Page 184 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

“You didn’t say anything?” His uncle hid any surprise, but Roremar could tell from the minute wrinkle of his nose that he’d caught him off guard. When would Aldryn stop underestimating him?

“Haven’t had much time now, have I?” Roremar lifted his chained wrists and let them crash to the floor. “It took me a few hours to realize why I recognized it. Then, I was suspicious. You’d been acting odd. Showing up at our house, pulling Emmeline back to the Academy. It was just another reason for me to be wary of you.”

“Another?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know how I feel. I’m my father’s son, am I not?” The truths were pouring out now like red fucking wine staining the relationship between them.

“Tell me, Roremar. What else do you think of me?” Aldryn crossed his arms, looking down at him. It wasn’t derision or hate, simply curiosity quirking his brow.

“My father had no love for you, and he was the best man I’ve ever known, so there must be a reason why.”

He shrugged. “Your father disagreed with my aspirations.”

“Of how you want to control Lyra?”

Aldryn nodded.

“That’s what everything you do goes back to, isn’t it? Every move you make—it’s all a chess match. Lyra is your prize.” He thought about how the isle had been suffering lately, how certain places seemed immune but trades like Desmond’s ink were impacted. “You’re restricting what comes and goes on the isle, aren’t you? You allow places like the Mezzanine to import whatever they need, because you have a financial stake in their success, and you restrict others. You allow drugs to be smuggled in through other imports and tell Isle Guard it’s not a priority so people will be happy even if it endangers them. So everyone will be under your control.”

Aldryn didn’t deny it.

“Fucking Fates.” Roremar looked back at the ceiling, pulling up every thread of memory. “The Snake Charmer knows, and my father did, too. It’s why you allow the serpent to work on this isle and why you and my father never got along.” Not that Lyra had been suffering as greatly when Deacon Silventa was alive, but he’d spotted those ambitions in Aldryn, and he’d stood against him.

What would life be like now if he hadn’t died?

“That’s pretty fucking despicable, you know?” Roremar asked, not expecting a response.

But Aldryn said, “The continent has ignored the Constellation Isles for centuries—until it pleases them. We deserve to be independent of their influence or to have a seat on their council and a hand in decisions that impact the entire clan. I am simply going to get us there.”

Roremar didn’t see how that would play out, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like he could change anything from in here.

“My suspicions of you when I saw that cloak at Desmond’s mother’s weren’t quite on track. You were there because you knew of Des’s illegal trading.”

A sharp nod.

“It was you Emmeline saw on the cliffs with him the night of the first murder, wasn’t it?” For weeks Roremar’s suspicion had been growing. He’d been putting the pieces together while he laid here, trying to figure out how his uncle fit into this entire mess.

“It was,” Aldryn confirmed. “Though, I didn’t know she was there until you informed me of her accusation of Desmond being the killer.”

“What a fucking mess that was.” Roremar dragged a hand over his face. “You weren’t going to charge Des with anything?”

“Not if he remained discreet. He and I are in the process of working out a deal, and it’s in both of our best interests to allow him to operate as he has been. But I did visit his mother’s new home to ensure he was being honest about what he was importing. Due diligence and all that.”

Control. That was how Falliare fit into all of this. He was the most powerful man on the Constellation Isles, and he orchestrated deals and arranged trade very precisely to keep it that way. A master upholding the balance, pulling every string to give the slightest bit when he needed it to, but never allowing anyone to wrench them from his grasp.

“Remember, Roremar, very little occurs on this isle that I do not know about.”

That truth sank like a rock in his chest, deep into the void that had ripped wide with Nico’s death.

“Even this?” he verified, holding up his cuffed wrists once again.

His uncle nodded. “Even that.”

“How long had you known?” Roremar asked.

“I suspected for over a decade.” The confession punched Roremar in the gut, ricocheting him back to that moment, but at least they were finally having a fucking honest conversation about it.

“That all?” he joked. “A little slow on the uptake.”