Morning light spilled through tall stained-glass windows, casting fractured hues across the polished marble floor. The southern palace stirred with quiet elegance—servants gliding through corridors, guards posted in stoic silence, the rustle of silk and steel echoing faintly through its vaulted halls.
Seated upon a high-backed throne carved from obsidian and ivory, the King of the Southern Realm watched the bustle with a furrowed brow. Though clad in robes of rich crimson and black, his expression bore none of the regality his station demanded. A scroll lay open on the armrest beside him, half-read and forgotten, as if its words had lost meaning in light of darker thoughts.
The heavy doors groaned open.
A rider stepped into the court, cloaked in the dust of travel. His face was shadowed by a hood, but the king raised a hand.
"Let him pass," the king ordered.
The rider strode forward, every movement speaking of urgency. He fell to one knee before the throne and pulled back his hood, revealing sweat-slicked hair and hollow eyes.
"Speak," the king said. "What news rides faster than ravens?"
The rider rose, casting a wary glance around the chamber. "My king... it's best said in private."
The king nodded once, and the rider stepped close, leaning in to whisper directly into the king's ear.
Whatever was spoken, it made the king still as stone. His jaw clenched, his gaze distant. The weight of it settled over the hall like smoke.
A murmur stirred among the gathered, though none dared speak.
Drums of thought beat behind the king's eyes. Slowly, he leaned back into the shadowed arms of his throne, fingers steepling.
"All this time, and still the past finds a way to claw back," the king said quietly, his knuckles white against the throne. trembling with the weight of what he'd just heard. His jaw locked, and his eyes remained fixed ahead as the rider's whispered words rattled through his thoughts like a storm refusing to pass.
Then, louder, and with resolve hardening in his voice: "Fetch the missives. Call my council. And send word north… to Greyharth Hold."
Far beyond the gilded halls of the south, the wind howled across the frost-bound lands of the North, where cold stone and older oaths still held fast.
The morning sun broke through a veil of gray clouds, casting soft, golden light over the frost-bitten stones of the northern courtyard. A cold wind stirred the banners hanging along the ramparts, bringing with it the sharp scent of pine and smoke. Greyharth Hold was alive with the quiet rhythm of the North—workers moving carts, blacksmiths hammering steel, stablehands brushing down shaggy-coated horses.
In the yard below the keep, two figures moved in swift, measured strides, the clash of steel echoing across the courtyard. Edric, eldest of Lord Harris's sons, sparred with Wulfric in the dirt-packed circle—both boys breathing heavily, boots sliding in the grit. Edric moved with precision, every strike calculated. Wulfric, broader and grounded, met his brother with disciplined strength. Neither spoke, save the occasional grunt. It was training, not competition.
Thalen arrived late, as he always did, sauntering into the courtyard while tightening his bracers, lips already curled in that familiar grin.
From a high balcony above, Lord Harris stood quietly, arms folded as he watched the sparring below. His eyes lingered not only on his sons, but the movement of his people, the pulse of the keep. Without a word, he turned and stepped back inside. Duty waited.
By the stables below, Alina sat perched on a crate with a book in her lap, the fur lining of her cloak tucked beneath her chin. Nearby, Killian brushed down a horse, silent and focused, his small figure dwarfed by the steed. He had learned to busy his hands when others were not looking.
"Oi!" Thalen's voice rang out, loud and playful. He marched into the sparring circle and clapped his hands once. "I want a turn now. Wulfric, Edric—step aside, I feel the need to bash someone's skull in for sport."
Edric ignored him, wiping sweat from his brow. "We're not finished."
"Oh come on!" Thalen groaned. "What's the point of waking up if I can't swing at one of your faces?"
His eyes drifted to the stable, and a wicked grin lit up his face.
"Killian!" he called out. "Come on then, get over here and keep me entertained."
Killian straightened, frowning. "Why would I fight a loudmouth like you?"
"What's wrong? Afraid to bruise your pride? Or is it your backside you're worried for?" Thalen cupped a hand around his mouth. "Come now, bastard boy, don't be a coward!"
Alina sat up at once. "Killian, you don't have to—"
But Killian had already turned, jaw clenched. He marched toward Thalen.
"Grab a blade," Thalen said, nodding toward the rack. "Better make it a big one, or I'll knock you flat."
Killian reached past the wooden longswords and selected a dull, worn dagger. It was small and unremarkable.
Thalen burst out laughing. "That? You planning to peel potatoes or fight me?"
Edric, now watching, called out. "Thalen, he's half your size. You'll end up bruising him worse than you bruised his pride last week."
"He's learning!" Thalen laughed. "Nothing teaches faster than a bruised rib!"
Edric started to step forward, but Wulfric raised an arm and held it across his brother's chest, halting him. "Wait," he said calmly. "Let's see what the boy does. Perhaps he'll surprise us."
Edric hesitated, his eyes flicking between Wulfric and Killian. He let out a quiet breath, then nodded. "You're not wrong. Let's see what the lad's made of."
In the center of the yard, the two faced each other. Thalen relaxed his shoulders, clearly amused. Killian gripped the dagger tightly, eyes burning with focus.
He lunged.
Elsewhere in the hold, the halls were quiet. An elderly man in dark robes walked with measured steps, the sound of his sandals soft against the stone. In his hand, he carried a sealed letter.
He entered Harris's study, where the Ruler of the North was bent over ledgers and parchments.
"A raven came this morning, your Grace," the elder said. "From King Dravenmoor."
Harris stopped writing. His eyes narrowed at the lion-embossed seal as the letter was placed before him.
"Thank you, Archivon Davan," Harris murmured. He broke the seal.
The old man lingered. "The boys are sparring again. Even little Killian has joined in."
Harris smirked faintly. "Killian, hm? That boy's spent more time eating dirt than grain. Maybe he's learning."
He unfolded the letter, scanning its contents. His brows furrowed, and a low sigh escaped his lips.
"That old lion never grants me peace," he muttered. "Always has some scheme brewing, always pulling me back into his councils."
He tapped the letter. "And now he wants a visit. 'Come to the capital, old friend. We've things to speak of.' Gods, he makes it sound like a bloody drinking invitation." Archivon Davan gave a low chuckle at that, the lines on his face crinkling as he smiled.
Back in the yard, Killian stumbled, his boot catching on loose dirt. Thalen dodged easily, chuckling as he stepped aside and tapped Killian on the back with his wooden blade.
"On your feet, boy. I've seen ducklings with sharper moves."
Killian scrambled up again, breathing hard. Thalen flicked the wooden sword between his hands, smirking.
Thalen snorted, shaking his head with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Maybe next time you should pick a better weapon—or at least someone to hold your hand," he said, spreading his arms wide in mock pity.
"Play fair!" Alina shouted from the stables. "You're twice his size!"
"I'm toughening him up!" Thalen called back. "Every boy needs a few knocks."
Killian looked down at his dagger, dirt caked into the hilt. He adjusted his grip, this time reversing the blade behind his knuckles. His stance lowered.
Thalen towered over him, relaxed and cocky, twirling the wooden blade like it was a toy.Killian knew he wouldn't win — but he'd land one good strike. Just one.
He charged.
Thalen grinned. "Again? Bold little cub."
But Killian wasn't aiming blindly. He remembered every move. Every trip. Every shove.
As Thalen swept his leg again to trip him, Killian stepped aside with a swift pivot. He lunged low, caught Thalen's leg, and barreled into him with all his weight. Thalen yelped, arms flailing wildly as he toppled over, crashing into the dirt with a grunt.
"Shit!" Thalen barked, spitting dust.
Killian moved to pin him with his dull dagger, but Thalen, stronger and older, kicked him away. Killian landed hard but rolled back to his knees, dagger raised.
Wulfric chuckled. "Well look at that. The cub's got teeth."
Edric crossed his arms, a smirk forming. "Looks like you were right."
Edric stepped forward at last, voice cutting through the yard. "Enough," he called, firm and clear. "You've bruised him well enough for one day, Thalen. Wipe the mud off your face and be done with it."
Thalen stood, brushing grit from the leather of his tunic. "You cheeky little shit. Make me kiss the dirt again and I'll break your legs!"
He stomped off towards the well, grumbling.
Alina rushed to Killian's side. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," he muttered, brushing himself off.
"You were amazing," she said, grinning.
Killian only shrugged. "Didn't win, I was gonna lose anyway."
"No, but you made him eat dirt," she whispered with a soft giggle, glancing up at him. Killian looked away, hiding a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
Edric and Wulfric approached, both still grinning.
"That," said Edric, "was the most entertaining spar I've seen in weeks."
"You may've lost the bout," Wulfric added, "but you won something far better."
A deep voice called from the balcony above.
"Edric. Wulfric."
The boys looked up. Their father, Harris stood above, letter in hand.
"Come to my study. There's something we must discuss."
Harris paused, his eyes scanning the yard.
"And find Thalen while you're at it. I need words with all three of you boys."
The boys exchanged a glance, and even the younger ones paused their chatter. Edric gave a crooked smile, the kind that always preceded trouble or triumph.
"He's probably sulking by the well."
Harris gaze lingered on the courtyard a moment longer. Below, he saw Killian standing, dagger in hand, dirt smudged across his tunic and cheek. Not far off, Thalen was wiping soil from his face with a grunt. A faint smirk touched Harris's lips.
"Well," he muttered under his breath, "get on with it, then."
Inside the study, the heavy oak door creaked open as the three sons of House Greyharth entered.
Edric led them—tall, composed, and carrying a quiet strength in the way he walked. On his left was Wulfric, broad-shouldered and stoic, his eyes sharp with thought. And on the right, Thalen, striding in with hands on his belt and a cocky grin plastered across his face, as if the world were a game and he was always winning. The three brothers bowed briefly in respect, greeting their father who sat at his desk, quill still poised over parchment.
Harris looked up from his desk, quill set aside, scrolls neatly stacked. His study smelled of ink, wax, and the faint scent of pinewood smoke curling in from the hearth.
"You're not boys anymore," he said without preamble, his voice low and firm. "And it's time you begin to carry the weight of this house. I'm assigning each of you your first duties."
All three stood straighter.
"To you, Thalen," he began, "I name Warden of the Mountain Watch. You will oversee the riders and knights that patrol the upper highlands near the Frosthorn Range."
"Finally!" Thalen grinned, pumping his fist in the air. "No more brooding with this dull bunch," he said, shooting a mocking glance at Wulfric and Edric. "About time they let real men do real work—where swords speak louder than scrolls!"
Wulfric raised a brow, unamused.
Harris's gaze turned. "And you, Wulfric. I trust no eyes more than yours. You'll serve as Warden of the Hollow, keeping watch over the northern passes beyond the mountains. It's thankless and harsh—but it needs someone who doesn't flinch at shadows."
Wulfric gave a slow, deliberate nod, his face calm as untouched snow. A faint gleam flickered in his eyes as he looked to his father. "I will not fail you father," he said, voice steady and clear, like steel drawn from its sheath.
Edric looked between them, his brow furrowing slightly, a flicker of nervous anticipation tightening his jaw. He tried to mask it, but the weight of not knowing his role gnawed quietly beneath his composure.
Harris finally looked to his eldest. "And you, Edric… you'll ride south with me. To the capital. King Dravenmoor requests my presence, and I want you as my eldest son by my side."
Edric blinked, caught between surprise and disappointment. "To the capital?" he echoed, the words slipping out more quietly than intended. For a moment, his eyes dropped—not in defiance, but in the quiet ache of expectation.
"You'll sit in court, listen to nobles argue over grain and borderlines. You'll learn the weight of words—and how to hold your tongue when silence cuts deeper than a blade."
Thalen leaned over with a smirk. "Looks like someone gets the boring job."
Edric scowled and crossed his arms, but said nothing. He had pictured himself galloping across the highlands or commanding scouts through uncharted terrain. Instead, he was to sit among lords and ledger men.
Harris caught it.
"War is won with swords," he said. "But kingdoms are lost with careless words. You think politics is dull? Then you don't understand power. I want you to see how the game is played, Edric. I want you to see what you must one day rule."
Edric gave a nod, but it felt hollow. While his brothers rode to the wild edges of the world, he would sit at court and watch old men squabble over borders.
Harris leaned back in his chair, eyes lingering on each of his sons in turn. "In a few days, we depart. Until then, you'll prepare." He turned first to Thalen. "You will ride out with the Mountain Watch. Meet your captains, learn their names, and let them know whose banner they serve."
Then to Wulfric. "Speak with the scouts beyond Frosthorn's edge. Learn the land they tread and the dangers they chart."
He reached for a sealed roll of parchment beside him. "I've written your commissions. Archivon Davan will see them delivered before sunset."
He paused, then added, "This isn't a test. This is your beginning."
The boys exchanged glances. Even Thalen's grin faded slightly.
"And don't forget," Harris added dryly, "find Thalen before he vanishes to sulk behind the well again."
That earned a low chuckle from Wulfric and a groan from Thalen, who rubbed the back of his neck.
Outside, the wind howled softly across the high walls of Greyharth Hold. The sun was higher now, but its warmth barely kissed the stone.
The storm, as always in the North, was never far.