space-whalesharks

He had always found comfort in the night, so long as it was to be enjoyed within the safe bounds of the Ravengard estate. Soon, he would have to return to the vultures inside the ballroom belonging to some minor lord he did not know the name of, and those very same vultures would watch, waiting for an opportunity to strike at the smallest of mistakes.

“Wyll,” his father’s deep voice disrupted his peace. He had turned the corner of the manor where Wyll had found his hiding place. His mother would not be far behind. “Is this where you’ve been for the past hour?” Though the words were scolding, there was worry in his voice. “I cannot face our adversaries alone,” he continued, “We have to be a united front, and we cannot be so without you present.”

Then, Francesca Ravengard turned the corner. Her dark brown hair, which many confused to be black of colour, had been carefully put in the most prestigious updo by her maid. The pearls holding it together shone as brightly as the moon. Her murky eyes showed the fear she had felt and Wyll felt ashamed for making her worry so.

“Wyll, thank the Lord you are safe,” she said, her voice a pitch higher and carrying the storm of a mother worried.

“My apologies, father, mother. I will head inside at once.” The phrase sounded rehearsed, even to Wyll, and no doubt even more so to his parents.

No one and everyone had noted their sudden disappearance. None would have cared, and everyone detested them for doing it anyway. It came easy to blame them, because they were different than everyone else, who were fair-skinned and pale-eyed. The Ravengard’s sudden rise to nobility had destroyed what everyone had thought of normalcy. Wyll was taught early on that everything would be an uphill battle, and despite the warning, it still left a poor taste in his mouth.

And yet, their reappearance had not been what caught everyone’s eyes. It was instead the new arrival. A tall man with long greying brown hair, cold stern eyes watching the crowd, stood by the entrance. His arm was intertwined with a young woman’s, her skin as pale as the moonlight and hair as dark as the night sky accompanying it. Dark, cloudy eyes stared straight ahead, but what Wyll noticed immediately was the look of distaste on her face from the way her eyebrows were furrowed.

From the corner of his eyes, Wyll saw his father’s nostrils flare with fury, and there was no doubt these were some of the adversaries he’d talked about. Upon noticing Wyll’s glance, Ulder began to explain. “Aevan Corvaldi, ally of Enver Gortash, and his ward, Tara Corvaldi.”

It was no secret Enver Gortash had been one of the main oppositionists against their claim. He had dug deep and investigated thoroughly, but even then his accusation that their claim was illegitimate had been too weak to convince the greater public, even if they wished they could support him.

The Corvaldi’s lived in Mildew Abbey, an estate that almost rivalled Ravengard Manor – almost. It was known that Aevan Corvaldi had lost his wife to brain fever, and his daughter in an accident that also took the lives of Tara’s parents. Many had deemed it fate that he took her in as his ward, and many claimed this act to be heroic.