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“Has your brother told you yet? He expressed in his letter last week that he knew the promotion was likely coming.”

“Leon hasn’t written me.”

“I’m sure he’s busy,” his father said with such warmth that Fox might have mistaken it for genuine concern had it come from anyone else.

The triumph in his father’s eyes made his face flush.

“I assume you haven’t seen any letters from him addressed to me?” Fox asked. “They’d come to your office first, of course.”

“Son, I’d send any letter relevant to you to your rooms immediately.”

It wasn’t the first time that Fox had had the passing thought his father might be intercepting the letters from Leon. But he’d thought he was being paranoid. This would be a new type of cruelty.

“Every letter from Leon is relevant to me, particularly if they have my name on them. Unless you’re having trouble reading.”

His father stepped forward, voice taking on a sharp edge as he leaned over Fox. “I don’t know what you’re implying, but I’d suggest you show some respect to your father.”

“I show respect to those who earn it,” he snapped, before he could think better of the words. It had been too long since he had been faced with his father’s wrath and forced to bite his tongue.

The hit wasn’t unexpected and Fox only stumbled back a step as the knuckles on his father’s hand snapped against his cheekbone. Fox didn’t make a sound. Before he could savor the surprise in his father’s eyes, his father’s cane snapped up and cracked against his ribs. He doubled over, the next intake of air sending a wave of pain through his side, but his father’s hand grabbed his hair before he could crumple, pulling him upright.

“Don’t you ever talk to me that way again or I’ll lock you in the king’s prison myself and see how you fare. I don’t need to earn your respect. I am your father and the king’s general. And you are nothing.”

He let go and Fox fell to his knees, his scalp burning. By the time he caught his breath, the ache in his side subsiding to a dull throb, his father was gone and the hall was empty.

Hunger forgotten, Fox flew down the back stairs and out the servants’ door leading to the back yards and stables. For the first time in his life, he understood what stories meant when they said someone’s vision had gone red. The blood roaring through his veins seemed to be coloring the world, a red haze making it difficult to see and think.

He might later try to convince himself he bumped into the stableboy on accident, too distracted with his rage. But in that moment, he knew he’d seen him and he’d chosen not to veer away or stop. His shoulder hit the other boy’s, sending the bucket he was holding falling to the ground with a soft thud and a splatter. The donkey shit nearly covered the boy, but Fox’s shoes were covered, too.

“Are you blind or stupid?”

He sneered down at the boy. He was around his own age and he’d seen him around the yards before often getting into fights with the other workers.

“You ran into me,” the boy said, practically growling as he stood up, brushing the manure off his clothes, but doing little more than smearing it into the fabric. Fox smiled.

“Stupid then, to dare talk to your superiors like that.”

“You ain’t my superior.”

The boy moved first, bringing back his fist. Fox dodged it easily and moved to parry. His own blow went wide, scraping against the boy’s ear. A kick to Fox’s shin sent him stumbling back and the boy used the moment to his advantage, grabbing Fox around the waist and bringing him to the ground with a scream.

Fox forgot the small amount of training he had, his fists flailing with little strategy beyond making contact. The stableboy’s style was no less refined and they made barely any damage before they were being pulled up by the collars of their tunics.

Fox’s face was bloody and he licked at his lip as he looked at the man who’d pulled them apart. He saw the man’s mouth open, as if to berate them both at the same moment he seemed to recognize who Fox was. He dropped the neck of his tunic where he’d been holding him and quickly gave a short bow.

“Young Master Ocon, my deepest apologies. I’ll have young Will here whipped and fired immediately for his insolence.”

The boy across from him went pale and he opened his mouth, likely to argue.

“That won’t be necessary. The boy was too weak to do much more than pinch me.”

“Surely he must be punished, sir.”

Fox only shrugged, straightening his tunic and assessing the blood and mud smeared across it. He’d have plenty of bruises tomorrow—mostly from the boy. “Get him back to work and stop wasting my time.”

With one last sneer toward the man, he turned and marched back toward the manor. He wasn’t hungry anymore, but he’d need to change his shirt before his mother saw the mess.

CHAPTERTWENTY-EIGHT