Page 154 of Shadows in Bloom

“Father.” Astor joined him ahead of their travelling party, jutted his chin toward the trail ahead of them. “Shall we continue? That way we’ll get there in time for the games.” He murmured the words for only the two of them to hear. Nobody had to know how his father had been lead by fear and memories, instead of common sense.

They did, finishing what was left of their journey with the unhurried pace of a travelling party who came home from a day at the market.

Astor forced himself to listen to the sounds, the peaceful tones of the surrounding nature with its spectacular view. Both mountains were high and steep as they reached for the sky, and he couldn’t help but feel small on the path in the heart of where the rocky, cascading slopes met.

This is where they had been trapped. The memory made his heart stutter.

The sound of the bells of Ravenna, the city that used to mark the end of Novar and their current destination, had rung in desperation.

This is where they’d been waiting.

This is where…

A firm squeeze on his shoulder brought him out of his revelry with a jolt. “Welcome to Nethyr, son,” said his father. Astor blinked and caught that same reflection in his father’s gaze. It was that similar blue pool of remembrance of all that was lost. Of all that would never return.

Of her.

Ahead of them, their vision filled with sand—a flat, endless vision that smoothed into the shape of a town with its subtle and unmistakable slopes of city walls, of houses that were built behind stone.

Nethyr.

And just like that, the forest disappeared from view, just like the mountains had never existed to begin with, as if there was no Great Pass, no memory of slaughter and death, no memory of heartbreak.

Around them there was nothing of such sort anymore, instead there was sand and dust that blew up with every step of the horses, for as far as their eyes could see. And the walls of Nethyr, the diplomatic state—that was meant to be protected, to be kept, to represent the restoration of three united countries.

And one barbaric nation.

And one traitor.

Astor felt the straining muscles from his horse against the insides of his thighs, his need to run and shake off the earlier sensation of entrapment and embrace the space, the void surrounding them. To shake off the past and ride toward freedom.

“Nearly, my girl, nearly.” He caressed the Kallisto’s head as she turned her muzzle and rubbed against Astor’s palm in affection as they waited for his father to give the order.

Fabiano caught up with him, his mare softly whinnying as she too, wanted to gallop. His younger brother’s eyes were on the land in front of them, on the soldiers who stood fiercely on top of the walls, their bodies entirely wrapped in iron, helmets on their heads, a spear in one hand and a shield in the other. From this far they looked like miniature characters from the war boards his father used during the war and where they had practised positions of the casus belli that had led to their final victory.

They were the only ones who arrived at the city’s Southern Gate.

Lifting the gold and blood-red banner as they approached the fort on galloping horses, their scouts took the lead and approached ahead, validating their arrival and protecting the noble family they were transporting. Astor wanted to go too, a sudden rush of nerves and excitement coiling in his stomach like an unfolding snake in a basket. But his father held up his arm, giving the sign to pause as he waited for the scouts to return from the walls—as if he expected the barbarians to return any minute the way they had done back then, in faintly brown uniforms and equally brown masks that had covered their faces and made them look every single bit the brutes they were. But his father hadn’t allowed them yet, and so they waited.They stared at the sandy clouds the horses left in their race for Nethyr.

Astor remembered how they’d made their way here last year from the Eastern Gate for their first school year at the newly founded Academiae Scientia, a college for the nobles of the five allied countries. A promise to keep the peace and divide the most honourable positions, such as managing trade and commerce, managing slaves, politics, healthcare, education and warfare. It was a promise to mankind to do better, and only graduates from the Academy would be taken into consideration for such positions.

Despite the 13 months difference between Astor and Fabiano, they were in the same school year. Perhaps it was a token of the relentless faith their father had in his brother’s intellect. More likely he meant to keep Fabiano close to Astor for protection.

The people spoke of the excellent reputation of the Academy, and world-wide it was renowned as being one of the best educational institutes. But novitiates knew what it was really like to be in the lion’s den—to face competition not only with your own people, for the selection procedure was tough, but mostly, with yourself. It was a challenge to keep your sanity in there. Between those walls, novitiates were cruel.

Carefully separated and segmented in school uniforms that matched the house they represented, each nation had claimed their own wing for sleeping. However, classes were shared together—though novitiates would usually be cluttered together by colour—just like the canteen and sports facilities. And that wasn’t all, for the secret invitations that would be sent back and forth when personnel thought their novitiates asleep, gave access to a far more dangerous communal area.

“Look! Ravenna has opened its gates!” Someone called out, the words followed by the upcoming drum rolls that played their familiar, Novarian melody indicating their welcome inside the city.

Valentino threw his arm forward as if making an arrow and aiming straight for the castle. “To the castle!” He shouted, and everyone moved forward in a flurry of galloping horses. Finally. They’d arrived in Ravenna, once territory of House Novar, transformed into Nethyr. Right in time.

Fabiano came up next to Astor. Their eyes met, his twinkling with mischief. “What was he thinking? That our own people wouldn’t let us in?”

That’s exactly what he was thinking, Astor wanted to retort, because part of his father’s mind was still there, stuck in the war, when she died. But then again, so was his brother’s mind. Still, he was weak to Fabiano’s crooked smile, to the hint of his brother’s younger self and whom he had loved so dearly.

“Last one bathes in the pont!” Fabiano called out, the exact words they’d used to torment each other with as teenagers. Clacking his tongue to spurt on his horse, his younger brother flashed him a dazzling smile before taking off in a rush.

“You—” Astor let out, staring at Fabiano’s retreating back. Then he laughed and called out to his Callisto, who let out a whinny of excitement before taking off with new speed when Astor pressed his heels against her belly. And they rode, inhaling hot air that radiated freedom and elation and a hunkering to be back, to be united with their fellow Novarians whom they’d last seen before the summer break. He couldn’t wait to be back in their wing for late nights and early mornings, for game nights and illegal fights. For evenings filled with thoughts on how to crush those barbarians who had dared to trespass their land and force them into a peace treaty they never wanted in the first place.

---