Consequence of a Kiss (3)
Dragonsfall Weyr
Amber Hills Hold
Vintner Hall
Healer Hall
Hidden Meadows
Dolphin Cove Weyr
Dolphin Hall
Emerald Falls Hold
Harper Hall
Printer Hall
Green Valley Hold
Leeward Lagoon Hold
Barrier Lake Weyr
Sunstone Seahold
Citrus Bay Hold
Writers: Kane
Date Posted: 7th February 2026
Characters: P'yanka, Yorok
Description: Peyanka faces Yorok’s judgement
Location: Sunstone Seahold
Date: month 13, day 16 of Turn 12
Notes: Directly follows Consequence of a Kiss (2)
Yorok filled the doorway, broad-shouldered and furious, his face carved into disgust so deep it seemed to distort his features. For a heartbeat he simply stared at Peyanka as if trying to find some other explanation hidden in the boy’s features.
Then the full weight of it hit him.
His lips curled back, not quite a snarl, but close. “_You_,” he began, and the word broke into something harsher, uglier. “In _my_ own house. Under _my_ roof.”
Peyanka opened his mouth to protest but no sound came out.
Yorok stepped forward and Peyanka instinctively backed away, shoulders hitting the post beside the steps. He could feel the rough wood digging into his spine. He could feel the cold air on his lips where Tembo’s warmth had been.
Lights came on in the cottage, one by one, like eyes opening.
His mother appeared behind Yorok, shawl clutched tight around her, her face pale and full of worry. One of Peyanka’s sisters peered past her, curly hair wild and loose, eyes wide. Other siblings followed, half dressed, confusion written on all their faces. The entire family had followed the Master Healer to his six month posting at Sunstone Seahold and now bore witness to the scene.
York’s voice rose and with it the list began. Not shouted at first, no. Worse. Spat out with clipped precision, each word placed like a tool laid out on a surgical tray.
Reckless.
Careless.
Ungrateful.
Shameful.
Peyanka’s throat tightened until it ached. His hands shook at his sides, fingers twitching as if looking for something to hold onto. Yorok’s words sharpened, gaining speed, gaining heat. His disgust grew teeth. How could his own son betray him so?
For Turns there had been whispers at the edge of Yorok’s thoughts. Small, little things he had dismissed with irritation rather than think about too closely. He told himself he hadn’t had the time. A look held too long. A refusal to laugh at certain jokes. The way Peyanka never spoke of girls the way his brothers did. Nothing conclusive. Nothing he could name without sounding foolish. He had told himself it was youth, a phase that discipline and proper example would grind out in time. A suitable marriage arranged once the boy walked the tables. Yorok had invested too much to believe otherwise.
Too many late nights drilling lessons into the boy, too many careful lectures about conduct, about reputation, about the sacred boundary between healer and patient. Peyanka was meant to be more proof of Yorok’s success. Another son shaped perfectly by his hand.
And now this.
All that work.
_Turns_ of it.
Spat back in his face in the shape of a kiss in the dark.
A patient.
And not just any patient. A _boy_.
The word itself curdled in Yorok’s gut. If it had been a girl, there would still have been fury, still punishment, but it would have been a failing he could correct, a stain he could scrub. This felt different. Like rot revealed in the foundation. His jaw tightened until it hurt. Had the signs been there all along? Had he been made a fool in his own house?
“You think you can do as you please?” he demanded. “You think you can touch whomever you like? In the dark like some.. Some holdless deviant?”
“Father-”
“Do not speak,” Yorok snapped, and Peyanka’s mouth closed like a trap.
His father’s gaze was wild now with fury. “A _patient_,” Yorok said, as if the word itself were poison. A _boy_! Why did it have to be a _boy_… “A patient under supervision. Under _my_ authority. Under _your_ care. Is there no shred of the ethics I tried to teach you? You would take advantage-”
“I didn’t-” Peyanka tried again, panic bursting through. “He- we-”
“You _did_.” Yorok’s voice cracked with rage. “_You_ did.”
The accusation struck harder than any slap could have. Peyanka’s eyes stung. He couldn’t even defend himself properly. Not without making it worse.
Yorok’s voice climbed, the words spilling out in a torrent that his frustration and anger could no longer contain.
Careless.
Irresponsible.
Untrustworthy.
Deceitful.
Unworthy.
Each one landed like a blow, and Peyanka could feel himself shrinking inside his own skin, trying to become small enough to disappear. He caught his mother’s gaze for a moment. Mawani’s eyes were wet, her hand pressed to her mouth. She did not step forward. She did not speak. Peyanka understood then, with a clarity that hurt more than the shouting, that she wouldn’t.
Not against her husband.
Yorok’s chest heaved, his bulk rising and falling with harsh breaths. Fury pounded in his ears so hard it almost drowned out the sight in front of him. His son, his flesh and blood, pressed to the post like a criminal. His household awake and watching, no doubt the neighbours too, the shape of scandal already forming in their eyes. His hand trembled, not with hesitation but with the sheer force of the blow he wanted to deliver. The urge was primal.
But even through the rage, another instinct cut in.
He was not a dock brute. Not some cothold drunk who ruled by fists. He was a Master Healer. A man watched and measured. Spoken of in Holds far beyond this one. Reputation was a structure Yorok had spent a lifetime building, stone by careful stone. To strike his son in front of witnesses would crack the very foundation. It was beneath him.
Worse, it would admit that Peyanka still had the power to provoke him.
That thought burned hotter than the anger.
Yorok saw, in a flash, the story retold in corridors. The Master who lost control. The father who couldn’t govern his own house. He would not give them that. He would not let the boy take one more thing from him.
So he swallowed it.
The effort scraped his throat raw. His hand hung there a heartbeat longer, fingers curled, before he forced it down. The restraint cost him more than the strike would have, and the knowledge of that made his voice colder when he spoke, carved from ice instead of fire. In his mind, the decision hardened into certainty.
Peyanka’s breath trembled out of him, half relief, half humiliation.
Yorok took one more step forward, close enough that Peyanka could smell the faint medicinal scent of him. Herbs and rubbing alcohol, the clean sharpness of a man who lived by strict rules and protocols. Close enough to see the pulsing veins throbbing at his father’s temples.
Then Yorok spoke the words that cut deepest because they were not shouted at all.
“This family is no longer your family.”
Peyanka stared at him, uncomprehending, as Yorok ripped the apprentice knots from his shoulder.
“And your apprenticeship,” Yorok continued, clenching the knots tightly but his voice steady now, colder than ever, “is revoked. You are unfit.”
Peyanka’s knees went weak.
He managed, somehow, not to fall.
Yorok looked at him as if he were something that needed to be removed, scrubbed away. Then he turned sharply, the movement decisive and final.
The door slammed shut between them.
The sound echoed like the crack of a whip.
Last updated on the February 28th 2026