I stand against the wall of the West Gymnasium, a chamber that’s a classic example of interior exercise design circa 1500. The room is long with plaster walls and a wooden floor. The arched ceiling is filled with a latticework of long wooden beams. Like everything else in Antrum, there are no electronics here. Instead of the workout machines that fill every gym in Purgatory, here I find exercise dummies, weights and wooden bins filled with weapons. Lots and lots of weapons.
In the center of the room, Maxon and his friends get ready to play a mock-battle under my father’s expert guidance. At this point, Dad’s training seems like one long game. It’s when you get to be my age that he’ll mercilessly kick your ass for hours in a row.
In today’s training, Dad makes Maxon play a general, which is what he’ll really be one day when he’s full-grown. My throat tightens with worry. There are so many years that have to pass until Maxon’s an adult. In the meantime, anything can happen. Like Armageddon.
Don’t show you’re upset, Myla. Maxon picks that stuff up easily, and there’s no reason to ruin his play date. That’s also why Lincoln and I are waiting until the training games are over before talking to my father. Besides, watching Dad and Maxon together is nothing short of magical. There are some moments in life you don’t want to cut short.
Lincoln stands beside me, leaning against my same stretch of plaster wall. Across the room, Hildy waits in the far corner, her arms folded across her chest. Every so often, her heavily-lined eyes flicker in our direction before quickly re-locking on Maxon. All the while, her lips soundlessly whisper incantations. Hildy’s obviously already started on the spells to bind her and Maxon just in case he’s ever—
Don’t go there, Myla.
I force myself to focus on my father, who stands in the center of the room, wearing ninja-style loose pants and a grey T-shirt. Maxon and his friends are all dressed as mini-versions of Dad, complete with short-sleeved shirts and loose pants. In this outfit, it’s obvious that my boy’s left arm is covered in black dragon-scales. Our Furor heritage is strong in Maxon, and those black armscales mark him as Furor royalty. Emperor Tempest himself has taken an interest, offering Maxon dragon riding lessons.
Not sure how I feel about that.
Dad leans over Maxon’s shoulder. “Time to get started, don’t you think?” As he moves into a beam of light, I can see how the lines under Dad’s eyes have deepened. Mom says his nightmares are getting worse. Being imprisoned in hell for almost twenty years will do that to you.
“Right, Pop-Pops.” Maxon turns to his friends. “Troops, fall in!”
Three boys hustle to stand in a line before Maxon. They’re all about my son’s height and perfect examples of their respective houses. First in line is Nizam, a classic Horus boy, ebony-skinned and built like a line backer. Beside him stands Tiberius, Prince of Striga. A magical prodigy, Ty already has dreads to his shoulders that are decorated with beads of spell achievement. Next in line stands Raj, Prince of Kamal. He’s also ahead of the thrax learning curve, having already started to raise his traditional hunting animal, an enchanted hawk.
They’re a sweet bunch of boys. Loyal. Smart. Good fighters. A sense of warmth and pride fills my chest. Maxon so clearly leads this little group. He’ll make a great king for them one day.
Maxon’s gaze snaps to the last boy, Uther, who’s decided to sit against the wall beside Hildy. Maxon rolls his eyes. “Don’t be weird, Uther. I said to fall in line.”
“I don’t want to call you General Awesome. You’re already the High Prince. It isn’t fair.”
Uther’s a classic example of the new House of Acca. Nice kid. Decent fighter. A little off socially. Decades of living with psychopaths made the good members of Acca a little wacky.
“What do you want to call me?” asks Maxon.
Uther runs his right hand through his short, white-blonde hair. “Anything but General Awesome.”
“Fine, I’m General Awesomer. Now, fall in, soldier.”
I smile. My kid got a double dose of bossy in his DNA, alright.
Uther slogs to his place in line, grumbling loudly with every step. With Uther settled in, Maxon walks up and down the row of princes. Dad follows a step behind, whispering what to look out for in an inspection. Weapons, physical readiness, and mental acumen. After a few minutes, Dad stops his lecture to ruffle Maxon’s black hair.
“Good job on the inspection, little man.”
“Thanks, Pop-Pops.”
“Time to start the exercise proper, don’t you think?”
“Yup.” Maxon sets his little fists on his hips. “Okay, guys.” He points to a stuffed mannequin at the far wall of the gym next to Hildy. It’s a tall lumpy thing with a silver helmet perched atop its head. “That’s the King of Hell,” declares Maxon. “I’m going to kill him. You’re all demons in my way.”
“Yes, Sir,” say the boys in unison.
Maxon sneaks a shy look at Dad. “Now, what do I do?”
“Tell them to fall out.”