Free Mordraud, Book One by Fabio Scalini

their name from their fathers, as a symbol of time-honoured prestige. Many were awaiting the ascent of the house’s last descendant, Loralon: Lorelin’s first and only son. The outcome of the war, which was slowly setting in place, was more than uncertain. Hot fiery years, rich in opportunity for anyone wishing to earn a bagful of money by fighting.
    Varno was one of those. Weary of working as a blacksmith, he hadn’t wanted to listen to reason. Eglade had cried, she’d raged in anger, but she was met with nothing but silence and stony stares.
    Her husband had changed since Mordraud’s birth.
    Eglade, try as she might to understand the Khartian mentality, found it hard to work out what was going on in her man’s mind. She’d seen him age over the years, grow old, as he would say, but this process didn’t cause her any worry. It was human nature to follow the passage of time with more apprehension and involvement. The Aelians simply had a different way of perceiving the passing of the years. As if they weren’t aware that they lived longer, just that their own lives were lived far more slowly. Not even the fact that he was gradually succumbing to age bothered her. She loved Varno for what he was, not for the way he looked. And she also loved her children to distraction, even if, from her standpoint, they grew up too quickly.
    Yet he seemed not to want to understand. She tried to explain to him what she thought, but he could only see the mean reality of the facts. Eglade still possessed that unsettling and vaguely non-human beauty, the same as when they had first met. Her blue eyes were as bright as they once were, her skin still smooth and completely flawless. To make things worse, there was also the children’s inexplicable – at least for the Khartian – abnormal growth. Brilliant minds trapped in stunted bodies.
    Varno wasn’t actually pursuing money, or a better job. He’d never been a good soldier. Quite the opposite. What was driving him was to stay away from a family that seemed ever younger to him, year after year, while he was growing old. They’d still be alive and well long after his death. Too long for him to accept.
    Unchanged by the decades. Preserved in a youthfulness he realised he sordidly envied.
    To tarnish things further, Varno didn’t nurture the same fondness for Mordraud he felt for Dunwich, his first child and the one who reminded him of the early years of romance with Eglade. A wonderful era, of love and hardships they’d overcome together, united as if they were one and the same person. A couple without concerns.
    With no worries for the future .
    Instead , Mordraud had become – and became more so by the day – the symbol of that difference standing between him and Eglade. The rift in the perception of time that his mind was unable to bridge.
    He could find no beauty in his son ’s green eyes.
    He saw only Aris’s insane irises staring at him steeped in hatred. Bent over him as he tried to kill him. The same dense green, rich in nuances.
    Sometimes he even wondered if Mordraud really was his son.
    Varno was fleeing. But he didn’t feel he was behaving vilely.
    They were the one s who weren’t human.
    ***
    “How long will you be home?”
    “ All winter.”
    “ You say it as if it bothered you.”
    Varno didn’t reply. Eglade was clearing the table after the dinner, while Mordraud played alone in the room next door. He was spinning a little red whirligig in boredom.
    “ It doesn’t,” Varno grunted, without looking at her.
    The war campaign had gone tremendously. Changing sides had been the right decision. Eldain’s rebels were more motivated and knew the land far better. The pay was less, but more regular. Eglade, as usual, did not approve. And never lost a chance to let him notice it.
    “ You’re fighting against the city our son’s studying in!”
    Always the same topic, Varno mused. Every time they had to talk.
    Luckily for him, this happened very seldom.
    “ The