“Sire, the man you… disciplined the other day has died from his wounds.” - Veran said to the boyar during breakfast the next morning.
It was mandatory for the boys to eat in the presence of their father. They didn’t talk to each other, so they shared the rattling of knives and the sound of water pouring into their cups. Veran tried to be discrete, but the acoustics in the dining room carried his news to the ears of everyone at the table.
Just for a moment, the sounds that accompanied their breakfast stopped. The Bozmaroff boys kept their eyes locked on their plates, pretending they hadn’t heard a thing. Then each one picked up the bread from their plate and continued eating.
“He had a son, didn’t he?”
“A boy, not older than Ozren.” - Veran said, remembering the boy with the pale blue eyes.
Ivan took a bite of a ripe tomato, a drop of watery red juice flowing down his chin.
“Find him something to do in the keep. He can clean and watch over the horses. We can put him on guard duty in a few years if he can hold a sword.” - Ivan said in a rare moment of conscience.
“I give those people land to work and feed their families, yet they steal from us. I bring priests and speakers here. I make feasts for them and give them everything they want. I only ask them to call their gods to aid, but they mock us. Maybe the gods themselves want to see house Bozmaroff fall, but I won’t let this happen. We have only each other, and it’s high time we took matters into our own hands.”