Golwin tossed the flat stones onto the table, smiling at the result. The combination wasn’t so rare, but he hadn’t needed rare. His planning had been so that almost any throw would have won the game for him at this point. It almost too easy. The boy picked up his piece on the map and knocked over his opponent’s.

“It is finished,” said the boy.

The old man across the map board nodded. “So it is.” He took the fallen piece then sat back in his chair, staring at the boy while he fingered the piece.

“How did you learn to play map strategy?” he said.

“My dad,” replied the boy, gesturing to the man behind him. Both father and son had the black unruly hair and olive skin of the Cosaires.

The old man, John was his name, nodded again, then addressed the father. “You are right, he is very good.” Then he leaned forward, intense. “I will take him.”

Golwin flinched, “Father?” He knocked his chair over standing up, moved behind the safety of his father’s leg, grabbing a handful of fabric to keep his place there. His father grabbed his arm and pulled him back to the front.

Feren looked at his son with eyes that watered. “There is not enough food over the winter. John will teach you.”

Golwin shook his head.

“You’ll come back, Gol. You’ll come back. When it is warm, I promise you.”

Golwin clutched his father’s neck. “I want mommy. I want Dana and Sasha and Jaren and Merl and… I didn’t mean to win, I don’t want to go.”

“He will teach you better than we can,” said Feren. He tried to pry his son off, his failure speaking at his own reluctance at the departure. He looked at John to help. 

John gestured to a servant who walked forward and took the boy from behind, clutching Golwin tightly as the boy flailed. “Father!” The servant carried him from the patio into the house, and the boy’s screams faded into the stone.

“I never had a son,” John said.

“Then you’ll not know what it is to lose one,” Feren said.

“He’s not lost. I will let him back in the warmer months.”

“What will you teach him? Your religion? Your superiority? If I didn’t wonder which of my family would die over this winter…”

“Little you know of what MY religion is.” John slumped back into his chair. “Little do I know what it is these days.”

John stared at the losing piece in his fingers. “Feren, childhood friend, I will keep your son safe this winter and the next and the next, and he’ll always come back to his family joyful of who he is. As much as I can have control over such a thing.”

Feren clenched his jaw, his fists, his whole body straining to run inside and retrieve his son. “Thank you,” he said, then he turned around and left.