They found him where he had landed—in a heap of silk and indignation, crumpled like a discarded doll at the foot of the rose trellis. A pair of guards rushed to his side, followed swiftly by a nursemaid whose cries of alarm were shrill enough to summon the entire west wing.
"My Lord! My poor, poor Lord!"
Arion opened one eye with great caution, wincing at the sunlight, and more so at the sounds of commotion. Every bone ached, though none were broken—at least, not beyond repair. His pride, however, lay in a thousand glittering shards.
"I'm alive," he muttered hoarsely. "Unfortunately."
"Fetch the physician!" the nurse shrieked, though her arms were already around him, lifting his small, bruised body from the earth with a gentleness born of genuine devotion.
"No need," came a familiar, thunderous voice. The Duke was descending the steps like a warlord returning from a glorious campaign, boots thudding with each self-satisfied stride. "He is built of sterner stuff than that."
Arion, his body still aching from the abrupt flight and jarring fall, fixed his grandfather with a glare that could have pierced stone. "You nearly killed me," he muttered, his voice thick with a mix of anger and disbelief.
"Nonsense," said Siegfried, waving a hand. "You soared! Like a hawk from the northern cliffs! A finer morning baptism I've never administered."
Before Arion could protest further, Lady Ariana arrived, breathless, her face flushed from running and her eyes wide with the unmistakable gleam of concern. She rushed forward, her gaze sweeping over her son, lying small and bruised in the nursemaid's arms—and then, for the briefest moment, flicked to her father.
"Father," she said, her voice tight with restrained fury, "you cannot go around flinging children from balconies. It's not safe."
"He flung himself, my dear!" declared Siegfried. "In spirit, if not in deed. I merely assisted."
Lady Ariana's lips pressed into a thin line. She stepped to Arion's side, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with her earlier words. "Are you hurt, Arion?" she asked, her voice soft, a sharp contrast to the concern that flickered in her eyes.
Arion offered a small, grim smile, and despite his discomfort, reached up to grasp her hand. "I'm fine, Mother. Just… bruised." His gaze drifted briefly to his grandfather, who was already swaggering back toward the castle. "A bruised pride," he added under his breath.
Lady Ariana's eyes softened, her gaze lingering on her son for a moment longer. Her hand stroked the side of his face, her thumb brushing over the faint swell beginning to form on his cheek. There was something quiet and protective in her touch, as though she wished she could shield him from the weight of this world. She turned toward her father, the tension between them palpable.
Lord Sued, ever the quiet observer, cleared his throat from where he stood nearby. "Shall we bring him inside?" he asked, his voice a steady anchor in the growing storm.
"Please," Arion groaned. "Before he decides, I need swimming lessons."
The physician arrived moments later and, with solemn professionalism, ushered Arion back into the castle.
He was laid gently upon the bed in his chambers, the heavy blankets dwarfed by his small frame. Despite his protests, the physician insisted on examining him thoroughly, prodding gently at arms, legs, and ribs.
The verdict was minor bruising and a strained shoulder—a mere inconvenience for the boy who bore the weight of his lineage with stubborn resolve.
As the physician worked, Arion gazed out the window to the sky beyond. The castle grounds were peaceful, serene in contrast to the chaos that had unfolded only moments before. A deep breath filled his lungs, but his mind remained preoccupied with the strange sense of unease that had settled in his chest.
Through the heavy curtains, Siegfried's voice rang out once again. "How's our little hero?" The Duke strode into the room uninvited, carrying a wooden sword under one arm, its worn edges a reminder of forgotten wars. "Brought you a friend."
"I'm not five," Arion said, his voice flat, though his fingers curled around the wooden hilt without thinking.
"I thought you were three," Siegfried shot back with a grin, settling into a chair. "You scream like both."
Lady Ariana entered just behind him, her eyes narrowing as she caught sight of her father. She crossed the room quickly and gave him a look that could freeze fire in its tracks.
"He needs rest," she said firmly, her hand falling protectively onto Arion's shoulder.
"Rest is for the elderly and the ill," said the Duke, crossing his arms. "And he is neither. He's of Aren blood—and of mine. Which means, mark me, that this one will move mountains before he's grown a beard."
There was a strange sort of pride in the old man's voice—rough and rougher still, but sincere. Arion studied him carefully, unsure whether to accept the odd compliment or reject it on principle.
"I'll move a mountain," he said darkly, "right on top of your head."
For a second, silence.
Then the Duke roared with laughter—a sound so loud and genuine that it rattled the bedposts.
"Yes!" he barked. "That's the spirit!"
Lady Ariana's hands, graceful yet unwavering, moved to brush Arion's dark hair from his forehead, her fingers cool against the warmth of his skin.
Though her touch was tender, it couldn't conceal the tightness in her chest, the storm of worry that gripped her heart. The soft tremor in her fingers betrayed the depth of her concern, even if her expression remained composed.
She watched her son, bruised, disheveled—and it felt as though something inside her had cracked.
"Father," she said, her voice low, edged with quiet command. "You cannot treat him like this."
For a fleeting moment, the Duke's gaze met hers—challenging, sharp—before it softened, drifting back to Arion. He understood that no matter how much she might clash with him, her son was a part of her, and she would always protect him, even if it meant defying her own father.
Arion stared at the Duke with quiet intensity, the ache in his chest not just from pain but from something more complicated—resentment, perhaps, or the strange weight of longing. The Duke's presence was powerful, unyielding, a force that could either break or shape.
And it made Arion feel both insignificant and drawn toward him, like standing before a mirror reflecting not just the boy he was, but the man he might become.