Morning light seeped through the narrow window of Crain's chamber, casting faint golden lines across the stone floor. The castle had already awakened — the echo of boots in the corridors, the calls of servants, the hiss of steel from the training yard below. It was another day in Valenford, where every breath, every glance, carried the weight of lineage and expectation.
Crain sat by his desk, absently tracing a finger along the rim of a cracked inkwell. The parchment before him remained blank. He had meant to copy a passage from the Chronicles of Eastvra, but his mind refused to settle. The words blurred, replaced by last night's echoes — the cold stares, the laughter, and his father's silence.
He rose and crossed the room. Outside, the sky was a pale blue, the kind that promised neither warmth nor storm. From his window, he could see the inner courtyard, where knights and squires trained under the watchful eye of Master Kael. Wooden swords clashed, armor gleamed, and voices rose in disciplined shouts.
He watched for a moment, envy curling in his chest.
How easily they moved.
How certain they looked.
Then his gaze drifted to the far edge of the yard — to the stables, smaller and quieter. A few servants worked there, grooming the horses and cleaning stalls. Among them was a man whose movements were slower now, steadier with age — his old instructor.
Crain hesitated, then left his room.
---
The stables smelled of hay and sweat and iron. Light filtered through cracks in the wooden walls, catching dust that danced like tiny spirits. Horses stamped and snorted softly as he passed, their breath misting in the cool air.
"Didn't think I'd see you down here again," the man said without turning. His voice was rough but familiar — a sound that tugged at Crain's memory like a half-healed scar.
"I had nothing better to do," Crain answered quietly.
The man chuckled. "You never do. Always chasing ghosts, boy." He turned then, revealing a face lined with fatigue but softened by faint amusement. His name was Ronan, though most called him Old Ron. He had once been a soldier — not of noble blood, but of service and grit. When he'd grown too old for battle, he'd taken charge of the Duke's stables.
"You've grown taller," Ronan said, squinting. "Skinnier, too. Don't they feed you up in those marble halls?"
Crain smiled faintly. "They feed me what's left."
Ronan barked a short laugh. "Aye, that sounds about right." He leaned against a wooden post, folding his arms. "So. You've come to swing at air again? Or to stare at the dirt like the last time I caught you?"
Crain hesitated. "You knew," he said finally. "About the lie."
Ronan's expression shifted — not guilty, not regretful, but tired. "Aye. I knew. And I should've told you, I suppose. But you looked at me like I was someone worth believing in."
"You could've told me the truth."
"And crushed that little fire in you before it even burned?" Ronan sighed. "No, lad. The world does that well enough without my help."
Crain's jaw tightened. "It did anyway."
"Aye," Ronan said softly. "It did."
For a while, they stood in silence, broken only by the creak of wood and the gentle shuffle of hooves. Then, with a slow motion, Ronan reached for one of the wooden practice swords leaning by the stall door and tossed it toward Crain.
"Come on, then."
Crain caught it clumsily. "I thought I wasn't worth the trouble."
"You're not," Ronan said with a smirk. "But I've nothing better to do either."
The first few swings were pitiful. Crain's stance was uneven, his strikes hesitant. The blade cut only air, its rhythm stilted and graceless. Ronan circled him with the patience of a man who had seen too much failure to be surprised by it.
"Your grip's wrong," he said. "And your feet — gods, boy, plant them like you mean to stand on this earth."
Crain adjusted, breathing hard. Sweat began to bead on his brow.
"Better," Ronan muttered. "But remember — a sword isn't for rage. It's for control. You swing in anger, you die a fool."
Crain's arms ached, but he kept going. Strike, pivot, block, swing. The air whistled around him, and slowly, painfully, rhythm found its way into his movements.
After a time, Ronan raised a hand. "Enough."
Crain lowered the blade, panting. "I thought you said—"
"I said enough," Ronan repeated. "You're not ready to fight. Not with steel, at least. But maybe one day you'll learn what it means to stand."
Crain wiped sweat from his brow. "What does it mean?"
Ronan looked past him, toward the open door of the stables where sunlight spilled in long beams of gold. "It means you keep moving, even when the ground wants to swallow you whole."
---
Later that afternoon, Crain wandered through the lower halls of the castle. The stone here was older, rougher, the air thick with the scent of oil and parchment. He paused outside the records chamber, where voices murmured beyond the half-open door.
Two servants spoke in hushed tones.
"They say the envoy from Kingsland's already crossed the Silver Pass," one whispered. "Three days, maybe four, before they reach Valenford."
"The Duke's not pleased," said the other. "The envoy's from House Theresia — they say the Emperor himself sent him. There's talk of taxes, or worse… conscription."
Crain's brow furrowed. Conscription. The word lingered like a bad taste.
"Shh!" the first hissed. "If they hear you talking about that—"
Crain stepped away before they noticed him. His thoughts were spinning. The kingdom beyond Valenford — Kingsland — was the heart of Eastvra, the place where power and politics twisted together like serpents. If their envoy was coming this far north, it meant something had shifted.
And if there was tension in the realm, it would reach even here, even to the boy who bore a Duke's unwanted blood.
---
By the time the sun dipped low, painting the sky in streaks of crimson and gold, Crain had returned to the quiet of the gardens. He sat beneath the old ash tree, watching the servants light torches along the walls. The air smelled of rain.
He thought of Ronan's words. You keep moving, even when the ground wants to swallow you.
He thought of the Duke, of his cold gaze. Of Lady Marenna's sharp smile. Of Loric and Darien, laughing in their armor, their lives charted and certain.
He envied them — not for their status, but for their direction.
He wanted to move too. To find meaning beyond the walls, beyond the whispers. To carve his own reflection, as the knight had told him.
But how?
The sound of approaching footsteps pulled him from his thoughts. It was the young servant girl again — the one from the library. She carried a tray of empty goblets and paused when she saw him.
"You're always out here," she said softly.
"It's quiet," Crain replied.
She looked at him for a moment. "The world's never quiet, my lord. You just don't always hear the noise yet."
He smiled faintly. "You sound like Ronan."
"Maybe he's right," she said. "Maybe you should start listening."
With that, she turned and left, her footsteps fading down the cobblestone path.
Crain leaned back against the tree, eyes tracing the darkening sky. The first stars began to appear — faint, trembling lights in the endless dusk.
He wondered how far they were, how many stories lay hidden behind them.
And for the first time in many nights, he whispered not to the wind or the moon, but to himself.
"If the world wants to swallow me whole… then I'll make sure it chokes on the way down."
A faint smile crossed his lips.