"I'm not your son," Lathael snapped, twisting around to face you. Despite the scowl on his face and the way his brows furrowed in thinly concealed rage, there were tears misting his eyes. "You no longer need to play the part of pretending to be my parent. Rejoice! It's not as though you wanted me."

Neither you nor Syvis had planned on taking in a child. You didn’t want him, not truly. You were human, after all, and he was an elf. Perhaps you merely raised him out of pity. The only people who could’ve wanted him are dead under the King’s orders.

His father’s orders.

There’d been a time where Lathael believed Syvis was his father. Blood relation hadn’t mattered then. What a wide-eyed, simple child he’d been. Alfwen had been the only one to reveal the truth: that Lathael was King Aiwin’s bastard son, born before Aiwin married that human, and it was Aiwin who gave the command to kill Lathael’s mother and grandfather and stage it as an accident. Somehow Lathael was spared, sent away.

Alfwen was the only one Lathael could trust. For thirteen years he’d known, but now he would act. The throne would be his, and you were not going to stop his plans.

“I should be king,” he said to you. He didn’t know if he fully believed those words. Lathael swore he would, though. He’d repeat it again and again until he did. “Aiwin mocks Vesta for naming his half-elf daughter heir while humans are fighting to claim more of our land. She shares blood with the ones who spill our own!”

The words felt stiff, wrong. Lathael continued, determined to prove a point. “I’d nearly forgotten those are your people as well. Perhaps you’d prefer seeing someone more human on the throne, too.”

“Lathael,” Syvis hissed in warning. Suddenly he felt like a child being scolded by his father. He almost took his words back, almost apologized. Then he thought of his mother, how she must’ve begged her assailant to spare him. Syvis and you were not his parents.

He needed to leave the two of you behind. This was the path he needed to take.