Kestrel's jaw dropped. He hadn't much experience with ministra, but he'd never seen one be so forward with an energos. He knew the rules as well as any magus. Energi were powerful and decisive; they dominated. Ministra were soft and yielding; they submitted.

"Hmm." The prince's brows pressed low, but he didn't rebuke his ministra. "To your feet, Lord Knight."

Kestrel gratefully rose—any longer on the floor and his legs would have gone numb. He clasped his hands behind his back and lifted his chin, posture perfected from years of military training.

"Now time for a few questions,” the prince said. “I hope you'll indulge me?"

As if Kestrel had a choice.

"Let us see...I was given a report about your personal history, but you know how information travels across this land. And it's quite an unusual story, so I'd like to verify if I have everything right. So first things first: you are the first child and only son of the late Lady Mia Shanneray, may the First watch over her soul in eternal rest, who just a month ago was discovered drowned at the bottom of the Senriver Falls."

Why, Kestrel screamed inside, are you talking about her so callously? Wasn't she one of your best courtiers?

The prince went on. "You turned eighteen last winter. This spring, you graduated as the valedictorian from Mount Jaeg Military Academy."

Just hearing the name made Kestrel’s chest ache. If only he could return to the rocky slopes, the rhythm of the daily drills, his old classmates. All of it at least made sense.

"A fine record for any mountain magus, I must say. But it's not a very traditional life for the child of a High House Heir, is it?"

Indeed, only those magi who possessed minuscule aura reserves, thanks to coming from weak families or having diluted bloodlines, opted for a military career. Every Shanneray ought to be strong enough to train in the magical arts alone. Ought.

"Then again, the reports did say you were a bastard. And I must admit, you do look the part. First time I've seen a Shanneray who wasn't a redhead."

Kestrel blushed. His only solace was that it wouldn't show as well against his earthy brown skin as it might if he were as pale as a proper Shanneray. All he'd inherited from her mother were the gray eyes.

Dimly, he noticed the prince’s ministra had turned toward him. His eyes sent a thrill down Kestrel’s spine: they were just as scarlet as his lips.

Just who was this ministra? Was he even human?

“Do you know who your father is?” The prince’s voice snared his attention again. “From your looks, I presume he’s a Flamelander. Come to think of it, your mother's bonded is a Flamelander, isn't he?"

"Yes, Your Highness," Kestrel said, hoping his voice didn't come out too thin. But why was he even talking about this? Everyone knew the blood of the energos ran stronger than that of the ministra. The moment Kestrel had been born, it would have been obvious he didn’t come from a legitimate bond.

Sure enough, the prince went on to say, "But the blood of the energos runs strongest, so I suppose you are indeed a bastard. Still I'll ask, do you know anything about your father?"

What does this have to do with anything? A familiar resentment stirred in Kestrel. No, he'd never known, and he hadn’t cared. His grandmother had said it enough times; his father was just some commoner his mother had unwisely carried on with in her youth. She'd borne him, then settled into a proper bond and had proper heirs, and he became unnecessary.

Until she had died.

"Lord Knight?" The prince leaned forward, and Kestrel realized he had to answer.

“I don’t know, Your Highness,” he said quickly. "It doesn’t matter to me, anyway.”

The man beneath the throne shifted, those crimson lips lifting a little. Why did Kestrel keep looking at him? He was just a ministra; the prince was the one who mattered.

"Fair enough," the prince said. "Even so, your existence must be a blessing. With Mia’s heir still an uninitiated child, Shanneray House was in the unenviable position of having to appoint a representative. It's lucky they had someone on hand with Shanneray blood."

The prince's words didn't offend Kestrel. He'd heard basically the same thing from his grandmother, his half-sisters, his tutors, the Mount Jaeg headmaster, Lady Dulmer. Everyone had made his position clear. At last, this was the way the bastard could be useful. Maybe even the reason he'd been born.

"So." The prince leaned back in his throne. "With that in mind, I would like to see a display of your aura."

Kestrel's heart jumped into his throat.

He'd known this was coming, but he had dreaded it with all his soul. The moment where he had to pretend to be something he was not. He'd pretended all his life, but it never got any easier. And now he had to fool the heir to the throne, and who knew what price he'd pay if he failed.

The prince must have noticed his hesitation, for he said, "Now, now, Lord Knight. I understand if you're embarrassed about your skill, or lack thereof, but I won't hold it against you. You're not to blame for your upbringing and your blood. Simply show me a display—it's traditional for prospective Circle members, see."

His reassuring tone made Kestrel sicker. No, the problem was the exact opposite.

What Kestrel wouldn't give to be an ordinary bastard, barely able to call his aura. What he wouldn't give to be an ordinary energos, incomplete without a ministra. To be like his classmates, who often had to struggle for minutes just to feel their aura inside them.

As if responding to his tension, his power stirred. The wind raced through his veins, fierce and eager. He had chained it down for too long.

But real magi could not unleash their aura without chanting a spell. So he stammered a few phrases in the ancient magus' tongue, one of the first spells all wind magi learned. His aura twisted and squirmed, but he refused to let it out until he was done chanting.

The waterfall swallowed his voice, roaring like something mad, enraged, alive. It didn’t matter. His aura had never responded to his voice, not once in his life.

The wind flowed into the tips of his fingers, begging him to unleash it. Instead, Kestrel completed the chant, then imagined the wind escaping in the shape he wanted. He felt sick. No real magus could shape their aura with their minds alone.

He flung out his hands and released an arc of wind. It raced over the prince's head, ruffling his curls and rippling the silk drapes behind the throne, before disappearing above the vast, indifferent waterfall.

Good. Competent enough to appear a proper magus, yet not powerful enough to invite questions. But when the prince’s brow furrowed, terror lashed through Kestrel.

"You have a lot of aura but little finesse, hmm? That's a bit surprising. I thought they trained weak magi to refine their aura reserves efficiently."

"I—I—" Kestrel felt like he was drowning. No matter how much air he sucked in, because this wasn't air, so laden with the Senriver it was. Run, run, run all the way back, and his aura begged him to let it free.

"Your Highness." The man beneath the throne shifted against the prince’s thigh. "Don't you think you're being a little rude? Surely you of all people must understand what it is like not to fit into others' expectations."

Once, Kestrel had seen one of the castle thanes berate her ministra for forgetting to address her as 'mistress.' He would have thought this ministra’s rudeness deserved much worse, but the prince made no move to punish him. Instead he sat straighter, the muscles of his jaw tightening.

As if heedless of his energos' reaction, the ministra went on. "Everyone's magic is different, Lord Knight. Everyone manifests their skill in a different way. You were not trained to value magic above all else the way a High House heir would have been. Nor do you cast like an ordinary soldier. No matter what, you have a unique perspective to offer the Circle."

The man rested his chin on the back of a hand, smiling mysteriously, and it struck Kestrel that he was beautiful. Kestrel almost found himself smiling back. He liked the man's sharp, honest words. They didn't sound like a challenge or a test, and held no hint of condescension.

"All right, that's enough." The prince stood, unfurling to his full height, and it was high indeed—he must have an entire head on Kestrel. Poised and confident, he was an energos to the core.

But no matter how he strained, Kestrel couldn't detect the true mark of an energos on the prince, the musk that should have stirred something in the most primal part of his soul.

"You've performed to my satisfaction, Lord Knight. And who knows? We may be able to offer you opportunities here at court. You can train under our finest magi, and they will make you a fine magus worthy of representing Shanneray House. Because let's be honest, now that you're here you deserve better than to make breezes during parades or whatever it is you mountain folk do."

As the prince threw his head back and laughed, something dark and ugly twisted in Kestrel's gut. He didn't know anything. A magus like him in his fancy silks and braid, who breathed the rotten palace air—he didn't know what it was like to watch the sunset paint the slopes gold and black, to parade through the first fluttering snow of the year, to race the horses down the game trails while his classmates cheered.

But the man beneath the throne did not laugh. He watched Kestrel through half-closed eyes, and when he noticed Kestrel’s attention, his lips quirked up. The smile was brief, but it was real, and it gave Kestrel the strength to act.

"Thank you, Your Highness," Kestrel said, straining to be heard above the furious waterfall. "I am honored by your consideration. I swear I will serve Senero with my entire being.”

He bowed low and prayed to the Four Winds that he would survive this.