The morning sun crept over the eastern walls of Valenford, spilling muted gold across the battlements and courtyards. The castle hummed with quiet routine: servants carried baskets of bread and jars of water, stablehands coaxed horses into line, and the rhythmic clang of the smiths' hammers echoed from the distant forge. The scent of damp stone, dust, and hay lingered in the cool morning air, a scent as familiar as the whispers of the wind threading through the tall towers.
Crain Valenford moved like a shadow among the bustle, careful not to draw attention. Fifteen years of life at the edge of nobility had taught him to be seen only when he wished. His dark hair fell in loose waves over a pale face, his frame slender, yet his movements held a quiet grace that allowed him to weave between servants, guards, and the occasional patrol of armored knights. Beneath his calm exterior, his chest tightened, a familiar ache of longing and frustration that never fully faded.
He paused outside the training yard, peering through the wooden gates where knights drilled with practiced precision. The metallic ring of swords striking shields and the shouted commands of the trainers filled the air, each sound a reminder of a world that would never truly be his. He had imagined gripping a sword with authority, his strikes echoing through the hallways and earning him respect—but he had long since learned the truth. He was the son of Duke Valenford, yes, but the shadow of illegitimacy clung to him as tightly as his father's indifference.
Three voices shattered his brief reverie—loud, sharp, cruel.
"Look at him," a boy sneered, stepping into view. His hair was golden and perfectly combed, his smirk never leaving his pale face. "Valenford's shadow, creeping through the halls again."
Two others laughed, accompanying him like echoes of mockery. One, dark-eyed with a narrow face, had a laugh that cut like glass; the other, broad-shouldered and red-faced, stomped along as if the stones themselves owed him respect. These were the legitimate children of the Duke and his wife—the rightful heirs, the heirs who carried the blood of privilege that Crain would never inherit. Their presence, though familiar, always carried tension.
Crain straightened, gripping his books tighter. "Good morning," he said evenly, though a tremor ran through his fingers.
The golden-haired boy stepped closer, jabbing at the pile of books. "Do you even know how to hold a sword, shadow-boy? Or are you too busy hiding behind scrolls and parchment?"
"I do not need to fight to survive your insults," Crain replied, stepping back.
Laughter burst through the courtyard. "Survive?" the dark-eyed boy snorted. "You? In these halls? You're nothing but a ghost. One day, maybe you'll vanish entirely—and no one will notice."
The red-faced boy stomped, sending dust flying. "Maybe we should help him along, eh? Make sure he disappears faster?"
Crain's stomach twisted. These words were not new, yet they struck like blows. He wanted to retaliate, to shove or strike, but the walls of Valenford were no place for open rebellion. Instead, he allowed them to pass, their laughter echoing down the stone corridors.
Turning back to the library, Crain sought refuge among the rows of parchment and ink, a quiet sanctuary from the hierarchy and cruelty of the castle. Here, he could breathe, lose himself in tales of distant lands, heroic deeds, and the whisper of magic running through forgotten worlds. The scent of old paper, dust, and candle smoke filled the air, wrapping him in comfort that the outside world could never provide.
Settling near a window, he opened a worn volume on the history of Caelthera. The pages spoke of lands long before men, of elves and dwarves shaping mountains and forests with wisdom and craft. Crain traced the words with pale fingers, imagining the rivers, mountains, and forests as vividly as if he had walked among them. In those stories, he found a strange solace—a mirror to the life he dreamed of, a world in which courage and cunning mattered more than bloodlines.
Yet, even here, he could not fully escape the castle. The corridors were alive with whispers. Rumors of rival lords circling, of potential wars, of political intrigue that simmered just out of reach. The tension of Eastvra itself seemed to bleed through the walls, faint yet persistent, reminding him that peace was but a fragile illusion.
A sudden rustle at the doorway drew his gaze. One of the younger servants, a girl with sharp eyes and hair tied back in a braid, peeked inside. "Crain, again with the books?" she said softly. "Don't you ever tire of hiding?"
He smiled faintly, feeling a rare warmth. "Perhaps not," he replied. "A mind should wander, shouldn't it? If only to see beyond these walls."
She offered a brief nod before slipping away, leaving Crain alone with the sunlight and the quiet hum of the castle. He returned to the page, his mind alive with imagined battles and distant kingdoms.
Outside, the castle lived its daily rhythm. Guards patrolled the courtyards, banners flapped lazily in the breeze, and the laughter of the Duke's children echoed faintly through the halls. They were a constant presence, their every action a reminder of the legitimacy and privilege Crain would never claim.
Later, as the morning deepened, Crain wandered to the gardens, a small reprieve from the shadows of stone and authority. Roses climbed trellises, fountains whispered soft arcs, and the scent of earth and water mingled in the breeze. He leaned against a stone balustrade, letting his thoughts drift to lands beyond Caelthera, to forests untouched by men, mountains unscarred by ambition, and rivers that carried songs of magic.
It was then he noticed a figure approaching from the far gate—a knight in polished armor, veteran of countless campaigns, his face lined with experience and quiet authority. Crain had seen him before, moving among the young squires and knights with a commanding presence, a man who seemed to embody the spirit of loyalty and vigilance.
"You wander too much, boy," the veteran said, his voice firm but not unkind. "The world beyond these walls is not kind to those who only read of it. If you wish to survive, learn to move with it, not just dream of it."
Crain lowered his gaze, feeling the weight of the words. He knew they were true, yet the yearning in his heart—the desire to be more than a shadow—burned quietly, defiantly.
The day passed in a blur of movement: meals in the hall, errands through the stone corridors, and the constant observation of the Duke's children. At times, they mocked him openly; at others, their insults were subtle, cutting at his pride and patience. Each encounter left a bruise on his confidence, yet also strengthened a quiet resolve. One day, he promised himself, the shadows would not define him.
By evening, the sun dipped behind the western towers, casting the castle in long, golden shadows. Crain sat alone in the library once more, candlelight flickering across the pages of his books. Outside, the air was alive with the faint stirrings of wind and the whispers of distant hills, as if the world itself were waiting, watching, anticipating.
And somewhere deep in his mind, a faint pulse echoed—the first note of a song long forgotten, a melody carried through time by blades broken and oaths betrayed. It hummed quietly, persistent and insistent, and though he did not yet understand it, Crain felt its call. A call to leave the halls of Valenford, to step beyond the walls of his limited world, and to face whatever trials awaited in lands far and wide.
The shadows lengthened, and the castle settled into its nightly rhythms. The Duke's children retired, guards patrolled the towers, and the corridors grew quiet. Yet the boy who carried the name of Valenford lingered, books in hand, eyes alight with a mixture of longing and determination. For all the cruelty and neglect he had endured, he knew, deep down, that this world—vast, harsh, and alive with legend—was not yet finished. And neither was he.