The Commander of Ash

Had Rhys had it in him, his lip would have curled at the attempted pleasantry. Alaric Vaust. He recognized the name.

Then again, anyone within a four-kingdom radius knew of the House of Vaust. Alaric, Rhys remembered reading in a news article, was the only son and heir of Commander Dorian and Evelyn Vaust, who had both perished years ago. Rhys had never put such a normal appearance to the name as the man standing before him, he believed the tales of the shadowy monster he'd created in his mind. Perhaps he did read too many tales. Alaric was littered in scars with skin tanned by work in the sun, dark, naturally furrowed brows the same color as his wavy hair, shaved down on the sides and short on the top as a soldier’s. 

The Vaust name rang through wistful soldiers’ lips, trembling widows’ mournings, and anyone else who’d been sucked into the fiery pit of this nasty, neverending war. The House of Vaust held the most infamous reputation for its sieges and raids in the past, as well as the best army heard of within the Northern hemisphere. 

The Iron Wolf, Commander Dorian had been dubbed by himself as well as many others who caught wind of what cruelty he was capable of, but more importantly for the sword Alaric now weilded—an iron sword with nicks upon it and an ancient name engraved at the very edge, following along the natural curve of it into the full length. The chappe was steal, the grip a wrap of soft, black leather, and the pommel was an intricately designed wolf head with its teeth bared in a snarl, it’s snout wrinkled and ruby red gems glowed for its eyes. The Vaust banner held a mirroring image of that awful beast. 

Alaric Vaust, heir of the Iron Wolf.

Alaric Vaust, who’d set aflame Rhys’ world would now be dubbed by him as the Commander of Ash.

Rhys stared down at the hand before him, then back up into those deep, whiskey-colored eyes. Ever piercing, they were, and serious in equal measure. Rhys realized then that the man had truly meant it was good to meet him. Good for whom? A small voice within Rhys cried. He did not accept the hand, instead forcing a harsher act and folding his arms over his small chest, the blue linen draped upon his slender frame all sullied by dust and dirt alike.

Despite his supposedly tough exterior, Rhys’ heart still twinged painfully every few seconds. His mother was surely gone, a single white, gloved hand came to caress the sapphire gem at his heart. It no longer felt so heavy.

Fern never did get the chance to tell Rhys what the sapphire meant, and at the realization, Rhys felt as though a heavy, rounded stone had been dropped directly into his gut, twisting within it until his throat worked, threatening bile. He swallowed that lump and quirked a brow in as much fury as he could muster through his sorrow. 

“Do not attempt polite greetings whilst my mother lay dead by your hands—”

Just as soon as the anger did boil and Rhys was ready to let Alaric’s ear fall off with his spewed hatred, a single large, calloused finger pressed to his lips. At that, Rhys truly did scowl.

“Allow me, Prince.” Alaric spoke calmly. The cadence of Alaric’s voice only fueled the heat within him further, he seethed, smacking the finger away from his pursed lips, jaw clenched. Yet still, he did want to hear an explanation.

Before him, Alaric reached over to one of the dining tables and handed Rhys a parchment. A decree from the Councils of both Vaust and De Guise. 

Rhys glanced down at it before swiftly plucking it from Alaric’s hand rudely—though Rhys didn’t believe he was the one being rude.

As the letters faded into white once more at the end of the parchment, Rhys could hardly see the symbols of neither Vaust nor De Guise through his stinging tears. Silently, they slid down his cheeks.

“I’ve sent multiple letters informing both the King and Queen asking to speak in person of it. I did not wish for any of this, and yet, your father continually refused to meet, he ceased to even send a letter in return.”

Alaric knelt on one knee, his opposing fist meeting the ballroom marble floors at the knuckles, head bowed so Rhys could see the top of his head. “I apologize, truly, from the bottom of my heart, Prince Rhys, that this is what it led to. But your father refused to even speak to the Council, and we were ordered to raid by them in the end.”

Rhys had such a ringing in his ears he hardly heard the apology, the tears only shed faster, clumping his long lashes and rouging his already youthfully rosy cheeks, as well as his eyes, which were now slightly puffy.

He sniffed once, wiping his eyes gently with the gloves he wore before taking them off reverently and folding them into the pocket on the inside of his coat. 

No, this couldn’t be. Rhys mentally shook his head in disbelief, his jaw hung slightly open, appalled at what he’d read.

“Feel no pressure just yet,” Alaric rose to his feet. Rhys scarcely heard that, either.

“The ceremony will not be until the Castle of De Guise is repaired in its entirety, as well as any other destruction caused by myself or my men.”

“Really,” Rhys drawled with a tired, melancholic cadence. “And what of the things you can’t replace, such as my mother?”

Alaric’s amber eyes held a look Rhys had not yet seen on the man—not yet regret nor guilt, but something dangerously akin to it as his gaze lowered. “That,” he began, his voice gruff and scratching somewhere deep within Rhys that his stomach coiled in fury despite the pitiful sight of such a large alpha seeming suddenly so small, “I cannot mend, of course.”

For a moment, Rhys believed Alaric would kneel once more. He didn’t. Rhys wasn’t sure how to feel about that. 

“You should know, Rhys,” Alaric continued, “That both Aris and Callum…”

No.

No.

No.

Rhys' eyes widened and knuckles clench against his thighs, paling with how tightly so. Tears no longer shed, for Rhys felt hollow then. His heart sank, his head shook, and yet, he could not feel it, as though he, too, was ascending those pearly white stairs with golden rails to his resting place alongside his family. 

They had only left this morning…

Rhys’ mind ran over the way his father’s large hand had engulfed his shoulder this morning, telling him to keep the place in order. An almost childlike thought entered Rhys then, as he imagined his father scolding him for the ruins about him now. Then his mind drifted further to the fashion in which Aris wiped his tears and told him his eyes were more beautiful when he smiled. Rhys wished Aris were there simply to tell him now that he had every right to cry. 

But Aris wasn’t there.

Neither was Father.

Neither was Mother.

And amidst the drifting thoughts in Rhys’ mind, he too felt as though he was drifting. Off to sea, as though soon enough the tide would pull him under, too, and he would wake in heaven with his family and they would eat breakfast together once more, and Fern would braid his hair once more, and Callum would scold him for not attending training once more. And oh, if Rhys could go back and truly train, and climb the tree he’d always promised Aris he would yet cowered too much to do, he would. Gods, he would.

Rhys’ throat tightened and contracted, whether it was from tears, vile, or the smoke, he could not tell. But he did come back down to earth once more, away from ripples of memory and regret to distantly say, “I will not marry you.”

And, in the distance, beyond where either of them could see, three crows landed in suite upon a withered branch, cawing mercy.