The banners of House Vael hung limp in the still winter air, their once-proud black and silver faded with age and mildew. Snow covered the parapets, piled along the bailey, and crept beneath every stone threshold of Blackstone Keep. Midwinter had come, and with it the Wyrm's Feast, an old northern tradition twisted now into little more than an excuse for lords to drink themselves stupid and speak sweet poison into each other's ears.
Cairon stood near the servants' entrance, his clothes patched and damp, hair still wet from scrubbing stables earlier that day. The frost had not dried from his sleeves. He had not been invited to the feast, of course, but he had been ordered to serve wine and clear plates. Like a dog in a hall of fat pigs.
The great hall shimmered with firelight and flickering candles. Tables groaned under the weight of boar, venison, and salt-baked fish. Minstrels played in the corner while noblemen in furs and silks traded boasts and gossip. Lady Isolde sat beside Lord Edran on the dais, her hair coiled like a crown and her wine cup always full. She had not looked at Cairon once, but he felt her gaze anyway, as if it clung to the back of his neck like a cold finger.
Cairon moved quietly between tables, pouring wine for men who would never know his name. Then came the insult.
Lord Harl Avenlock of Redmere, a petty noble with land near the river crossings, had brought his son, a smug young oaf named Corwin. Corwin had already drained three goblets and was red-faced with drink and the pride of youth. He had been watching Lady Isolde with eyes that lingered too long, and perhaps that gave him courage he didn't deserve.
"You Vaels must be proud," Corwin slurred, lifting his cup. "To take in stray bastards and train them to pour wine like a good dog. Is this your kennel boy, Lord Edran?"
The laughter that followed was not loud, but it was enough. Cairon stopped moving. His heart beat once, hard and hot. Lord Edran said nothing. He stared at his goblet as if he had not heard.
But Lady Isolde's smile curled slowly. Not amused. Not embarrassed. Hungry.
"Careful, Corwin," she said, voice sweet as milk. "Dogs bite when kicked too many times."
Corwin grinned and turned to Cairon. "Do they now?"
He reached out and flicked wine at Cairon's chest. "Fetch, pup."
Cairon stepped back, his hand tightening around the wine jug. He did not think. Thinking would have stopped him. He dropped the jug and struck Corwin across the face with the back of his hand.
Gasps erupted. Chairs scraped. The hall fell silent in the span of a breath.
Corwin stood, knocked half over the table, clutching his jaw. "You'll pay for that, you fucking gutter rat. Steel or whip, your choice."
"Steel," Cairon said.
A duel was called before the hour ended. Not in the yard, but in the snow-covered garden behind the keep. Torches lined the paths. Noblemen gathered to watch, their breath steaming in the cold. Cairon wore no armor. He had no squire. He was given a short sword from the armory and told not to shame the house.
Corwin wore a fine wool cloak and carried a longsword with a jewel in its pommel. He grinned through bloodied teeth.
"You'll beg, bastard," he said as they circled.
Cairon did not speak. He let the anger guide his feet.
Corwin came in high, fast and wild, fueled by drink and pride. Cairon ducked under the swing, slipped to the side, and drove his blade into Corwin's gut with a single, savage thrust. The sword caught between ribs and twisted. Corwin made a choking noise, stared at him with wide eyes, and fell into the snow.
There was no cheer. No applause. Only silence, broken by the bubbling gurgle of blood in Corwin's throat.
Lord Harl shouted murder. Lady Isolde rose from her seat with slow, deliberate grace. Lord Edran said nothing.
That night, Cairon was brought before the high table in chains. His lip was swollen, his knuckles torn. He stared at his father, whose face was as blank as frozen stone.
"You killed the heir of Redmere," Lord Edran said.
"He insulted our name."
"You are not our name."
Cairon said nothing. Not because he lacked words, but because none would change what was already decided.
"I could protect you," Edran said, fingers drumming the armrest. "But I will not."
Lady Isolde stood beside him, wine cup raised.
"The levy leaves at dawn," she said. "They march to the Blightlands. You'll serve among them, bastard. Until you die. Or learn your place."
He was flogged that night beneath the stars, back lashed until the snow ran red. The soldiers of the penal levy took him from the gates at first light. They gave him rags, boots with holes, and a rusted dagger.
He did not look back as Blackstone Keep vanished into the horizon behind him.
He had nothing now. No name. No house. Only the cold. And the slow burn of something inside him that had begun to grow teeth.