Snow fell steadily outside the large windows of the study; each small, square pane of glass dusted lightly in white. The warmth of the fire made the windows foggy so that looking outside was a blur of pale color and shapes. The sun had begun to set, and the tall, leafless trees across the front of the sweeping lawn of the Siordanti estate cast harsh, cold shadows across the well-manicured grounds. Faintly above the fire, sounds of children laughing could be heard from somewhere in the snow.

The boy stared impatiently out the window at nothing in particular, unwilling to look into the stern, aquiline face of the man who leaned against the impressive desk in front of him. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched his father fold his arms across his chest, which only meant he had something he considered important – though most likely unpleasant – to say. Whatever it was, Nauleth had known it was coming all Winter Holiday. There had been a distinctly sour taste of tension in the air around his father for weeks. He loathed the thought that it concerned himself, but now that he was sitting uncomfortably in the stuffy leather chair between the fireplace and the window in the study alone the day before he was to be sent back to Brunnhold, the boy's suspicions could only be called confirmed.

Without waiting for his son to acknowledge his presence, Hadrian Siordanti cleared his throat in a well-practiced diplomatic manner, "Son, since you've been home this Holiday, your mother and I have been talking."

Yeah, right.

"I'd like to first mention that while I've been concerned for quite some time about the matter, it has been only recently that Lillian has expressed her same worries about your behavior at Brunnhold. How many times have we heard from the Headmaster this term?"

"I didn't know I was supposed to be counting." The boy answered indignantly, still staring out the window, his knuckles whitening from his grip on the chair arms. What was the big deal about his behavior? He'd never hurt anyone. Too much. He did well in all his classes. Did it really matter about how he chose to amuse himself? Besides, what was the difference between his bullying and his father's role in politics? Wasn't it the same out there in the real world, too?

The politician exhaled through his teeth impatiently, his dark eyes narrowing as he glared over his chiseled, hawkish nose, "Of course you wouldn't. I have come to believe that this kind of attitude is part of the problem." His father's voice was cold, but not necessarily angry. Nauleth could feel the disappointment as something tangible, almost as if it was a third person in the room. It made his skin crawl, "I've tried very hard to encourage you – not just with words but with my own example – to be ambitious and successful, and while I know you are an excellent student ... it is apparent you prefer to waste your studies by pursuing nothing but trouble outside of class."

The boy scowled, finally turning his gaze from the frosted windows, his own dark eyes broodingly meeting his father's, "If I do well enough in class, why should it matter what I do in my spare time?"

"Why should it matter?" Hadrian's voice finally rose with incredulous surprise, "Because, Nauleth, your education at Brunnhold is now past half over. You have chosen your specialization and I have had high hopes – until now – of you following in my footsteps in service to our esteemed government to keep Anaxas the powerful and superior kingdom she is."

Naul felt a tightness in his chest as his father spoke, and he managed to repeat quietly, "Until now?"

The man sighed, unfolding his arms, and leaned forward so one hand rested on the over-sized, ornately-carved arm rest of the leather chair his oldest son occupied so carelessly, "Yes. Until now. I want you to understand that this has been a very difficult decision for me, but I do not believe it is worth my time – or yours – to expect that these next four years of school are somehow going to transform you into the politician I have aspired for you to be. You have a distinct unwillingness to apply yourself that your mother and I have both waited for you to grow out of. You have not."

The boy thought for a moment he should be apologetic, but all that came to the surface was selfish anger, "So, that's it then? You called me in here to tell me you're writing me off and then you're sending me packing back to Brunnhold tomorrow?" He seethed, feeling more betrayed than disciplined, "I take it you are only telling me this now because you have someone else in mind already. Don't you?"

You've probably had them in mind for quite some time. This isn't about me. It's about you. It's always about you.

It was his father's turn to scowl, "That, my boy, is no longer your business. It is best you don't concern yourself with such things. I suggest you spend your trip back tomorrow with your siblings considering how to better spend your last four years lest you waste them further on petty rivalry and one-upping instead of preparing for a career worthy to bear the name Siordanti."

Hadrian stood, straightening his vest and clearing his throat. His voice was already distant, but he waited until he finished speaking to angrily walk away, "You still have plenty of time to make something of yourself, Nauleth. It just can't be under my shadow any longer."

The boy looked away without speaking, jaw clenched, feeling a warm rush of blood rise to his cheeks. He waited until his father had left the room and closed the door silently behind him before he even breathed again. Through his hot, angry tears and the cold, frosted panes of glass, he could see the faint shapes of his brother and sister playing in the snow.

Who could he ever find to replace me? What the clock am I supposed to do now?