Chapter Text
When Grian was sent to The Rock manor to live with his godfather, many who saw him remarked that he was the most peculiar-looking child they had ever laid eyes on. It was true, in a way. He was small and wiry, with a narrow, bird-like, pointed face and restless blue eyes that were always darting about, never quite still. His hair was long, pale and unkempt, forever sticking up in strange places as if he had been caught in a strong wind. His expression was one of constant dissatisfaction, as though the world had presented itself to him and he had found it wholly unimpressive.
He had been born in Selchar, a grand coastal city in the heart of Wynn, where his father, an officer in the Wynn Province Guard, was always occupied with his work, and his mother was always occupied with anything but him. She was a striking woman, admired for her wit and charm, and she had no patience for the company of children. She had left him in the care of the household servants from the moment he was born, making it clear that her son was not to be a disturbance in her carefully curated social life. The servants, fearful of displeasing her, learned early on that the best way to keep the child quiet was to indulge him.
By the time he was six years old, Grian had developed into an imperious and sharp-tongued boy, unused to contradiction and wholly unfamiliar with the idea of friendship. He had never had playmates his own age—no one had dared introduce him to such things. His world was made up of adults who obeyed his whims and entertained his demands, and the few Evolian governesses who had attempted to educate him never lasted long. Some left because he was impossible; others left because he ignored them entirely. It was not that he was unintelligent—on the contrary, he was sharp and quick-witted when he chose to be—but he saw little purpose in schooling when he could entertain himself far better without it.
One morning, when he was about nine years old, he awoke feeling uncommonly irritated. The air was thick and stifling, heavy with the scent of dust and heat, and something about the silence in the house unsettled him. Even before he opened his eyes, he could sense that something was wrong.
When he did open them, he saw a woman standing by his bedside. She was not his maid.
He blinked at her in annoyance. “Where is my maid?” he demanded.
The woman hesitated, wringing her hands. “She cannot come, Honourable one.”
Grian frowned. “That’s nonsense. Go and get her.”
The woman only shook her head, her face pale and anxious.
It after then that Grian noticed the hush in the house. Usually, there was movement—servants passing through the halls, voices murmuring in the courtyard, the occasional clang of metal from the kitchens. But this morning, everything felt wrong. The air was thick with something unspoken.
Still, no one would tell him anything. When he realized he was being ignored, he stormed outside in a foul mood and flung himself beneath an old tree, digging at the dry, cracked earth with impatient fingers. He plucked bright red hibiscus blossoms and shoved them into the dirt as if he were planting them, muttering under his breath about what he would say to his maid when she returned.
As he worked himself into a quiet fury, he heard voices from the veranda. His mother’s voice—light and lilting, usually so full of laughter—was strained and urgent. She was speaking to a fair-haired young officer, a boy barely older than a man, and Grian had seen him once or twice before. His mother was all sorts of beautiful, and men would flock to her and she would revel in it, no matter her marital status. Still, even he did not look dazed to be in her presence right now.
“It’s bad,” the officer said in a low voice. “Very bad, Mrs. Watcher. You ought to have gone to the Skylands weeks ago.”
His mother pressed a hand to her forehead. “I know,” she said sharply. “I should have gone. But I—” She hesitated. “I stayed for the Governor’s dinner. I didn’t think—”
At that moment, from the far end of the house, a terrible wailing cry rose into the air. It was a sound unlike any Grian had ever heard before—high and piercing, raw with grief. His mother gasped and clutched the officer’s arm.
“What is that?” she whispered.
The officer’s face was grim. “Someone has died.”
Grian stiffened where he sat. He had heard of people dying before, of course, but it had never had anything to do with him. People died in stories, in faraway places. They did not die here, in his house.
His mother turned abruptly and fled inside, leaving the officer standing alone.
He looked shaken.
He didn’t attempt to comfort him.
After that, everything seemed to spiral into chaos. The servants who had not yet fallen ill fled in terror, abandoning their posts without a backward glance. The house grew quieter and quieter, and by the end of the day, Grian realized, with a peculiar sort of detachment, that no one had come for him.
No one was going to come for him.
He spent the next day locked in his nursery, pacing the room and waiting for something—anything—to happen. He idly played with his toys, but even they were a bore when left to just his own imagination, for what could he know about amazing outside adventures? When hunger finally drove him out, he crept into the dining room and found it empty, though a half-eaten meal was still laid out on the table. He ate what he could find—fruit, biscuits, the remnants of a meal that had been abandoned in a hurry. A glass of dark red wine stood half-full, and on a whim, he drank it, suddenly aware of his thirst. He had never had wine before. It was sweet and rich and made his limbs heavy with sleep.
He stumbled back to his room, and crawled under his bed, wrapping one of his fine sheets around himself, crumpling it and surely wrinkling it, before falling into a deep, dreamless slumber.
When he awoke, the house was silent. Too silent.
He sat up slowly, the unease in his stomach twisting tighter. There were no voices. No footsteps. The house felt—empty.
Something small moved at the edge of his vision. He turned his head and saw a little snake slipping across the floor. It paused near the doorway, its dark eyes meeting his, a forked tongue waving hello, before vanishing through a gap in the wood.
For the first time in his life, Grian felt something cold and unfamiliar settle in his chest.
He was alone.
A few minutes later, he heard the sound of boots on the veranda. Then voices—low, murmuring. Doors creaked open.
“What a sight,” someone muttered. “Deserted. I suppose the child is gone as well. I had heard there was one, but no one ever seemed to see him.”
Grian stood abruptly, his hair askew, his shoulders squared.
“I am here,” he said loudly.
The nursery door swung open, revealing two Evolian officers. They stared at him in astonishment.
“There is a child!” one of them exclaimed. “Alone in a place like this? Good Lord!”
“I am Grian Watcher,” the boy snapped, drawing himself up. “And I have been waiting far too long for someone to come. Where have you been? Where is everyone?”
The younger officer—fair-haired, the one who had spoken to his mother—looked at him with something like pity.
“Poor lad,” he muttered. “There’s no one left to come.”
And that was how Grian learned the truth: that his mother and father were dead, that his home was abandoned, his maids scurrying off to save their own hides, that he had been wholly forgotten in the chaos.
No one had remembered the sharp-tongued little boy in the nursery.
No one except, perhaps, the snake who knew not of him.