Blood Heir (Blood Heir Trilogy, #1)(92)

“Let go of my son,” Roran shouted, but Ramson’s knees had given out and he held on to Jonah, gasps racking his chest. The bells shrieked in his ears, drilling into his head.

“Father,” he cried. “Please—”

“Let go of my son!” Roran roared again.

“I’m not touching him!” Jonah yelled.

“Guards,” bellowed Roran.

It happened so fast. Ramson saw the archer nock, the bowstring grow taut. And then the head of the arrow shimmered as it released, cutting through the torchlight, sleeker than a whisper.

Years later, Ramson still couldn’t tell why he did it. He wanted to be brave, he wanted to be selfless, like Jonah—but in the end, in his very flesh and bone, he was made of cowardice and selfishness.



Ramson ducked.

There was a soft wet sound, like a knife slicing through an apple. Jonah made a small noise—it might have been a gasp—and slowly, quietly, like the last leaf on an alder tree, fell.

Ramson barely remembered what happened next—someone was screaming, but all he knew was that he’d dropped to his knees and scrambled to Jonah’s side, shaking his shoulders, convinced that he would wake up and laugh at having tricked everyone.

Yet slowly, he realized that the screaming was coming from him. Jonah lay still, his body wobbling like that of a puppet as Ramson shook him. And all Ramson saw were Jonah’s midnight eyes, open wide as though in surprise, and his black hair spread across the floor like raven’s feathers. Nothing made sense—Jonah, lying there, blood pooling silently on the floor, arrow shaft protruding from his chest, when he had been alive and yelling seconds ago.

The image stayed in Ramson’s head, carved into his memory, as his father and the officers murmured in grave tones, as he was dragged out by the guards. The moon was impossibly bright, and a wind howled through the alder trees, whipping his face.

They took him to a room that was at once familiar and unfamiliar. The maroon walls were lined with portraits of a happy family, the young daughter laughing as her auburn curls shimmered. The cherrywood desk was clean and cold to the touch, everything in the room arranged to a sterile tidiness, devoid of warmth.



His father’s office.

The door shut; a mug of something warm and strong-smelling was shoved into Ramson’s hands.

“Chocolate and brandy,” Roran Farrald said in his cool baritone. “Drink up.”

Ramson leaned over the mug and threw up.

“Grow a backbone,” he heard his father say. “Are you going to vomit every time you see a man die?”

“Why am I not dead?” Ramson whispered.

“The orphan confessed. He manipulated you. You will be punished, but the bulk of the blame lies with him. And he has been lawfully sentenced.”

“Lawful—” Ramson’s hands shook, and he raised his gaze to his father. “I’m the one who asked to steal the medicine,” he whispered. “I told you that my mother was sick—”

Roran Farrald’s gaze was colder than steel when he cut across Ramson. “Jonah Fisher was prosecuted for illegal trespassing into a government facility, perpetuation of organized crime, manipulation of a minor—”

“You know that’s a lie.” Tears pooled in Ramson’s eyes. “It was my fault.” He heard, again, Jonah’s steady voice, taking blame for a crime that Ramson had committed. Saw, again, the glint of firelight on the arrowhead, the ricochet of the bowstring, the fletch spinning through the air toward him.

And he’d ducked.

“I killed him.” The words tumbled from his mouth, broken, numb.

“No,” Roran Farrald growled, and his large hand clasped Ramson’s chin tight enough to bruise. His gaze scorned. “You are so weak, you foolish boy. Can’t you see? You must learn from this, if you wish to get anywhere in this world. Friendship is weakness. There are only alliances, made to be broken when it serves your gain.” He lowered his voice. “There is something to be gained from every tragedy, every loss. You and I both know that Fisher would have beaten you in the Embarkment. Fisher’s death comes at a convenient time for you. Now you will be ranked—”



The mug exploded against the wall behind Roran. Hot chocolate and brandy dripped down like blood. Ramson was on his feet, his hands shaking. The rage that had been simmering within him had boiled over, and he found himself screaming at his father. “My best friend—my sea-brother—is dead, and all you care about is some blasted examination?”

“Men like me—like us—cannot waste time on friendships and love.”

“My mother—”

“Is dead,” Roran finished calmly.

Ramson was spitting, choking on his own fury, but he wanted his father to feel his pain—to feel something. Wildly, he grasped at words to twist into his father’s heart like knives. “Is that why you wouldn’t help her? Because she was a waste of time to you?”

His father only looked at him with that cold, calculating gaze. “How do you think I got to where I am?” Roran said quietly, the painful truth of his words crackling in the air.

It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. The world spun. Ramson’s hands fumbled at the wall behind him, struggling for purchase.

Roran stepped backward and turned away. “I cleansed myself of those weaknesses—of friendships, of love—because I knew there were more important things.” Ramson made a choked sound. “Power, and my kingdom, boy. Those were what I gained when I made the choice. And I would make it all over again.”