The slave boy pulled the juicy meat from the flaming stove and set it on a plate; he winced as his broken arm was jostled. Just as the last piece of meat was pulled from the stove, Ammato heard the routine creak of the front door opening.

“Welcome home, Master,” Ammato called out, eager to hear news of the meeting, though his stomach started gnawing in fear.

“Come here, Ammato,” the boy heard Attila order in a strange tone the slave hadn’t before heard.

The boy complied readily after extinguishing the flame before him; the front door closed and a familiar scent met Ammato’s nose; what is that? He asked himself. Was it ... was it meshiblossom? It can’t be, Ammato thought, only drii smells like-

Ammato stopped in mid-stride after stepping into the main room; his father stood next to Attila. Niconon’s expressive face broke into a wide grin of relief, and he rushed forward to embrace his youngest son. The man avoided the deeps hugs to which Ammato was so used, but the king greatly feared making any of the injuries Attila had explained worse.

“Oh, my son,” Niconon muttered, his voice lower than a whisper and Ammato nearly cried. Niconon wound his fingers through his son’s short hair and planted kiss upon kiss upon kiss across Ammato’s angular face. The boy nuzzled into his father’s warm neck with closed eyes and breathed in the beautiful scent of his father’s favorite flower.

“You don’t know how I’ve missed you,” Niconon whispered; he pulled away and held Ammato’s face between his small, strong hands.

Ammato smiled and didn’t bother to stifle the tears running from his light green eyes. “I’ve missed you, too, drii.” The boy wrapped his good arm around his father’s thin waist.

Niconon gave a sob out of joy and his grin widened, “Guess what?” the king asked in his native tongue, drawing a scowl from Attila who loathed the difficult, tedious language.

Ammato leaned forward in to his father’s arms, “What?”

The king rested his cheek against his son’s, “Attila has allowed me to stay with you tonight. I-I must leave when the sun rises, but … but that’s better than nothing, right?” Ammato’s overjoyed expression made Niconon’s joy blossom tenfold; the boy hugged his father tighter and erased the scowl from Attila’s face.

“Do you get to eat with us tonight, drii?” Ammato asked, this time in Mam’Sa – the universal trade language – with a bright shine in his eyes.

Niconon nodded his head. The man’s wide smiled diminished slightly, however, as his youngest son looked to Attila and spoke, “Thank you, Master,” with the utmost sincerity.

Attila stepped forward, “Of course, Ammato. You know how much I love to see you smile.” A smirk formed on the Mysoinyian’s face as the hint of jealousy crossed Niconon’s. Attila ruffled up Ammato short hair and the slave laughed softly, “Why don’t you get back into the kitchen? I’m sure the food misses you.”

Ammato nodded his head, but quietly asked, “Can my father come with me?”

Attila crossed his arms and gave Niconon a lengthy stare while walking closer to the shorter man. The Mysoinyian did not see Ammato’s smile partially fall, “As long as your father,” Attila finally spoke, “calls me ‘Master’, then, yes, he may go with you.” After a glance to Ammato, Attila returned his gaze on Niconon, “Do you agree with this, Your Majesty.”

Niconon felt his face turning a light shade of crimson, but he bit the inside of his mouth to quell his anger. This is for Ammato, he reminded himself, Ammato is more important than pride. The king gave a slow nod a moment later, “Y-yes, I agree … Master,” he added reluctantly. Attila’s toothy grin made Niconon’s stomach twist in shame, but one look to Ammato justified the disgraceful words, “Come on, Ammato. Let’s go to the kitchen.”