So, yeah.
I died.
That much was pretty obvious when I realized I couldn't feel heat anymore. Kind of ironic, since fire was the last thing I remembered.
First, the screaming. Then choking smoke. The roof caved in like the world itself just gave up. I remember grabbing the kid—tiny, terrified, sobbing—pulling him tight as I ran back inside while everyone else rushed out.
Heroic? Maybe. Stupid? Definitely. But it made sense at the time.
The kid lived.
I didn't.
That was the first thing I figured out, mostly because I was staring at myself. Or, what used to be me.
A small body lay facedown in the mud by the riverbank, half-covered in ash and trampled grass. Way too small. Way too thin. A child's body.
"Well," I muttered, weirdly calm for someone who'd just died, "that explains a lot."
The river flowed on forever, somehow wider than it should be. The sky above wasn't day or night—just this dull, angry red, like embers that wouldn't die out. Smoke drifted everywhere, but it didn't choke me. Nothing hurt.
I rolled onto my back, gasping, staring up into a gray sky full of drifting ash.
I was alive.
Small hands. Too small. They shook when I lifted them—thin fingers trembling like grass in a storm.
Then the memories started.
Not all at once. Just flashes.
A woman's voice singing at night.
"Hush now… the river listens…"
A man's laughter, warm, as he lifted me high.
Father.
The smell of bread baking by the fire.
And then—I heard something behind me.
"My lord…"
No answer.
They checked the ground by the trees, the path leading away from the river, the footprints already half-washed by the water.
Nothing certain.
The head steward paused, eyeing the river downstream.
"We keep going," he said.
The house steward nodded, shifting the staff in his hands.
They walked on, searching, following the river as the trees thinned. Mud sucked at their boots. Reeds brushed their legs.
Suddenly the house steward stopped and pointed with his staff.
"There."
By a bend in the river, a small figure stood, staring at the water.
The head steward slowed.
"It's him," he said.
They approached, careful, closing the gap.
The boy didn't turn. Not until they were almost close enough to touch him. Then he glanced back.
The head steward nodded.
" Lord Alaric."
I froze. I couldn't speak. My legs felt heavy, useless. I turned and saw them—a man and a woman, one on either side.
The man looked about forty, maybe 1.7 meters tall, bald and heavyset, dressed in a blue robe.
The woman was in her thirties, also about 1.7 meters, with long, wavy brown hair and a blue dress with a low neckline.
Head Steward Herschel and House Steward Ms. Surana.
Herschel stopped just in front of me, eyes narrowing.
"Lord Alaric… why are you here, alone? Where are your guards?"
Ms. Surana shifted, gripping her staff. "Yes… it's dangerous. Bandits, soldiers—anyone could be out here. Why would you come alone?"
I just looked at the water, then back at them. Silence.
Herschel's voice turned sharp. "You're a lord. You should have guards. You shouldn't be left like this."
Ms. Surana's voice softened, almost pleading. "We've been searching everywhere, my lord… It's reckless to wander off."
My hands shook. "I… I don't know," I said quietly. "I don't know how I got here."
The two exchanged a look.
"This isn't safe. You can't wander alone, my lord. Anything could've happened," Herschel said, voice stern.
Alaric stared at the river, whispering, "I just… I don't know."
Herschel stepped closer, his tone final. "You must come with us now. You can't stay here."
I nodded, letting them guide me between them.
The river flowed beside us, uncaring. A little lord herded along the bank by those who'd come looking.
-----
Somewhere in Frostmere territory.
A small, dark room, hidden away. Lantern light flickered as the figures leaned in over the table, faces half in shadow.
"He's gone," said the hooded man, voice flat. "Alaric Frostmere won't be back to meddle. He's dead."
Another man rubbed his hands together. "Good. Now we can take the keep, the lands—no one's left to stop us."
A third, thin-bearded, sounded wary. "We need to be careful. Some of the smallfolk might still be loyal—" and the stewards—they know too much."
A sharp-eyed man slammed his fist on the table.
"They're harmless. Keep them in line, they'll do as they're told. Our soldiers answer to us now, no one else."
The hooded leader gave a slow nod, voice deep and sure.
"Then it's settled. We take the treasury, split the troops, and deal with anyone left standing in our way. Once that's done, the rest falls into place."
The others murmured, already breaking things down, tossing out names and jobs, marking out every detail.
Shadows played across their faces as they talked—greed, hunger, that cold patience you only see in people who have waited too long for power.
Outside, the wind picked at the trees. Inside, all that mattered was their scheming. None of them spared a thought for the boy they thought dead—Alaric Frostmere. They had no idea he was still out there.
------
The path to the keep wound through thick trees and mud, just wide enough for two to walk side by side. The river followed along, whispering quietly in the dark.
Alaric walked in the middle, his two stewards close on either side. Four soldiers came behind, their armor a jumble of borrowed pieces, tired but sharp-eyed, scanning the woods as they went.
The head steward shot Alaric a look.
"Stay close, my lord. Even with guards, one wrong move's all it takes."
The house steward gripped his staff, muttering as he peered into the trees.
"Scouts, bandits… anyone could be watching. Step quiet."
Alaric soaked it all in—the bends in the path, muddy footprints, the way the shadows slid between the trunks. The soldiers kept whispering, signaling to each other, never letting their guard down.
After a while, the head steward crouched a little, hand up.
"Wait. Hear that?"
A rustle. A branch snapped. Suddenly everyone tensed, hands gripping their swords.
"Nothing," the house steward said, but his voice was tight.
They moved on, slower now, the soldiers drawing in closer around Alaric. He caught on fast: stay quiet, move when told, and listen for trouble before it finds you.
Everything felt huge. The trees loomed, their branches like twisted claws reaching down. Every sound made Alaric's heart pound—every snap, every rustle.
"What if someone's... waiting?" he whispered, barely loud enough for himself to hear.
The head steward glanced down, noticing the shake in Alaric's hands.
"Nothing to fear, my lord."
Alaric tried to believe him, but his stomach was in knots. His eyes kept darting everywhere—shadows that seemed to move, the river glinting as if hiding secrets, the wind through the reeds whispering things he didn't want to hear.
The house steward gripped his staff tighter, voice low.
"Bandits, wild animals… or spies. Stay sharp." He muttered something to himself about how the boy had ended up this far from home.
Alaric couldn't remember. Nothing made sense.
He was far from calm. Back home, nothing like this ever happened. He'd never felt this kind of fear. His legs felt heavy, boots sinking into the mud with every step.
He clung to his cloak, wishing he could just vanish inside it. He had no idea how he'd landed here—in a world so much bigger and scarier than anything he'd imagined, where every shadow felt like a threat, every sound like a warning.
A twig snapped close by. Alaric jumped.
The soldiers' hands flew to their swords, but Alaric's heart was already pounding so hard it hurt. His chest tightened. He tried to breathe slow, copying the adults, but the world pressed in, huge and unknown.
At last, the river curved, and the keep's lights glimmered ahead. Relief flickered in Alaric's chest, but it didn't last long. He was alive—but now he knew just how dangerous, how unpredictable, this new world could be. And It was only at the beginning.
-----
[The chapter ends here]