The sun was climbing higher now, warming the mist that clung to the hills surrounding Hevenfort. The scent of wet earth mingled with the faint aroma of baked bread wafting from the mess hall. The new day promised both labor and renewal, the kind of day when the world seemed, for a moment, still capable of kindness.
Cornelius hurried along the cobbled path with a small bundle under his arm. His younger siblings—Cornelia, who was ten, and Conrad who was barely eight—followed close behind. Their eyes were wide, taking in everything: the stone walls of the palace, the banners fluttering with the sigil of the firebird, the distant clang of steel on the training field.
"Is this where you train, Cor?" Cornelia asked, her voice a whisper of awe.
He grinned, puffing his chest out a little. "Aye. That's where Sir Logan teaches us. He's strong as three men, and faster than lightning."
Conrad snorted. "Faster than lightning? You're making that up."
