Chapter 730: The Discarded Heir
Outside of Bors Lothian’s chambers, Owain leaned against the smooth stone wall, resting one hand on the hilt of his sword while the other fidgeted with the heavy signet ring on his index finger. Years of wear had dulled the finish on the once lustrous gold ring, but the stone signet was still as crisp and sharp as the day he’d received it from his father more than ten years ago.
"One day, you’ll bear the Lothian Coat of arms as the next Marquis," his father said when he asked Owain to select his personal sigil. "But before you are a lord, you are a man and a knight. The sigil you select is the one you will be known by, whether you fight in tournaments or on the field of battle against demons."
"Even after you become Marquis Lothian," Bors said sagely. "It will still be the symbol you use when you speak with your own voice and not on behalf of your people. So, what have you chosen?"
"Something strong," Owain said, unrolling a sketch he’d commissioned from one of the best artists in Lothian City. "A sword before the claw marks of a bear."
"Why the claw marks?" Bors asked, frowning slightly at the unconventional design. "Why not the head of a bear?"
"Because no one fears the bite of a bear, or its roar," Owain answered. "The teeth look scary but they aren’t what the bear kills with. A roar is loud but so what? Old men are loud too and no one fears them. But just the sight of a bear’s claw marks on a tree or barn, anywhere really, is enough to remind people of the strength that can tear them limb from limb. When people see my sigil, I don’t want them thinking about the beast, I want them to think about what it can do."
"And the sword is your declaration that you aren’t a mere beast? Rather, you’re more dangerous than a mere beast because you have brought a sword to war." Bors said, nodding in approval as he came to understand his son’s choice. "I’ll have it carved, and present it to you after you stand your vigil. I’m proud of you, Owain," Bors said warmly, resting a calloused hand on his son’s shoulder. "I’m sure that the march will be in good hands when it’s your turn to sit upon the throne."
Now, just a little over ten years later, Owain stood outside his father’s chambers, clearly set aside as his father broke every promise he’d ever made in order to groom Loman as his heir. More and more, Owain was convinced that his father’s promise to wait until the year ended to make up his mind had been a hollow delaying tactic, forcing his son to exhaust his efforts preparing for war while Loman prepared to ascend the throne.
"You’re growing sloppy, old man," Owain said under his breath while he glared at the heavy, ironbound wooden door to his father’s chambers. If his father really wanted him to believe that he still had a chance at inheriting the throne, he should never have interfered with Owain’s men.
Sending them away, forcefully commanding his son’s closest vassals to escort the pair of guild masters on their insipid inspection of the lands near the Vale of Mists was a blatant attempt to deprive Owain of the support he relied on.