There was little in the room which escaped his rage, grabbed from shelves and tabletops and flung against the walls or else trampled underfoot. Shards of glass from a broken lamp shade littered the ground, crunching under the heel of his boots as he ripped the hangings from his bed. His tears dried up quickly. There was more comfort in satisfaction derived from destruction than in weeping. Some of the things he broke were his cousin, others his father, some even his mother. He was angry with her too, but he couldn’t reason why. There were not words for what he felt, just pain and noise and vexation.

He didn’t even hear Wyvern enter the room.

A firm grip on his shoulder had him turning. Loholt whipped his head around, his eyes dragon-blue, glowering up at his uncle with slitted pupils, his hands balled into fists.

“Get off me!” he bellowed, fighting to wrench himself free.

He didn’t want to be touched, or held or comforted. He didn’t want soothing words and hurried reassurances; he wanted only what he didn’t have and couldn’t name. But Wyvern was stronger than he was.

“I don’t care!” Loholt shouted, fighting for his freedom again, trying to tug Murphy’s hand away from his shoulder. “Let them hear! They don’t care either!”

His uncle took hold of his chin, holding him steady. His fingers, gentle as they were, felt like a vice to Loholt, restricting, controlling. He would not be controlled, not now, not with his Papa at the bottom of the ocean. What was there to fear now? Everyone, everything.

“Get off me!” he ordered, with the voice of a little boy used to being obeyed, his dragon eyes flashing.

Finally, he managed to extract himself and he wheeled away, back towards the window, throwing it ajar. “I could throw myself out of this window and they wouldn’t even blink!”

There was satisfaction in that idea too, in the drama, in the imagined look on Tristan’s face. His cousin wasn’t the monster he had imagined him. There was softness in the earthy green of his eyes even as they drifted over Loholt, unable to look for long. He wasn’t statue-like, or forbidding like Loholt’s Papa he was...he was...

Loholt grunted and turned again, grabbing books from the bookcases and throwing them on the floor. They landed with great thumps at his feet, barely missing his shins and ankles. Let them strike true, he thought, reaching for more. The dull ache of bruising held a certain attraction in his temper.

The heat of it was ebbing, leaving something cooler in its wake. Loholt dropped to his knees, exhausted, his eyes, still all dragon, dry and tired.

“I hate them,” he muttered to no one in particular, “I hate everyone. And one day, I’m going to make them pay.

He buried his face in his hands as his fury abandoned him. In its place was only cold numb rage, and a feeling of emptiness. A part of him withdrew, burrowing deep, throwing up walls behind it. Slowly, Loholt turned his head and held Wyvern’s eye.

“Is it true?” he asked, his voice steady, “is what they’re saying true?” Loholt’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me the truth.”