The halls of Valenford glimmered like a thousand mirrors that world. From tower to courtyard, torches burned bright and steady, their light chasing away the chill of the northern winds.
Banners of red and silver draped from the ceiling, bearing the crest of the direwolf — proud and unyielding, the mark of House Valenford.
It was the Feast of Swords, an event held once every decade to honor the peace between the eastern kingdoms and the Emperor's dominion. Lords, envoys, and knights from across Caelthera filled the castle. Laughter echoed through the corridors, mingled with the sharp scent of wine and steel.
Crain had walked these halls before. Once, not long ago, he'd sat at his father's table — for a brief, confusing moment when he'd thought perhaps things could change. But tonight reminded him how wrong he'd been.
He stood near the outer archway of the grand hall, half-hidden in the shadow of a pillar. His clothing was clean but plain — the garments of someone tolerated, not welcomed. Servants hurried past him, their trays heavy with roasted meat and honeyed wine.
He could see the Duke seated at the head of the table, regal and composed, his silver hair catching the torchlight. To his right, Lady Marenna, flawless as carved marble, spoke softly with one of the noble guests. And beside them sat their three children — Loric, the proud heir; Darien, the charming swordsman; and Selise, their sister, radiant and sharp-eyed.
Crain's gaze lingered for only a moment before he looked away. He'd learned that looking too long made him notice things he wished he didn't — the way they laughed together, the way no one ever glanced his way.
"Keeping count of how many smiles aren't meant for you?"
Ronan's rough voice came from behind him. The old guard approached with his usual limp and a half-smile tugging at his lips. His armor was polished for once, though the dents and scratches still told their story.
Crain smirked faintly. "You clean up well, old man."
Ronan chuckled. "Aye, and you look like you'd rather be mucking stalls than standing in silk halls. Can't say I blame you."
Crain glanced back toward the Duke's table. "It feels different tonight. Bigger."
"Because it is," Ronan said, leaning slightly on his cane. "Kingsland sent an envoy. High-blood, too. Folk like us don't belong near that sort."
Crain gave a soft hum, not entirely agreeing. He'd never felt he belonged anywhere, so what difference did it make?
A loud trumpet blared, cutting through the chatter. The great doors of the hall swung open, and the crowd fell into silence.
The envoy entered.
He was tall, cloaked in white trimmed with gold, his stride smooth and deliberate. Two knights flanked him, their armor gleaming with the crest of Kingsland — a phoenix wreathed in flame.
"Lord Edrin Theresia of the Imperial Court," the herald announced.
Whispers rippled through the hall. The Theresia name carried weight — it was a name that could command armies or destroy reputations with a single decree.
The Duke rose from his seat and extended a hand. "House Valenford welcomes the flame of Kingsland," he said, voice calm and measured.
Edrin inclined his head. "And Kingsland acknowledges Valenford's loyalty. May our blades never cross except in defense of the realm."
Their words were polite, but Crain could sense the frost beneath them. His father's smile was steady, yet his knuckles whitened on the goblet's stem. Politics, Crain thought, was a duel where every word was a feint.
---
The feast continued in waves of laughter, song, and drink. Musicians plucked lutes and harps while dancers twirled between banners. Wine flowed freely, and stories of past battles were retold with growing exaggeration.
Crain stayed on the edge of it all, unnoticed. Every now and then, his eyes drifted to the family table. He saw Loric boasting to the envoy about the new recruits of the northern garrisons. Darien was charming a lady from Eastvra with a grin that made half the hall laugh. Selise sat poised and distant, yet her gaze occasionally flicked toward Crain — sharp, appraising, disdainful.
Ronan leaned closer. "Still hoping for a nod of approval?"
Crain shook his head. "No. Just… wondering what it feels like to be seen."
Ronan grunted. "Careful, boy. The ones who crave attention in halls like this tend to end up headless or hollow."
Crain smirked faintly but said nothing. He'd already learned that lesson the hard way.
---
Later, while the music swelled and the crowd grew louder, Crain slipped away toward the balcony for air. The night was cool, the stars scattered like frost across the black sky. From here, he could see the lights of the lower town — small, warm, and real.
He was halfway lost in thought when a voice broke his quiet.
"So the bastard returns to the hall of wolves."
Crain turned. Selise stood there, her gown catching the moonlight. Behind her, two young nobles lingered, smirking.
He straightened slightly. "Lady Selise."
She tilted her head. "Polite as ever. Tell me, Crain, do you still dream of Father calling you son?"
Her words struck like a thrown knife, sharp and practiced.
Crain's jaw tightened. "No," he said quietly. "I dream of being nothing like any of you."
Her expression faltered — just for a heartbeat — before the mask of disdain returned. "Careful. Dreams like that tend to end badly."
Crain brushed past her without another word. He didn't see the way her smile vanished as she turned toward the hall again, the faint tremor in her hand as she lifted her goblet.
---
The deeper corridors of the castle were quieter, lit by the glow of wall torches. Crain walked aimlessly at first, letting the noise fade behind him. Then, from a side passage near the archive hall, he heard whispers.
He stopped.
Two voices. One was a servant's — shaky and nervous. The other was calm, unfamiliar, carrying an edge of command.
"…the Duke won't yield," the deeper voice said. "He'll refuse the levy. Kingsland will see that as defiance."
"And what do we do?" the servant asked.
A pause. Then: "Wait for the signal. When the west tower burns, it begins."
Crain froze.
His pulse quickened as he stepped back, trying not to make a sound — but his heel brushed a loose stone. It clattered against the floor.
The door flew open.
"You!" the servant gasped.
Crain ran.
He darted through the corridor, past startled guards and fleeing servants. His breath came in sharp bursts. Behind him came shouts — boots slamming against stone.
He turned a corner — and nearly collided with Ronan.
"Crain?" The old guard's eyes widened. "What in the hells—"
"They're going to burn the west tower!" Crain shouted. "Someone's—"
Before he could finish, a horn blared across the courtyard — long, mournful, and loud enough to rattle the windows.
Ronan's face went pale. "Too late."
---
Flames erupted on the horizon.
The west tower — the armory — was ablaze, its upper floors spilling fire and smoke into the night. Bells rang, guards shouted, chaos spread like wildfire.
Crain stumbled after Ronan as they burst into the courtyard. Arrows whistled through the air. The gates to the northern wall exploded inward — attackers pouring through, clad in dark armor, their banners unmarked.
Ronan drew his sword. "Get out of here!" he barked. "Go, Crain!"
"I can help—"
"You can't!" Ronan roared. "You're not a soldier — you're barely a squire! Run!"
The old guard shoved him aside just as a flaming beam crashed down, splitting the ground where they'd stood. Smoke swallowed everything.
Crain coughed, eyes stinging, disoriented by the screams and clash of steel. Through the haze he saw the Duke's men rallying near the gates, heard the Duke's voice commanding order, felt the heat of burning walls at his back.
And then — silence, broken only by the crackle of fire.
He turned.
Ronan was gone.
Crain stumbled through the wreckage, searching for him, but the courtyard was already collapsing under chaos. Horses screamed. Arrows struck stone. The banners of Valenford burned.
Somewhere in the distance, he heard the Duke's roar — defiant, desperate. But even that sound was soon drowned by the fire.
He ran — through smoke, through flame, through the ruin of everything he'd ever known.
Above him, the night sky watched in cold silence. The Feast of Swords had become the Funeral of Wolves.