A sunbeam, piercing through the tall library window, caught the dust motes swirling in the air. Valos stood in the center of the room, eyes closed, brows furrowed in tense effort. He was trying.
«Concentrate. Feel. Not magic, not the ether… but myself. Heartbeat. Breathing. That very… stubborn damn certainty that I don't want to be fertilizer for a necromancer.»
He imagined warmth emanating from his chest, red and pulsing like molten metal. But instead, he felt only a growing headache and slight dizziness.
«Magnificent. My "willpower" so far is capable only of causing a migraine. What a terrifying secret technique. My enemies will die… from pity.»
He was about to give up on this endeavor when suddenly a rising whistle came from outside, ending in a dull thud against the windowsill. Valos opened his eyes. In the window frame lay a package, tightly wrapped with twine and stained with something dark.
«What now? A letter bomb from the necromancer?»
He untied the twine. It was a stack of fresh newspapers, smelling of printer's ink. «The Concordat Herald,» the official propaganda sheet. On top lay several loose leaflets — wanted posters.
Valos lazily unfolded the newspaper. His gaze skimmed the headlines.
«UNREST ON TWISTED LAGOON ISLAND. WORLD GOVERNMENT IMPOSES EMBARGO.»
A small notice on the second page. Some godforsaken island had dared to challenge the Concordat. Fools. They'll burn in the fire they themselves kindled.
«UNDEAD ARMY DESCENDS UPON LORD VIGAR'S LANDS. SITUATION CRITICAL.»
Here Valos allowed himself a smirk. «Of course, they won't make it in time. All those highborn lords and generals are frantically moving flags on maps in their warm offices, saving their own estates. My calculation was correct. Vigar burns, and his people are now… mine.»
«PEASANT EXODUS. THOUSANDS OF REFUGEES FLEE NORTH IN SEARCH OF SAFETY.»
He glanced out the window at the distant roads, where dust clouds from new caravans were still visible. «They flee. Straight to me. Like a river that carries gold-bearing sand into your hands. All that remains is to sift it.»
His fingers sorted through the wanted posters. Mostly vague faces of some rebels and pirates. And then his gaze fell on one.
«WANTED: LUCIAN TROPAN.
FOR AIDING REVOLUTIONARIES AND HIGH TREASON.
REWARD: 100 GOLD CROWNS.
DEAD OR ALIVE.»
Valos slowly sank into a chair, not letting go of the leaflet. His ears rang. He stared at Lucian's mocking grin, at his defiant gaze.
Idiot. Reckless, naïve idiot. He got involved in games beyond his reach. "Aiding revolutionaries"... He clenched the parchment so tightly it crumpled. Anger? No. Not anger. Something more complex. Irritation. Frustration. And... cold, ruthless understanding.
Lucian had become a threat. A threat not only to himself but to the entire Tropan house. His actions cast a shadow on Valos as well. In the eyes of the Concordat, they had lost much trust.
He tossed the leaflet onto the table. It landed next to the newspaper with its screaming headline about the revolution on the island.
Twisted Lagoon. Lucian.
Suddenly, the training in mastering Willpower no longer seemed such a futile endeavor. Now he had not merely an abstract enemy in the form of a necromancer. Now there was a system, a government that suspected his family of treason. And which, by the looks of it, was far too preoccupied with its own problems to save his lands.
He looked again at his hands, clenched into fists. The headache had receded, replaced by a cold, metallic resolve.
«Good. Excellent, even. The necromancer weakens my neighbors, making me stronger. The World Government has put my brother on the wanted list, making him their enemy. And that means…»
«…that now I have a very compelling reason not just to survive, but to become strong enough to dictate terms. And so that when I find that idealistic idiot, I have enough power to tell those judges: "No. He is under *my* protection."»
Valos turned from the window. On his face was neither panic nor fear. Only calculating, icy clarity. He walked to the table, picked up the newspaper and the wanted poster, and carefully folded them into a drawer.
The Willpower training had suddenly acquired a new, very personal meaning. To protect — if not by blood, then by bond — his brother.