Mortimer grabbed Loholt by the sleeve and tried to pull him away from the windowsill, a low whine of warning rumbling in his throat. Loholt pulled his sleeve free, frowning in irritation, his blue eyes narrowed. He shook his head once and crawled back up onto the window seat, playing with the latch. It was stubborn; the window in his old room had been much easier to open. Growling in frustration he pulled down with all his strength, the metal digging into his fingers, until finally, with a creak of protest it gave way. The windows blew outwards, almost taking him with them. Bracing his weight against the sill he saved himself and hopped up onto it. He sat down, his legs swinging out over the drop and peered down into the gardens below.

His aunt was the easiest to spot. She was the person most familiar to him and wore a striking red dress which stood out amongst the green of the hedges and the guards’ livery. There was no blue to be seen anywhere, not even a flower. Loholt glanced across as Mortimer set his front paws on the windowsill behind him, his claws scratching against the wood.

“Come away,” Mort urged, snuffling at his elbow, “please, Lo. I don’t want to see.”

“Don’t look then.” Loholt shot back, pushing his familiar away. He hunched his shoulders, folding his arms across his chest. “Go back to mother. You can both close your eyes and hum.”

He ignored Mortimer’s whimper and turned back to the gardens, where Morgana stood on the stage, one of the new men she and Tristan had brought with them. He could hear she was speaking, but not what she was saying and then suddenly Loholt found himself staring into his father’s face. It was projected, larger-than-life, into the air where everyone could see it, and in front of it was another older man Loholt had never seen before.

He didn’t want to see the older man, the stranger. He wanted his Papa. He drank him in greedily as Mordred slipped into view again, looking out into the dark with Loholt’s blue eyes. His heart ached, bringing a lump to his throat and an insistent burn to the back of his eyes.

And then the knife flashed, blood pooling around the pale skin of his father’s hand, held tight upon the handle. Longing turned to sickness.

“Liars!” Loholt bellowed down at the people of the ground as he threw himself back into his room. He pulled the window shut behind him with a furious snap. It wasn’t true. It wasn’t fair.

Flashes. Flashes of the men in his father’s dungeon, or whispered conversations in the dark, of the lessons with Wyvern by the firelight. There had been screams, and crying, scared looks in people’s eyes when his father passed in the corridor. And that look, that look his father would get sometimes which even made Loholt feel afraid.

Frustration welled in his stomach, rising into his throat as a scream.

It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be, it wasn’t.

He lashed out, grabbing a wooden box from the dresser and threw it against the wall. The lid flew off, flying off across the room towards the door as the box itself came to a stop by Loholt’s foot. He kicked it as he crossed to the curtains, grabbing hold of them and tugging as hard as he could with another bellow of frustration.

He wanted his Papa. He wanted the strangers to go away. He wanted Mama to stop crying and for people to look at him again. He wanted to be the prince. He wanted the servants to play with him and the cook to sneak him cream buns.

He couldn’t even find the words for what he wanted.

And he screamed.