Chapter 2 Father and Son
The day has been long and, as the sun set, Oscar made his way to the dining hall, a knot in his stomach. It was always the same.
He passed Günther on his way to mass, where he would likely dine with the other soldiers.
Oscar envied him.
The dining hall was empty when he entered. A servant brought his supper in silence, eyes lowered. Then, nothing. No sound disturbed his meal—not even the flicker of a candle.
It was almost always the same.
He ate quickly and excused himself from an empty chair.
At night, only the owls hooted.
Rising at dawn, Oscar prepared to go to the library to further his education. He crossed paths with Abélie, her gaze averted. He would have liked to stop her, but she walked quickly—and she was not alone. That was unusual for her; she usually greeted him with a sly little smile.
At the library, the young man tried to focus on his book, without success. He wasn’t foolish—something was afoot.
Was his father finally going to grant him real responsibilities?
No. That didn’t sound like him.
Perhaps he had struck a deal with a rival noble? Or maybe he would allow Oscar to patrol with the soldiers?
No… unlikely. Impossible, even.
The entire morning passed in turmoil and questioning.
At noon, Oscar headed toward the dining hall, stomach growling—only to be intercepted by Günther.
“The duke requests your presence, Young Master,” he said, jaw clenched.
Oscar flinched.
“‘Young Master’, hm. That doesn’t bode well,” he retorted.
“He’s waiting for you,” Günther repeated, dodging the remark.
Oscar inhaled and nodded, unwilling to press the matter. The weapons master was tense.
He turned on his heel and walked stiffly toward Andreus’s study. He was about to find out.
He entered without knocking—one of his rare acts of rebellion. Andreus lifted his head, annoyed.
“Knock, Oscar. It’s the least courtesy demands.”
“You sent for me, Your Grace?” Oscar interrupted.
Andreus shot him an angry look. For once, he set aside the ever-present pencil in his hand. He rubbed his temples and gestured toward one of the chairs.
“Sit.”
“I would prefer to remain sta—”
“Sit,” Andreus ordered.
Despite his defiance, Oscar sat.
Andreus rubbed his temples once more, then clasped his bony hands atop the desk. Oscar opened his mouth, but Andreus cut him off.
“You are going to be married.”
And suddenly, Oscar was speechless. Andreus did not care; he continued.
“To the Duchess of the North. Lady Brynn Wingfall. Though she is older than you, she is a good match. I would have liked to keep you at Eau-Claire, but she insisted that you come live with her. After all, she is the sole guardian of her duchy.” He paused. “You will return to Eau-Claire regularly, of course, and—”
Oscar heard nothing but a dull ringing. His father’s lips moved, but no coherent sound reached him.
“…but you’ll see to that in time. The Wingfall family is financially secure. They rely on mining operations, and this alliance could benefit us greatly.”
Oscar flinched. Breaking the monotony of the monologue, he struck the desk weakly with his fist.
“So you’re selling me? Is that what this is?” he shouted. “You’re marrying me off to a stranger for money! Father, I have no intention of marrying under these conditions!”
“I’m not giving you a choice,” Andreus replied coldly. “You are past marriageable age. It is time you honoured our house. Lady Brynn seems to be a woman…” He searched for the word. “A woman. She will surely please you.”
“You don’t know that.”
Andreus rolled his eyes, reclaiming his pen.
“That’s true. And I don’t need to concern myself with it, because it doesn’t interest me. All you have to do is go, marry, and honour the House of Rivière.”
Andreus cut Oscar off before he could respond.
“You’ve spent years yearning for greater responsibility. This is the most vital of all, Oscar—the responsibility of ensuring the future of our house. Of securing our place on the grand stage of aristocracy. Are you incapable of that?” He fixed his amber gaze on his son. “Will you disappoint me?”
When Oscar left the study, his throat was tight. His heart thundered in his skull as he clenched his teeth. Suddenly, the corridors felt infinitely longer than before. The windows seemed too large, the murmurs of the staff too… piercing.
His bed felt like stone.
He didn’t even have time to dwell on it. His study, his books—he would have liked to prepare more thoroughly. He grabbed his sword, his mother’s necklace, and a few books. The servants would prepare warm clothes.
The next morning, dew dotted the meadows. A few soldiers on horseback flanked a carriage bearing the arms of Rivière. Standing at attention, Günther waited, his gaze burning—no doubt sharp resentments simmered beneath the surface. As for Abélie, carrying only a simple suitcase, she looked subdued. Her freckled face was lowered more than usual.
The sun had not yet risen; the surroundings lay in a dim half-light pierced by a few pale rays. Oscar stared at the windows. No movement. The castle remained stubbornly lethargic.
He wouldn’t even receive a farewell.
And just like that, the procession set off—toward the lands of the North.