Page 150 of Shadows in Bloom

“During the day a two hour ride at the most,” the scout started. “At night…”

“Absolutely not,” barked his father. “We’re not taking the risk. We will make camp here tonight, then ride out tomorrow when the sun rises.”

“Perhaps—”

Valentino turned toward him, using his impressive height and impeccable outfit, a proof of his status, to his advantage. “I have hand-picked fifteen Novarians to bring you and your brother safely to Nethyr. I will not put any one of you in jeopardy.”

Astor sighed, ready to give up before the argument had even started. His father was right. It was one of the reasons the general was loved so much with his own people. He truly cared. The people he had selected for their journey were the best. Obeying slaves who were trained into grace and smoothness, and scouts, with extensive knowledge of these lands. They were professional pilgrims who spent their life on horseback, travelling between the nations of Oniarteto as mercenaries or tradesmen. They’d shielded the group flawlessly as they’d made their journey over the plains—two on each flank, two at the back and two in the front—protecting the carriages with its carefully selected belongings.

As they slowly reached the edge of the forest, his father raised a decisive hand. “We will make camp here.” Following suit, Astor whistled, making his horse, a beautiful auburn mare that he’d called Kallisto, halt with a squeeze of his knees. He guided her toward the nearest tree. Around them, their party slowly came to a stop. This would be a tough night, with everyone being visibly exhausted. If it hadn’t been for that meeting, they’d have taken the normal route, just like all fellow Novarians did. It wouldn’t just have been an easier ride, but also a shorter one. Astor raked a hand through his inky-black hair, which had turned into a mess of strands that he had tucked away in a bun. After a day’s ride, some of those strands had escaped, falling by his face and emphasizing his sharp jawline and the sensual bow in his lips. The long, straight nose and that dimpled jaw made him look every bit the aristocrat he was.

Following his father’s gesture, he too dismounted. Slaves came rushing, their tired legs visibly forgotten as they hustled about and started to make camp. Tents were set up and beds were made with fine linen they had brought back from Manerium Aureum, the name of the Prianos manor.

“Father?” Fabiano jumped off his horse and brushed his long, blond hair away from his face. His bright, hazelnut eyes had lost their wide, innocent stare over the past days, the effort of their journey visible through the radiant irises that had been dulled by fatigue. The moment his feet touched the uneven earth, a slave jumped up, ready to aid should help be needed. His little brother waved him away. “Why are we stopping here? Didn’t they just say that we’re close to Nethyr?” He shivered. Unlike his father, who carried a black suit and cape in the colours of House Novar, accompanied by the bronze helmet with white plumes that marked his rank, Fabiano was completely blanketed in white. A white suit and cape, the sides held together by the familiar, brilliant brooch. There was something angelic about him. His beauty, so pure and dramatic, was almost tragic. From the way he strode forward, using his long limbs in a gracious swagger, to the way he tilted his gaze and looked up at the sky. Ethereal.

Astor watched him taking in a deep breath as he stared into perpetuity, an all too familiar look he wore ever since that day five years ago.

His father threw the reins of his horse to Nero, who caught them effortlessly and moved the animal toward the temporary shelters they would use as stables, and gingerly approached Fabiano.

“Filius?”

Around them, the first sound of a lit fire crackled through the distance, and the other horses were being led back to the stables, including the white stallion that was Fabiano’s. The only ones remaining on their horses were the scouts, and they slowly circled the outskirts of their small camp in search for anything suspicious, a routine they’d repeat during the entire night until the calling sound of the magpies would announce a new day.

Astor trotted past a line of slaves, who stood waiting, perfectly trained to submission and presented to him in fine, transparent linen robes. He didn’t hesitate in making his choice.

“You. Get my brother something to eat,” he ordered, voice soft, words perfectly articulated.

“Yes, Dominus,” one of the slaves broke the line and scurried off.

“You.” He circled another slave and his horse snorted as he cantered around the young woman. “Make sure that my brother’s tent and evening rituals are prepared.”

“At once, Dominus.” She bowed lightly, gaze averted as she stared at the ground, before rushing off to do as she was told.

Once he assured himself that the slaves were busying themselves with their appointed tasks, he dismounted his horse. Grabbing the reins, he mumbled soft words of praise, stealing a moment to touch his nose against the mare’s brown muzzle before he patted her head. He ignored Nero, who was patiently waiting to take hold of the animal and lead her to the stables.

At the campfire, the first pieces of meat were being thrown onto the fire, creating a distinct, smoky aroma. Those who were not on duty had united around the blaze, far away from the heat, but close enough to inhale the mouthwatering scent.

Astor looked and found his usual person of interest. “Melas.” The name fell from his tongue in a clipped breeze, and as he crooked his finger, a young, male slave rushed forward, giving a slight bow that made a tumble of copper curls fall over his forehead.

“Dominus?”

“My horse needs attention, please. Once you’re finished, come to my tent. I’ll need attention as well.”

“Yes, Dominus.” Grabbing the leash, the slave darted away, bypassing Nero who’d been waiting to collect the horse with an apologetic dip of his chin. When both the boy and his horse vanished in the darkness, he finally let out a tired sigh and slowly made his way to where his father and brother were standing in the middle of the encampment by the foot of Plymraine Forest.

They were so close to Nethyr and the academy, yet so far away. He was looking forward to tomorrow, when they’d ride through the gates and be welcomed by other representatives of House Novar and many others. When they’d be welcomed by their fellow novices. Ready for another year.

Dragging his gaze at the light of his blond resemblance, his lips ticked up. “Brother.”

“Astor.” It wasn’t Fabiano who replied, but their father, Valentino, and he clasped a big hand on his son’s shoulder. As they stared at each other, something passed between them. A flitting moment filled with affection and understanding. They’d been here before in a different life, with different people. Next to them, Fabiano still stood unmoved, his eyes lifted to the stars, his mind led toward a land, forgotten and unattainable, that only he had access to.

Angelus est Albus.

The White Angel, as the Novarians called him.

Next to him, his father removed the heavy helmet from his head and swept the bead of sweat away with the back of his hand. It was the beginning of September, and hot sunny days and warm nights had left their mark on the long day they’d ridden. His face, that carried the worries and sorrow of a nation that had been marked by war, looked flushed.

“Prepare my bath,” he ordered.

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