Arion, or Gabriel as he had once been called, lived the next year in quiet misery.
In the cradle of golden halls and solemn silence, the child once known as Gabriel endured—not lived, not grew, only endured. Time did not pass for him in days or moons, but by the heavy, restless beat of his heart. If he had a name, it was now Arion. If he had a home, it was a gilded cage. And if he had a destiny, it watched from the shadows, breathing.
Castle Thornecrest rose tall and proud, its walls draped with banners of sapphire and white. But no gold in the world could warm the chill that lingered deep in its stone—especially in the nursery.
Each day fell like dust upon the last: meals served, robes far too fine for his restless nature, and the steady gaze of a mother who smiled but never truly rested. Lady Ariana—noble, beautiful, her face carved from frost and fire—held him with the softness of snow but the cold calculation of a regent preparing her heir for war. Beneath her skin, a storm never ceased to rage.
He could not protest—not because it was forbidden, but because protest belonged only to those who possessed freedom.
Yet freedom came sooner than expected.
At long last, Arion's legs—those slender, untested limbs that had trembled beneath the weight of his own ambition—grew strong enough to bear him, though they still quivered with effort.
He did not wait for a guiding hand or arms to carry him through the halls he thought he knew. He walked—each step a quiet rebellion against the fragile cage of silk and silence.
The stone floors beneath his feet were cold, the air thick with hearth smoke, iron, and dust long settled. Castle Thornecrest was not truly a castle, though all called it so. It had no soaring great hall, no rustling banners in the draft, no throne to judge. Nor was it quite a manor; its walls stood too thick, its towers too high, its gates too heavy.
The building rose three stories, shaped like a mighty 'U,' as though embracing all who entered—yet holding them close like a trap. Some whispered it had once been a fortress; others said merchants wealthy from spice gold had built it. Arion did not know, and no one seemed eager to tell.
The left wing belonged to servants and guards. It was here, among the fires that burned hottest and the kitchens where food bubbled and spit, that Arion spent more time than most guessed. The cooks had long since ceased chasing him from their domain. He was no longer the mewling babe passed from hand to hand.
For nearly a year, he had survived on milk—sweet but maddeningly repetitive. The arrival of teeth marked a new beginning: a glorious romance with solid food and a budding obsession. Arion was, in truth, a gourmand in miniature.
He remembered the first bite of roasted pork—the sharp burst of flavor that made his eyes water and his soul sing.
The right wing held a different order—a realm of steel and discipline. Knights lived there, their chambers stark and sparse; they trained at dawn and bled by dusk, muttering curses as they stitched their wounds. It was also where honored guests stayed under wool blankets, in rooms scented of cold stone and old steel.
Beyond it all, thick stone walls circled the castle like ancient guards, strong enough to hold off a siege—though none had come in living memory. The guards stood stiff and silent, their forms etched against the sky like granite statues. Arion often watched them from below, wondering what they saw from their lofty posts. What lay beyond the walls?
Today, he would find out.
Along these familiar halls he now walked, accompanied by old Mari, who smelled faintly of lemon oil and habitually pinched her fingers when nervous.
Mari was the maid entrusted with overseeing his habits and proper development. She gestured this way and that, naming places, recounting purposes, weaving a tapestry of meaning from every corridor and courtyard. Her words were patient and steady—but Arion's heart beat for something else entirely.
The moment had come. He would be allowed to ascend the castle walls and see beyond their age-old stone.
Until now, the world outside had been a hazy promise glimpsed from a narrow chamber window—roofs clustered like a distant dream, spires shimmering through mist. The walls had kept him safe, but they had also kept him apart.
But not today.
Today—at last—he would know.