In the morning, the Vane estate sounded like a battlefield of aggressively genuine affection.
Tristan paused at the top of the grand staircase, fixing the collar of a cream jumper depicting an illustrated reindeer—a gift from Sarah, Julian’s mother. It was the sort of goofy clothing he could never wear at home—or anywhere beyond the safety of the Vane estate—unless he wanted to be exiled from the family sooner than planned. Wearing Rudolph’s face was his quiet way of showing appreciation. Here, he didn’t have to be an O’Dorchaidhe heir. He could just be Tristan.
Through the thick oak panelling, he could already hear the dining room’s cacophony: Ted’s booming laugh echoing off the stone walls like a cannon, silver cutlery clinking against porcelain, and Aunt Margaret fretting loudly over whether the berry pastries were still warm. The extended family arrived that morning, more Vanes and Blackwoods and Purnells, equal parts bickering and laughing as they crowded the warm breakfast banquet.
It was… sweet. Almost always too sweet.
Growing up at O’Dorchaidhe Manor, breakfasts were conducted with quiet efficiency. You did not speak unless addressed. You did not pass the clotted cream. You certainly did not wear hand-knitted jumpers to the table, unless you wanted your father to stare at you with such chilling disappointment you’d consider fasting for a week. Over the past few years, Tristan had grown genuinely fond of the Vane family’s unscripted warmth. Every year it was easier to be at ease—until yesterday.
Gwen was here now, too.
Letting himself breathe around the Vanes was one thing; doing it under his sister’s watchful, analytical eye was another. Both survived the same cold, gilded cage, yet Tristan had mastered wearing his armour like a velvet cloak he could adjust with the weather, whereas Gwen wore hers as if it were stapled to her skin. He was still re-learning how to be unguarded around her—how to be a brother instead of an ally.
Tristan adjusted Rudolph’s red pom-pom nose one last time, then descended the remaining stairs and paused just inside the breakfast room’s archway, leaning his shoulder against the wooden frame to take in the chaos.
Pale yellow light streamed through the arched windows overlooking the snow-blanketed Vane gardens. Indoors, however, vibrant colours splattered festive vignettes everywhere—cluttered evergreen garlands, red velvet ribbons, silent golden bells—and a table piled high with breakfast platters overflowing with sausages, eggs, and pastries.
And at the centre of it all was Julian.
To any casual observer, Julian Vane looked like he was simply floating through the morning on natural positivity—like a golden retriever waking from a pleasant nap, ready to run circles wherever he pleased. He leaned against the sideboard, a steaming mug in hand, laughing at a joke Ted made.
But Tristan knew better. Tristan watched the careful choreography playing out beneath the surface. He caught the moment Ted turned to Professor Edward Vane, clearly about to ask how much Will knew about Alec’s history with the Circle or the legendary duel that won him the chair position.
“Dad,” Julian chimed in smoothly, stepping casually between his father and the sideboard, “didn’t you promise Great-Aunt Penny you’d check the flue in the library? She’s talked about that draft for a week now.”
Ted mumbled, chewing around an omelette, “Short Round said he wanted to give it a go.”
“Short Round made it bigger last time,” Julian warned. “For quick escapes, remember?”
Ted blinked, then swallowed hard. “Right. Forgot ‘bout that. Good thinking, son.” He wiped his hands on a napkin and headed out toward the hall.
Tristan smirked behind his hand. Deflection one: complete.
Next came Aunt Margaret, bustling toward the fresh toast and hovering near the door like a hungry griffin, ready to pounce on Will the moment he entered.
“Aunt Margaret,” Julian murmured, catching her by the elbow with a warm, dimpled smile as he steered her toward the tea service. “Leave the marmalade for Will. He mentioned last night he’d never had the ginger blend. Let him dig in before you fuss over him, yeah?”
Aunt Margaret scoffed playfully. “I don’t fuss,” she said. But she patted Julian’s arm and settled back into her chair. Deflection two: success.
When Great-Aunt Penny opened her mouth, her sharp eyes gleaming with the unmistakable intent to grill Will on his stance regarding the Circle’s upcoming vote, Julian was already there. He leaned down and whispered something in her ear about a rare ancient sigils text—a bribe he’d asked Tristan to smuggle from the O’Dorchaidhe family’s collection—now set aside for her in the library, disarming the political landmine before the fuse even lit.
Deflection three: effortless.
Finally, Julian slid around the long walnut table to adjust the place settings. With deliberate, quiet care, he pulled out the high-backed armchair to reserve Will’s place—the seat of honour at the centre of the table—and secured the next spot for Gwen.
Across the table, Howard Vane gave a quiet, exasperated eye-roll at the placement but said nothing. Julian flashed his grandfather a bright, innocent grin that dared the patriarch to challenge it.
Tristan shifted against the doorframe, quiet admiration warming his naturally icy composure.
Everyone at Cairn-Gait—and more than half the Ink families—thought Julian was just the easygoing boy who sailed through life on optimism and good connections. They didn’t see the observant, fiercely compassionate mind operating behind those bright hazel eyes. Julian never volunteered to lead, but he couldn’t help himself behind the scenes. Without anyone asking, he managed the room’s emotional altitude, ensuring Will felt welcome without being smothered and Gwen felt like an honoured guest rather than an O’Dorchaidhe intruder.
Tristan knew that brilliance better than anyone. Those qualities had saved Tristan during his first two years at Cairn-Gait. When Tristan had been drowning beneath the suffocating weight of his father’s demands, fighting to keep his cold O’Dorchaidhe mask from cracking, Julian had been the only one sharp enough to see through the performance—and gentle enough to guide him out of the dark.
Julian glanced up toward the doorway, his eyes locking onto Tristan. Julian gave him a conspiratorial wink.
Tristan suppressed a smile, pushed off the doorframe, and stepped fully into the room. “Good morning, everyone,” he announced smoothly. “I trust we’re all prepared to lose horribly at cards later?”
The morning melted into a blur of clattering cutlery, shared tea, curious conversation, and Julian’s charming diplomacy—giving way before anyone realized the hours had slipped past.
By late afternoon, the lazy winter sun had dipped behind the snow-dusted firs, casting a deep indigo wash across the garden windows. Inside the parlour, however, the hearth roared with crackling oak logs, bathing the grey armchairs in amber light and filling the air with the rich, comforting scent of hot buttered spiced cider.
On the low walnut coffee table sat the source of the evening’s upcoming chaos: two worn, velvet-lined boxes containing the customized, gold-embossed cards for Vane Deck-Shuffling.
Tristan leaned back against the mantelpiece, cradling a porcelain mug of cider—extra-spiced with Howard’s private-reserve whisky—and watched with quiet amusement as the family assembled around the table like generals preparing for war.
Vane Deck-Shuffling was less a card game and more merry insanity. It was a century-old tradition governed by contradictory house rules that seemed to evolve based on whoever yelled loudest.
“Right then!” Ted announced, shuffling two decks at once. “Basic rules for the uninitiated: play moves clockwise—and it’s Wednesday, so we reverse when Chalices are drawn. Anything less than three of a suit is up for grabs; anything more, and you can deny to keep your hand. If you get Great-Aunt Penny’s favourite card—the Queen of Owls—make up any move to let her have it.”
Sitting beside Will on the plush festive rug, Gwen stared at Ted as if he had just explained advanced numerology in a foreign dialect. Her grey eyes narrowed, her mind firing through logical frameworks as she tried to construct a rule-book out of thin air. Good luck with that, Gweny. There is no logic when the Vanes play.
Tristan took a slow sip of cider, hiding a smirk behind his mug. Poor Gwen. A game driven by whimsy, petty family grudges, and emotional momentum was completely beyond her analytical brain. It took Tristan three full Christmases to stop trying to optimize a strategy, swallow his hyper-competitive O’Dorchaidhe pride, and simply appreciate that the Vanes kept inviting him back.
Beside her, Will looked equally lost, his brow furrowing as Ted dealt him seven cards. “Wait—so if I lay down this King of Wands, do I draw two or pass to my left?”
“Neither!” Great-Aunt Penny declared triumphantly, slapping down a card with a flourish. “You surrender your lowest card to the youngest player.”
“Which is me,” Nico Blackwood said flatly, palm open and waiting. “Hand it over, cousin.”
Will handed over the two of Chalices, forehead furrowed and bewildered. “I have no idea what’s happening.”
“Nobody does, cousin. That’s the trick,” Julian whispered loudly.
As the players moved through rounds, Tristan watched Julian execute his real strategy. Julian wasn’t playing to win; he was playing to break down Will’s remaining guard.
When Will timidly played a weak card, Julian groaned in dramatic disappointment and intentionally played a bad card that practically set up Will’s winning suit. Two turns later, when Will needed a red suit to avoid a penalty, Julian accidentally dropped his own hand face-up on the rug, revealing a cluster of red cards, and feigned distress as Will picked up on the hint and claimed the point.
The cheating was so blatant, so delightfully unrepentant, that Tristan had to disguise a sudden burst of laughter with a sharp throat-clearing, hiding his widening smile behind his glass. He took another long sip of the whisky-laced cider, welcoming the pleasant heat spreading through his chest as he stood safely on the sidelines.
“You cheat!” Ted barked, squinting across the table at his son. “Did you just slide him another Chalice card under the mug, Julian? You know I needed my turn next to win.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Dad,” Julian replied smoothly, holding his hands up in mock surrender while nudging another winning card toward Will’s side of the board with his socked foot. “My hands have been clean all evening.”
Will looked between Julian’s terrible poker face, Ted’s theatrical outrage, and the absurdity of the score pile accumulating in front of him.
A deep, loud laugh erupted from Will’s chest—triggering a chain reaction of laughter and call-outs as the other cousins spotted Julian’s obvious manipulations. Great-Aunt Penny’s eyes widened as she realized her unusual losing streak wasn’t bad luck, but sabotage.
“How did you get so many Chalices to pass Will?” Ellison wheezed, throwing his cards down in surrender.
“Maybe smirk less when you cheat, Julian,” Nico remarked, allowing a dry, approving smile.
“I’ve heard of stuffing cards up your sleeve, but how many were you keeping in those socks?” Will laughed, shaking his head as he threw his cards onto the pile.
“I’m a sorcerer. Not a magician,” Julian grinned, leaning back on his elbows and basking in the chaos. Tristan felt an unexpected swell of pride in his chest as he watched Julian’s elaborate plan pay off.
Tristan glanced at his sister across the room. Gwen’s tight posture finally slackened, and a soft smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she watched Will laugh freely. She caught Tristan looking, their faces warm from the fire, the laughter—and perhaps the cider. For a quiet breath, they shared a shy, knowing smile. An unspoken understanding passed between the two O’Dorchaidhe siblings: This was what family was supposed to feel like.
Tristan raised his mug in a private toast to his sister, feeling a rare, genuine peace settle over him.
As twilight deepened into a velvety winter night, the parlour’s high stone walls flickered in the soft, golden radiance of the towering spruce tree. Hundreds of warm-white bulbs lit delicate glass ornaments—many bearing the Vane griffin crest—casting shimmering, amber reflections across the ceiling.
Two giddy, knee-high estate hobgoblins pattered through the room. Short Round was dazzled in tinsel, while his partner side-eyed him with enough theatrical despair to suggest a cry for help. They handed everyone slips of thick paper and silver pens.
Gwen stared down at her blank slip as if she’d been handed a venomous toad. “Is this another card game?” she asked cautiously.
“No,” Julian smiled, leaning against the sofa arm with a soft look. “It’s the Confession Yule Log.”
In the centre of the massive hearth lay a fresh, heavy log of gnarled oak, its bark etched unevenly with glowing runes. Over the past Christmases, Tristan had learned to read those marks—the ones that regulated the heat, the ones that kept the carpet from accidentally catching fire, and the safety wards that kept the paper slips from blowing back into the room.
“Every year before Solstice,” Ted explained, his usual booming voice dropping into a quiet, unexpectedly solemn register normally reserved for deep-cut film trivia, “we write down a regret, a secret, or a pain from the past year that we no longer wish to carry. We tuck them into the bark, and we let the fire consume them so we can step into the new year unburdened.”
Tristan stepped back into the amber shadows near the bookshelves and idly twirled his pen. He watched the Vanes approach the hearth one by one.
Howard Vane stepped up first. The imposing patriarch’s rough hands shook as he tucked his folded paper deep into a fissure in the oak. He lingered there for a breath, his eyes closed against the firelight. Ted followed right behind, placing his own slip beside Howard’s and resting a heavy, grounding hand on his father’s shoulder. The cousins moved through the ritual with the breezy efficiency of people who hadn’t yet accumulated decades of crushing regrets, tossing their notes into the bark and stepping back to grab more cider.
Then came Will.
Tristan leaned his shoulder against an oak shelf and watched closely. Will stepped forward and tucked his note neatly under a curl of oak bark. As his fingers pulled away, the runes etched into the wood flared brightly—the ward designed to consume secrets writhing and warping with the smallest touch of Will’s resonance, twisting into an erratic shape Tristan didn’t recognize before settling back into its safe, familiar glow.
Tristan’s brow twitched. Fascinating.
From across the room, Tristan caught Gwen’s movement near the heavy velvet drapes.
She stood half-shrouded in shadow, staring at her paper, her lips pressed in a thin line and pen pinched in a white-knuckled grip. After a long, breathless pause, she deliberately tore the slip in half. She tossed one half into the hearth and slipped the other into her skirt pocket.
Tristan’s chest tightened with recognition. Gwen wasn’t ready to burn all her ghosts just yet.
When the room grew quiet, Tristan stepped out from the shadows. He didn’t write a confession of sin or a tearful apology for past mistakes. In his sharp, elegant script, he’d written a single phrase: Father’s expectations.
He slid the note deep into a split in the log, severing another thread of Lord O’Dorchaidhe’s crushing legacy.
Ted raised his hand and uttered a low incantation as the signet ring on his thumb shimmered with his resonance. Sparks caught along the dry bark, tiny orange tongues licking across the rough wood and greedily consuming the paper slips.
A quiet, warm reverie fell over the parlour. The crackle of burning oak and the sweet, resinous scent of smoke filled the air as the family stood shoulder to shoulder in the glow.
Tristan leaned his shoulder against the bookshelf, his eyes drifting across the firelight to Will. Standing beside Gwen and flanked by the Vanes, Will’s defensive edge seemed to melt. For the first time since Tristan met him at Cairn-Gait, Will didn’t look like an outsider trying to survive the room. He looked like he belonged.
The parlour slowly emptied as midnight approached. Dim candles burned down to pooling wax in their brass holders, casting long, lazy shadows across the rug. The low coffee table remained scattered with empty whisky glasses, forgotten cards, and mugs bearing the dried dregs of spiced cider and chamomile tea.
One by one, the Vanes whispered tired goodnights and retreated upstairs. When the last door clicked shut down the hall, Julian nudged Tristan’s elbow with a quiet, knowing smirk.
Without a word, they slipped away into the dimly lit corridors, heading toward the east wing library—Tristan’s absolute favourite room in the entire estate.
It was the very space Julian had used as a sham excuse back in their teen years, inviting an impossibly guarded Tristan over for winter break under the guise of ‘rare ancient texts only seen by Vane eyes.’ Tristan had known even then that Julian said it only so Tristan could use the academic alibi on his father. But it was the first time anyone had offered him a refuge without demanding a pound of flesh in return.
Now, the Vanes’ grand library was cool and quiet, smelling of spruce, beeswax, and centuries of bound leather. Pale moonlight poured through the high leaded-glass bay window, painting silver geometric patterns across the hardwood floor.
They settled into the deep, velvet-cushioned window seat, pulling a heavy plaid wool blanket over both their laps against the chill radiating off the stone frame. Julian leaned back against the wood panelling, stretching his long legs out, while Tristan pulled his knees up beside him, resting back against Julian’s chest to absorb the steady warmth straight through his reindeer jumper.
Outside, soft, silent snow fell over the gardens. Tristan glanced away from the heavy leather-bound tome on his lap to watch Short Round trundle through the glittering slopes, clumsily rolling snowballs to build a lopsided snow-hobgoblin. A second estate hobgoblin stood nearby, watching with steely-eyed annoyance before purposefully sweeping snow over Short Round’s footprints to preserve the illusion of an unmarred lawn.
Julian reached up, his thumb idly tracing the curve of Tristan’s jaw before resting his chin against Tristan’s crown.
“You were quiet during the Yule Log,” Julian murmured, his voice a low, rumbling vibration against Tristan’s spine.
“I was observing,” Tristan replied softly.
“You mean drinking.”
Tristan offered a dry, unrepentant hum. “Not my fault your grandfather kept offering to top me up. Someone had to show basic manners.”
“At least he likes one O’Dorchaidhe.” Julian let out a faint, quiet breath that ruffled Tristan’s hair. “It’s not like there’s some big difference between you and Gwen.”
“She did break Clooney’s heart,” Tristan reminded him. “Lucky for Will, they decided to holiday somewhere tropical this year. Spare us all.”
“Like my granfather remembers who Clooney dates,” Julian muttered. “You’ve just had more practice being less of a clinical sociopath.”
Tristan calmly lifted his book and delivered a light forehead smack. Julian flinched with a playful yelp and wrestled for the spine, but Tristan easily scooted out of reach to the other end of the window seat. Julian surrendered, palms raised and smirking. Rule number one of the O’Dorchaidhe-Vane alliance: no one came between Tristan and his books.
Tristan accepted the surrender, settled back down, and reopened his book. Julian fixed the wool blanket over their legs and playfully nudged Tristan’s feet, but Tristan refused to be distracted, ignoring the ticklish trails Julian traced. He was determined to finish the chapter on tracing hollows before Christmas morning.
After a quiet moment of watching the snow fall, Julian stopped fidgeting, his posture straightening against the wood panelling. “My mum almost had a heart attack during charades last night, you know.”
Tristan didn’t look up from the page, though his eyes stalled over a paragraph on resonance binding. “I noticed. The teacup nearly achieved low orbit.”
“I was scared for a second there,” Julian admitted, his playful ease hardened into something raw and strained. He looked across at Tristan, his hazel eyes catching the moonlight. “Not for me. But I kept thinking… if they couldn’t accept Gwen, what would that mean for you? Gwen’s finally turning back into a human being. If Grandfather chased her out, or my mum scared her off by being too pushy… that would hurt you. I can’t stand the thought of you feeling unwanted in my house.”
Tristan fell silent, his gaze drifting away from the text and back to the falling snow. The hobgoblins had retreated inside, leaving two lopsided snow-sculptures alone in the dark.
In the O’Dorchaidhe household, family was transactional. It cost leverage, duty, and conditional approval, all of which Lord O’Dorchaidhe could revoke at the slightest misstep or failure to align with his grand design. Love wasn’t a foundation; it was a reward handed out in microscopic doses for obedience.
“It’s strange to feel… protected,” Tristan confessed quietly, his fingers tangling into the fringe of the wool blanket. “Not just tolerated as a necessary evil.” He offered a faint, self-deprecating huff. “Last Christmas, seeing Gwen here would’ve been a nightmare. But watching her today—failing at charades—really horribly…” A small, genuine smile touched his mouth. “It’s more than I hoped for. Like there’s a future—where we laugh at the same stupid stories and don’t avoid each other in the halls. My mind is already planning—” He caught himself and sighed. It was foolish to believe words alone could jinx possibilities, but he held his tongue anyway. “It’s just strange to feel like I actually belong somewhere.”
“You belong here,” Julian whispered, reaching forward to squeeze Tristan’s hand.
Tristan closed the heavy book with a soft thud. Abandoning his reading, he slid across the cushions. He curled back against Julian’s side, resting his head comfortably on Julian’s shoulder as he looked up at Julian’s face in the moonlight.
For twenty years, Tristan had believed his life’s blueprint was written in stone: graduate, secure an appropriate seat within the Sorcery Secretariat, marry some bloodline-approved Ink girl his mother picked, wear the rigid crown his father designed for him, and live as an isolated pawn in an endless game of power.
But sitting here in the quiet dark, tangled in Julian’s unconditional warmth, listening to the soft murmur of a house full of people who welcomed him without reservation, a surprising, terrifying notion bloomed in his chest.
Lord O’Dorchaidhe’s house had been built on fear, pride, and bloodlines. But family wasn’t a cage you were born into; it was a structure you built with your own hands. It was Gwen’s quiet, unyielding loyalty. It was Sarah Vane’s tearful, unhesitating embrace. It was Julian, loving him patiently, tearing down Tristan’s walls piece by piece until there was nothing left to hide behind.
He didn’t have to be his father’s son forever. He had a real home now—one he had chosen for himself.
When the time finally came to face his father, maybe he wouldn’t be breaking away from the chains of the O’Dorchaidhe legacy alone. Already, he knew who would hand him the keys. When he was ready.
Their fingers laced together beneath the warm wool blanket, and Tristan pulled Julian’s wrist up to kiss his pulse. Julian shivered as Tristan’s cold lips touched the heat of his quickened pulse.
“Thank you,” Tristan breathed.
Julian squeezed his hand firmly, his voice thick. “Wild perytons couldn’t drag me away, Tris.”