Trying not to show hesitation, he entered the large black and maroon room. In front of the Alforah, there was a white circular table flanked by two holographic computer screens. Immediately, Mitchel’s eyes were drawn to a beautifully crafted neon blue weapon that hung on the wall in display. It was a smooth, curving blade. The ore that it was made of was marbled with white and gold and ended in a simple black handle. It looked beautifully wicked and pristine. But not as much as the man sitting directly under it.

The Head Alforah sat behind his desk with his eyes level and staring right back at Mitchel. He was large in stature, with a sharp chin and even sharper eyebrows, and a full beard. His perfectly combed hair was in a bud on the top of his head. He had warn skin as if molded by countless physical trials and eyes that had seen more than Mitchel come dream up.

Everything about his features made Mitchel tense up and the calm nature he and Wrose had shared was broken.

No more games. The beast was no longer in his chest. It was sitting right across from him.

“You are D.3[6]256.117?” the Head Alforah asked, his voice much deeper than Wrose’s.

Mitchel nodded and cleared his throat to dislodge any hesitancy in his voice. “That is me, sir.”

The Alforah nodded to himself while he scrutinized Mitchel’s face. The latter kept his chin tall and his eyes unwavering even though his instinct was to look down and away from the blatant inspection.

“Wrose, do you believe he is proficient enough in Rwequekian to work here?” the Alforah asked, still keeping eye contact with Mitchel.

“His language ability is exceptional for his age,” Wrose reported and a small ping of comfort spread warmth through Mitchel’s chest. “We have only spoken twice, but he understands conversations fluently and can respond with complex grammar structure. I have not seen him directly interpret Rwequekian to English, but when observing his conversations with humans and then Rwequeks, he has little to no hesitation in switching back and forth.”

The Alforah nodded, his steeled expression betraying none of his emotions.

“What is your age?” he then asked.

“Seventeen.”

“Perfect…” the Alforah murmured. “You will be perfect for my son.”

Son? Mitchel could not help but furrow his eyebrows. But I thought I was the Third Alforah’s interpreter?

Before Mitchel could voice his concern, Wrose sucked in a startled breath to his left.

“What?” Wrose burst.

The cool composure the attendant emanated broke so suddenly, Mitchel jolted. Wrose almost looked betrayed at the new information.

“Sir, the Taej herself recommended you have an interpreter,” Wrose said hurriedly. He moved his hands in time with his words. “It was her wish.”

“I know what the Taej recommended,” the Alforah snapped back, words rattling against the slick black walls.

The stillness that entered the room was terrifying. The Head Alforah did not have the same bitterness or whine that Mizar did. No, his cadence delivered finality and raw power that made Mitchel’s throat close up a little.

No one dared to speak for a moment.

“I believe my son is at an age of transition. He will learn diplomacy, he will resolve conflicts, and he will do his duty for his House,” the Alforah continued. “I am giving my son these new responsibilities, and these responsibilities are what needs an interpreter. No longer am I in need of one.”

Wrose made a strained noise from the back of his throat.

“But sir, does the Taej know this?” Wrose protested. “Her decisions are final word. I do not think—”

“Why do you believe your thoughts have any influence over my decision?” the Alforah continued. He had not changed expression even through these icy words except that his swirling blue eyes grew colder and colder. He turned those eyes onto Mitchel. Mitchel in return tried not to shrink. “Will you serve my son? Or will you refuse my wishes as well?”

It was a test. His first test of many, he knew. He almost felt bad for the attendant, who had received the blunt end of this conversation. But he had to prioritize himself in this moment.

“I would be happy to serve your son,” Mitchel said evenly, enunciating his words with care.

“Perfect. It is settled then.”

Resignation washed over Wrose’s features as his posture slumped slightly.

“Has the 4th Alforah been informed of this development?” Wrose asked in a subdued, emotionless voice.

“No. You will inform him on your way out,” The Head Alforah said and flicked his hand to the door with finality.

Wrose bowed his head. He looked at Mitchel briefly as he turned to the door, his blue-grey eyes conveying restless worry and disappointment.

When the door hissed shut behind him, Mitchel felt utterly isolated.

Alone with the beast.

The Head Alforah sighed through his nose, clasping his hands together with his elbows on the table, as he regained his attention back on Mitchel.

“My son’s wellbeing is my life blood,” the Head Alforah said. “I would do anything for him.”

“I understand sir.”

“Do not think that you do,” the Head Alforah said tightly. “The 37th Mercos found you while you were talking back to Rwequek guards. You will obey my son, the 4th Generation of the Alforah House, and if needed, you will obey me. If anything happens to my son, the consequences will be severe.”

The fierce protectiveness that flowed through the Third Alforah was familiar to Mitchel, as he too had relied on that strength to defend his family from the cruel treatment of the guard. That he could respect. And because he understood this so closely to his own experiences, Mitchel did not cower at the raw power of the Head Alforah.

Mitchel had never been a Yes sir, No sir kind of person. If he could slip in just a hint of his perspective and diverse vocabulary without ruining this opportunity, he would.

“I can tell your care is genuine, even if I don’t understand your bond.” Mitchel said without hesitance. “And I understand that I am responsible for my actions here. I will not falter.”

He raised his chin high, sucking in a breath that broadened his chest.

“I won’t fail your son.”

The Alforah assessed him with a sweeping look once more as if it were a test of character.

“I see why the 37th Mercos chose you,” he said, more to himself than to Mitchel. “As you now work for my son, you will in turn represent this household. Don’t disappoint us.”

Mitchel bowed his head respectfully.

“Find my son and introduce yourself before guests arrive. He should be getting ready for the banquet,” the Head Alforah instructed. “He is the Fourth Generation of the Alforah, 1st of his line, and Sponsor of Faction of 117.”

“I will not falter,” Mitchel said once more, to both the Rwequek and himself.

He had survived through days of hunger and grief, intensive work and brutish guards. Mitchel could imagine a carbon copy of the Head Alforah. He could deal with the strict eyes and harsh sounding voices. The warmth of his family gave him enough of a reason.

Wait for me Winston. Mitchel thought as he turned to leave.

Behind him, the Rwequek’s eyes never wavered, even as the automatic door slammed shut from above.