Page 53 of Blinding Light

“I have, Father.”

Milanov finally broke his stare, and another dazzling smile flashed on his face as he gestured toward the large mansionbehind him. “Come in, come in.” He said more, the words spoken in a language Cyprian didn’t understand but that made Moargan bark out a laugh.

They entered a large, high-ceilinged corridor. Polished tiles and painted walls greeted him. It seemed that the Imperial took the colours of the Luminary to heart because everything around them was a mixture of gold and black, combined with wood and glass.

“The others are already waiting in my office.” Milanov turned over his shoulder and flashed Cyprian a smile that made him tremble. “They’ve been waiting for you.”

The Imperial’s office was large, spacious, and decorated in those same colours. Cyprian recognized the desk with its flag behind it. Both seen in the video the Imperial had used for his public statement.

For the claiming by his son.

Cyprian cleared his throat. Despite the strong arm Moargan had wrapped around him, his stomach tightened with nerves. Servants offered them drinks and red cinder cigarettes as they were guided to the sitting area.

Yure and Aviel were there, as well as Moargan’s brother. Helianth smiled when he recognized Cyprian—a smile that showed off his jeweled incisors.

A guy in a black cloak introduced himself as Kylix, Moargan’s cousin. And then there was an older man who stood next to Vandor.

“I am Zimeon,” he said, holding out his hand. “And you are Cyprian.” His inquisitive stare felt intrusive, and Cyprian felt himself shy away.

By the time they finally sat down on the leather couch, Cyprian was ready to go home. He felt on edge, unsure of what was to come. The room was filled with too much power, and there were too many eyes on him, too many unspoken questions that lingered in the opium air.

“So here is the reason why we couldn’t get a hold of Moargan over the past days,” Milanov joked. The room erupted in laughter.

“Busted,” Moargan drawled. “This is Cyprian.”

“He’s…remarkable,” Zimeon breathed.

“That he is,” Milanov agreed. Though he gave Cyprian a warm smile, there was something unnerving about the way he held his gaze and truly watched his eyes.

More words were spoken in that foreign tongue, and Cyprian shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“So—” The Imperial flicked away his cigarette in the ashtray, rolling his glass in his palm. “What brings you to Helion, Cyprian?”

Cyprian fisted his hand, willing himself to stay calm with all the attention on him. “I came here to find my biological family and to study.”

“Hmm.” Milanov’s gaze darted to Zimeon, then back to Cyprian. “And what do you study?”

“Art. I’m a junior, sir.”

“Ahh, an artist. You’re a brave man.” He nodded into the glass and took a swig. The room had turned silent, void of the earlier amusement.

Cyprian swallowed. Is this where the Imperial was sending him back to Tulniri?

“What do you see yourself doing with an art degree?” Milanov asked instead.

Scrubbing the kitchen floors.

Cyprian cleared his throat. “I draw with charcoal, sir—Imperial.” He blushed. “I’d like to hope that I could be recruited to work as a personal artist one day.”

Next to him, Moargan squeezed his thigh. “I’ll contract you, littleaeon, you have nothing to worry about.”

Cyprian’s face flushed. “It’s my dream to be contracted by someone who appreciates my artistic talents.”

“Oh, you have many talents I appreciate. And I’ll make sure to reward you well.” He gave his thigh another squeeze.

“That’s not what this is about,” Cyprian bristled.

“No?” Moargan raised an eyebrow. “Then what is this about? Enlighten me.”

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