The dining hall of Valenford Castle was built to impress — and to remind. Long banners hung from the vaulted ceiling, each woven with the sigil of the Direwolf, the emblem of House Valenford. Their silver thread shimmered faintly under the warm glow of candlelight, their gaze watchful, predatory.
Along the long oaken table sat the blood of nobility — the Duke, his wife, and their three legitimate children. And a little farther down the table, where the servants' light began to dim, sat Crain.
He had dressed as properly as he could. His tunic, though worn at the cuffs, was freshly cleaned; his hair was combed and tied back neatly. He knew this dinner was a rare occasion — the Duke had summoned everyone, even him. Rumor had it that an envoy from Kingsland would soon arrive to discuss trade and border matters. A show of unity, the servants whispered. The Duke would not allow any stain on his family's name, even if that stain was blood of his own.
The clatter of silverware and muted laughter filled the air. Crain tried to eat quietly, his eyes fixed on his plate of roasted pheasant and bread. From time to time, his gaze drifted toward the far end of the table — toward the Duke.
Lord Valenford was a man carved from authority itself. His hair, streaked with gray, framed a face as cold as the northern wind. His shoulders bore the weight of command, and his eyes — sharp, distant — surveyed the room with the calm precision of a hunter watching over his domain.
Beside him sat Lady Marenna Valenford, a beauty whose years had only refined her cruelty. Her gaze slid over Crain once, no more than the glance one gives a servant, before returning to her husband. Her smile was soft, but her eyes were daggers.
Crain's half-brothers sat close by — Loric, the eldest and heir; Darien, the second with the sharp tongue; and Mikel, the youngest, whose temper was as infamous as his appetite. They spoke and laughed freely, occasionally letting their eyes flick toward Crain with smirks they didn't bother to hide.
"Tell me, Loric," Lady Marenna said, her voice smooth as silk. "How fare your swordsmanship lessons? I heard from Master Kael you bested him in the morning bout."
Loric straightened, pride gleaming in his eyes. "I did, Mother. He said my form reminded him of the old commanders of Caelthera."
"Ah, how noble," Darien chimed in, slicing a piece of bread. "Perhaps we'll have another hero of the Direwolf yet." His smirk widened. "Unlike some who only swing words instead of blades."
The laughter that followed was quiet but sharp enough to cut through the candlelight.
Crain said nothing. His fingers tightened around the handle of his fork, knuckles white, but his voice refused to rise.
Lord Valenford looked up briefly. His gaze landed on Crain — not with warmth, not with scorn, but with the emptiness of habit. A brief flicker of recognition, then nothing.
The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
Lady Marenna sipped her wine. "I trust your studies are progressing, Crain?" she asked, tone polite but distant, as though speaking to a distant acquaintance.
He looked up, startled. "Yes, my lady," he said quietly. "I've been reading the histories of Eastvra and the border conflicts—"
"Histories?" Darien interrupted. "Does reading help you swing a sword, half-brother?"
"Enough," the Duke said finally. His voice was deep and final, like a gavel striking stone. "There will be no mockery at this table."
For a brief moment, Crain felt something like gratitude. But when he dared meet his father's eyes, he found only the weight of duty, not compassion. The Duke's words were for appearances, nothing more.
Dinner continued in stifling quiet. The warmth of the food could not chase away the cold that clung to Crain's chest. Every bite felt heavier than the last.
When the meal ended, the family dispersed — the Duke and Lady Marenna to their private chambers, the brothers to the courtyard, where laughter and sparring would likely follow. Crain lingered in the emptying hall, his plate half-finished.
Only when the last servant cleared the dishes did he rise, stepping outside into the crisp evening air. The courtyard was washed in silver moonlight, the banners of Valenford swaying gently in the wind. He walked along the outer walls, past the stables and training yard, until he reached the smaller practice field — the one he used to share with his old instructor.
The memory returned unbidden — his younger self, hopeful and eager, gripping a wooden sword with trembling hands. And beside him, the man who had trained him — not a knight, as he had believed, but a stable guard who had merely humored a lonely boy's dream.
He still remembered the day he found out.
The laughter of the Duke's sons as they exposed the truth. The look of pity in the guard's eyes.
The sound of something breaking inside him.
Crain lifted one of the practice swords left by the fence. It felt heavier than it used to. He swung once, twice — the motion awkward, his stance unsteady.
The wind whispered through the trees, cold and indifferent.
"You shouldn't be here."
The voice came from behind him — soft, weary. He turned to see the veteran knight from before, the one who had spoken to him in the gardens days ago.
"I'm not doing anything wrong," Crain said, lowering the blade.
The man crossed his arms. "That's not the point. You look like you're trying to fight ghosts."
Crain gave a faint, bitter smile. "Maybe I am."
The knight approached, his armor glinting faintly. "You've got spirit," he said, "but spirit alone doesn't win battles. I've seen men twice your age fall because they thought passion was enough."
"I don't want to fight battles," Crain said softly. "I just want to be seen."
The knight's expression softened. "Then stop waiting for their eyes to find you. Some men must carve their own reflection into the world."
He turned to leave, then paused. "When the envoy arrives tomorrow, stay out of sight. Nobles' games are crueler than blades. You'd do well not to be caught between them."
Crain nodded silently as the man walked away. His grip on the wooden sword loosened, and the weight of the world seemed to press harder on his shoulders.
Later that night, as the castle drifted into sleep, Crain sat by his window, the faint light of the moon painting the room in silver. He looked out toward the horizon, where the forests of Caelthera met the mountains of Eastvra — vast, untamed, and alive.
Somewhere beyond those ridges, he thought, life was more than lineage. More than names.
But for now, he was trapped in the gilded cage of bloodlines and banners, and the echoes of laughter still haunted him long after they'd faded.
He whispered to the night — a vow only he could hear.
"One day, I'll walk beyond these walls. Not as a shadow… but as someone who shapes his own story."
The wind stirred the curtains, carrying the faint howl of wolves from the distant forests. It sounded almost like an answer.