a home and service.


    It all spun too fast for the man, his age betraying him when it mattered most. The lady of the house was unresponsive to his appeals, her children… well, Thalor, bless his kindly heart, viewed it as a mercy to an ailing mother. As the eldest, he was the most compassionate… but he too understood that the woman’s skill was a testament to her potential. He was right of course- when that idiot boy Touslaine tempted fate.


    Ballidor had seen it. The bloodied, the mottled form. He believed he had witnessed a corpse. Instead, the boy still lived. The Goddess had deemed him worthy of surviving, as his eldest brother put it, and placed an angel the house of Verduryne to ensure his life was secured. The woman was a consummate professional about it as well- quickly demanding a sequestered annex, a proper quarantine to ensure that his healing was untainted by impurities. Best of all, it separated him from the loose lips of some of the house’s worst gossips. If word got out that the youngest son of the Verduryne family had all but roasted himself in the pursuit of power he never had a right too, well, it would have led to a dark cloud clinging to all the house.


    Stolen story; please report.


    No, perhaps even more fortunate, was  the fact that Theron was not allowed to interact with his younger brother.


    The nightmare of those two meeting was averted for now- despite his age, Theron could be rather… classless with his younger brother. Only two years separated them, but they still bickered and fought, challenged and butted heads. There was a healthy degree of competition one could expect from proper brotherhood… but to call one’s own kin a “boiled rat” was a stretch too far, even for Ballidor’s taste. Hardly fitting for a proper Mage, much less a nobleman.


    Though, at the end of the day, Theron was a lad himself.


    Ballidor did his best to serve, he truly did, but it was difficult to ignore the quality between the sons of Thouslyn and his married wife Igret. They were blessed with three sons, two of which he dared call “gifted.” The difference lay in how much support they could provide. Thalor could be provided for with ease- the Verduryne household was built upon a foundation of agriculture, but simple folk still needed knights. A full retinue served the lord and lady of the house- Thalor was never replete for attention in that regard. But Theron’s talents lay in magic- a far more expensive and dangerous education lay in wait for him, requiring the presence of a Master to guide his training.


    The consequences for not adhering to the teachings of a proper master… well, Touslaine was living proof of their value. Till now, the lad had never shown a particular talent for anything in particular, save for causing an undue amount of headaches for his brothers and help. A part of him lamented the fact the boy inherited the name he held so dear, yet Ballidor could settle on two sterling sons of the lineage.


    But the attempt on his life shifted the calculation. Whatever the boy’s faults, he did not deserve a death like this. HIs prejudices aside, Ballidor did his best to serve the household with all the due diligence it deserved.


    So to receive a summons from the boy should have roused within him a great deal of fulfillment. Instead, he could not help but feel the odious pricklings of the seconds he wasted in his day meeting the boy. The quarantine was being lifted, slowly, piece by piece, but Ballidor was amongst the first allowed to visit upon the young man.


    As he approached the door, the Butler’s knuckle raised gently and tapped upon the port.


    “Enter as you wish,” came the curt reply. Both polite and snarled, appropriate for a young man on the mend. As he entered, Ballidor’s nose wrinkled from the smell. There was a sting of alcohol in the air, mixed with the underlying… decay it hid. The boy, mercifully, sat himself by the open window, allowing for a flow of fresh air. He was remarkably well put together, for a lad skinned raw by the ethereal force of mana. Touslaine’s rust-tinted hair, though thin, was beginning to inch anew atop his head, eyes sharp and clear. HIs skin was starting to form a pale endolayer, as one would expect from a burn victim. HIs clothes were light, airy, made of softer fiber.


    “Ballidor,” the lad set his book aside. “Come, sit.”


    Ballidor would not deny the lad this request. He was firm, deliberate in his approach, doing all he could to ensure the two were separated by at least three feet- as per the healer’s instructions.


    “You take her word quite seriously.”


    Ballidor paused in his seating. His own gaze lifted up to hold upon Touslaine. The boy gazed back, unmoving, undaunted by the older man’s furrowed brow.


    “She is your healer, after all,” the man finally rested across the boy, his back arching straight. “And your father’s guest.” There was something… unfamiliar about the boy. Ballidor would never pretend he had a great deal of familiarity with the lad before him, but he certainly would not have expected him to be so… sharp.


    A moment passed. The wind provided a steady flow, but his eyes did not move.


    Finally, his chest swelled. His lips parted.


    “Ballidor, have you been providing my mother with Allomium Tea?”


    Ballidor blinked. Allomium? Yes, the madame had begun drinking it with Theron’s mentor. It was an… expensive import, quite rare this far west of the Tower, but the mentor swore by it. But Touslaine’s query carried with it a bite. A spiteful riposte that carried with it an allegation.


    “I… yes, I have,” his answer was stymied, uncertainty creeping in. How had the boy even known? He flipped to a page in his book. The healer had mentioned it- a collated collection of records from annual summits of Andavar, published as periodicals. They had been collected in the dustborn halls of the secondary manor, forgotten till the boy’s curiosity compelled his maid to properly clean the library properly.


    “Paragraph two,” the boy said, laying the book on the table between them, before backing away.


    Ballidor’s hands reached out for it, sliding the book towards him till his ailing eyes could start to make out the terms and words. His eyes danced from left to right, as an awning pit formed in his stomach, each word stabbing at his guilt as he sunk deeper into the paragraph that unraveled before his eyes.


    “But… Ser Karigios…”


    “This was an entry from nearly two hundred years ago, Ballidor,” the young man said. “Later speeches gloss over it, circumnavigate it, but none attempt to refute it.”


    “But if this is true, should it not be…?”


    “Ballidor, if a truth were inconvenient  would you still swear to it? Or would you choose to ignore it? Take a comforting lie over a discomforting fact?”


    “... Touslaine, what is this about?”


    “I’m doing you a favor Ballidor. Informing you now before it becomes a problem. But in turn I need one from you.”


    “A… favor?” Ballidor’s eyes widened, the room before him widening, walls shifting as the boy’s words began to dig into his soul, his eyes gleaming with a certain… ferocity. Anger? Rage? No, his eyes were cast too coldly, his lips too drawn.


    “If my mother experiences anything akin to what you’ve read, what would happen to this family? What would become of you?” the boy’s questions preyed upon a deep-set fear, one Ballidor rarely entertained. The lord and lady… he once took pride in knowing his role in ensuring their union. But as the years passed, the resentment in his Lord’s eyes continued unabated, and the Lady grew more… withdrawn.


    And then there was Magdelyn. Her and the mysteries that followed her.


    “Tell her,” the words cut through the haze that possessed Ballidor’s mind.


    “What?”


    “Tell Lady Magdelyn. Take the book, show it to her, tell her everything.”


    Ballidor felt that pit… it was gnawing at him, drawing his attention down, threatening to drown him as he considered the boy’s words. “But… the Lady’s… she’s could be… no…” he verbalized, his tongue moving, shifting inflecting upon syllables as he felt his mind whirl.


    “If you do not, I will. But whose words would go further?” the boy’s voice slithered through his ears, as if taunting him. “Do this, and you will owe her a great deal,” he continued. “And in doing so, she will cease to be your  enemy.”


    Ballidor felt something was off with the boy’s words. He knew something was wrong. Yet his focus was centered upon the betrayal that unraveled itself before him.


    “And what about Sir Karigios?” the man asked.


    The boy stiffened at the mention of the mage. Before he settled his eyes down upon the book.