Arenor of Arnath quit his vigil at the window and cut a restless path through plush rugs and stone, forth and back, as the Duke spoke, for he felt ill at ease beneath the vaulted ceilings and at once trapped by the paintings upon the walls. Each ancestor glared at him, it seemed, each with his own eyes, and yet he knew not one name. Not one, apart from his mother's. These strangers of his blood lay heavy upon him like the silken cloak prisoning his shoulders. It guttered along his back as he paced, as he listened to the young man, for so he imagined the beautiful Nikolas, perhaps 25 or thereabouts rather than of ages with him. His staff floated to his hand and he seized it without thought. Something bright yet dark emanated from the wood and sapphire jewel, like a shadow set afire. It flared like a newly-lit candle and then mellowed. If Nikolas were to meet Arenor's eyes just then, he might notice their hazel depths echoing the lighted darkness.<br/><br/>The Duke's words surprised him, did not please him, and yet Arenor ceased his pacing and drew himself up to his full height. Exhaustion painted shadows beneath his eyes, and his faint smile had died. The sorcerer wished nothing more than to sink into a two-day sleep, and yet he must keep up his pride and moderate his rage and darkness, he knew, and begin somewhere with this duke. "This is your history," he began. His mother's ring weighted his finger like a curse; he clenched that hand into a slow fist at his side.<br/><br/>"Your mother and grandfather -- I know of them. Jessamine spoke their names on her deathbed." Arenor's voice softened over the name for an instant, as it had with Alain. Yet as he locked gazes with the violet-eyed Nikolas, his eyes blazed cold and unblinking. "As allies and friends, and yet they ruled here, as you rule, in the ashes of her bloodline. Now, you will know what became of Jessamine after she fled. One of your religious creatures…" He grimaced. "A sorcerer came upon her in the woods and struck her with a blast of power. She collapsed, a 15-year-old girl, pregnant, and was left for dead. Hours later, she crawled to safety in agony. Yes, she survived. She survived in pain until the end of her days, an exile."<br/><br/>For each word Arenor had spoken, he'd left out countless details, for he was not a talkative man at the best of times. The words came rough and heavy with weariness. "She told me nothing of my heritage until the last days of her life. I am a sorcerer, as you see. I know of balance, of vengeance, of the circle which must be closed. Jessamine's enemies cheated her of her fate and ripped apart her life. My child, Alain, is of our blood and has been cheated as Jessamine was cheated. Alain belongs here as Jessamine did. I will restore this bloodline. That is my fate."<br/><br/>Arenor broke their gaze and tilted his head up to the paintings, at the mute history which shackled him to this room and time and indeed to the duke himself. "It is not one I would have chosen."