Later that night, as the feast swelled to its peak and the great hall filled with every noble who wished—or needed—to be seen, Arion fought the pull of sleep beneath the golden lanterns that blazed like miniature suns. Their light flickered across the lacquered faces of the courtiers, casting long shadows on the polished stone, driving rest from the corners of his eyes.
For all the years behind his gaze, his body remained that of a child. And like all children, wrapped in a mother's warmth, he teetered on the edge of slumber—half in this world, half in another.
Nestled in Lady Ariana's arms, his limbs heavy, his mind dulled by the noise, Arion drifted. One part of him slept, the other watched the pageantry of the highborn. They fluttered like jeweled moths around a flame, currying favor, trading smiles and flattery as if one well-placed word could shape the future.
Then came the low stir of armor—deliberate, measured. A knight of House Aren, silver wolf gleaming over his chest, cloak trailing like smoke, moved through the crowd. He bowed first to Lord Sued, then to Lady Ariana.
"My lady," he said, voice soft but urgent, "the priest has returned. He asks to see the young lord."
The words landed like a stone in still water. Ariana froze, her hand mid-motion as it combed through Arion's dark hair. Her eyes flicked to her husband. Lord Sued gave a faint nod.
"Let him in," she said.
The priest entered, but no longer as they remembered him. Once clean and steady, now he moved like a revenant—garments ragged, beard long and unkempt, his staff more branch than scepter. Yet his eyes held something that hadn't dimmed—an unsettling hunger.
Two silent figures trailed him, robed and faceless, like shadows pulled from another world. The trio moved through the golden light like oil across water: slow, smooth, and unwelcome.
"I hear the child was born strong," the priest said, his voice soft but edged. "What a joyful occasion. Praise be, Arivan."
Lord Sued remained silent. It was Ariana who spoke.
"You speak of joy," she said, her tone sharp beneath its calm, "yet I see no joy in your eyes. Nor gifts in your hands."
"The joy you speak of, and the gift you seek, were delivered long ago," the priest replied, his smile thin. His eyes never left Arion.
Lady Ariana's fingers tightened in her son's hair.
"You came empty-handed and speak as though we owe you gratitude."
"You mistake my meaning, my lady," the priest said, his smile unfaltering. "I would remind you—if you permit it—of the promise you made before the gods."
"I remember," she said, her voice cutting now. "But promises made in desperation are not always honored."
"There was a bargain."
"And I bore the price. I bore him."
"The price is not yet paid," the priest said, his tone deepening. "The child's path was sealed the moment Lord Arivan intervened. Only he could have made it possible. Would you now deny him what was agreed?"
The hall fell into silence. The minstrels let their strings fall still. Whispers rippled through the assembly, as nobles turned their eyes toward the priest and the boy.
"He is my son," Ariana said, rising slightly, her voice carrying across the chamber. "Heir to House Aren. Future lord of Ortenia. His future is his own. He will not be given to shadows."
The court leaned in, the conclusion clear—some god had played a part in the boy's birth. A pact made, a price unpaid.
The priest's lips curved faintly. "Shadow? You call Arivan a shadow? The god who breathed life into your womb? Who gave you this boy?"
"If he is no shadow," Ariana snapped, her words cutting, "what god bargains for the flesh of babes? That is the work of demons."
A rustle echoed from the high table. Duke Siegfried rose, tall despite the years etched into his bones. His fur cloak, white as snow and heavy with gold, swayed behind him. His presence commanded silence deeper than any horn blast.
"Careful," Duke Siegfried warned, his voice booming over the hush. "You throw the word 'god' about like a merchant selling salt. But I have seen the Divine. Fought beside them. Buried their champions."
His gaze fixed on the priest. "And you... you stink of old smoke and broken pacts."
The priest met Lord Siegfried's stare, his smile faltering just a fraction. "The world has changed, Duke of the North. The gods you knew have grown quiet. The ones who remain are not so kind."
"And you think I fear them?" The Duke stepped forward, his voice low, lethal. "I've buried sons. Buried kings. I will bury you, too, if you reach for what is mine."
The guest, sensing the shift, leaned back, the tension now palpable
Before the guests could blink—before a single breath could be drawn between words—Duke Siegfried vanished from his place beside the high table.
There was no announcement, no drawn blade, no roar of anger. Just movement: swift, surgical, and silent.
Then came two distinct snaps. Not the clangor of swords, but the brittle, unmistakable sound of necks breaking.
By the time the nobles turned to look, the two hooded followers who had entered with the priest were already sprawled across the marble floor—limp, lifeless, their forms twisted in death. No one had seen the strikes. No one had seen Siegfried move. One moment he was still, the next he was standing over the corpses, white cloak billowing like a storm rolling over the mountain snows.
Only Lord Sued, ever watchful and grave, had tracked the Duke's movement. His eyes alone followed the path of that ghostlike stride, and even he gave the smallest nod—as if to say: yes, it was well done.
Siegfried stood tall beside the priest now, eyes glowing with cold judgment.
"I left you your tongue so the gods might hear your lies from your own lips," the Duke said quietly, his voice carrying through the stunned hall like a blade drawn in candlelight. "The rest, I took as interest."
The priest stared, face unreadable—but his hands trembled ever so slightly beneath his sleeves. Whatever power he served, it had not warned him of this.
The guests dared not whisper. The minstrels' fingers froze mid-string. Even the candles' flames flickered uncertainly, as if recoiling from the sudden death.
For a moment, all of Ortenia remembered why Siegfried the Bold had never needed a title greater than his name.