The knight at the gate narrows his eyes, taking in my appearance with a hint of suspicion. My face, the cloth mask removed is worn and pale from travel, draws his gaze. His hand shifts toward his sword as he steps forward, his armor clinking. A thin fog clings to the ground, curling around our feet, and the damp air is sharp with the scent of wet leaves and cold stone. “Halt. State your name and purpose,” he says, his tone edged with suspicion.

I know I must look worn—tired, yes, but still somewhat presentable. My clothes are travel-worn but neat, I washed last night at the inn so to not look disheveled and filthy, and though I’ve tried to hold myself straight, a dull ache presses at my temples. My chest feels heavier with each breath in the chill of the late morning air. I tighten my grip on the documents in my hand, steadying myself, though my legs grow heavier with each passing second.

“Alaric Valenwyld, Prince of Avenridge,” I say, holding out a folded parchment stamped with my family’s insignia. Beside it, I produce Edward’s letter, its royal seal still intact, proof of its legitimacy. The knight’s gaze lingers on me, then shifts to the documents, his fingers drumming the hilt of his sword, suspicion still visible.

After a tense silent moment, the guard finally takes the letter, breaking the seal and scanning its contents; his eyes narrow as he reads Edward’s directions for my entry and where to escort me within the castle. His expression shifts, a flicker of mistrust still lingering beneath the weight of duty as he inspects the documents, visibly debating his orders but finding no grounds to refuse.

After a moment, he lets out a sharp breath and nods, calling over a second guard. With a reluctant signal, they pull the gates open, the groan of old wood breaking the heavy silence.

“Follow me,” he says, his voice still edged with suspicion.

The knight guard brings me to a study—a room larger than any I’ve seen. Shelves, packed floor to ceiling with pristine, leather-bound books, line the walls. The shelves are so high they almost disappear into the shadows above, making the room feel boundless, like stepping into a forest of ancient knowledge. I trace the spines of the books until my fingers settle on a familiar title—Dando’s Dogs, decorated in elegant black. Nostalgia hit me as I recall my father’s voice, low and steady, recounting the eerie tale by firelight.

Dando, once a holy man turned degenerate priest, lives only for excess. At a hunt on a Sunday, after drinking his fill, he demands more wine. A mysterious horseman appears, dark and alluring, offering a flask. The drink ignites a fire in Dando’s veins, and with the flask empty, he thirsts for more, shouting he’d chase the stranger to hell for another taste.

With a chilling laugh, the rider calls, “Then come!” and spurs his steed forward. The dark horseman snatches Dando by the collar, forcing him up onto his stead, and dragging him to Hell; his loyal hounds howling in pursuit. They tear through dark woods and across shadowed valleys, but no matter how they chase, the rider is always just ahead, leading Dando further from the mortal world. To this day, on stormy nights, people claim to hear the echoing howls of Dando’s hounds, racing forever through the darkness, bound to their master’s endless chase.

Even now, I can almost hear my father’s voice, reading the tale as we sat wide-eyed by the hearth, captivated and cautious, sensing the moral hidden beneath the words.

“I did not take you for a reader, Alaric. Especially of old folklore.”

I turn, startled, as Edward enters, closing the heavy oak doors behind him. At only eighteen, he carries himself with the calm authority of someone much older. His sharp, youthful features are tempered by a certain harshness, his dark hair framing intense, intelligent eyes that seem always to calculate. He wears his mantle of responsibility well—his stance is firm, his gaze heavy with the weight of command.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Edward’s eyes scan me, taking in the pallor of my skin, the dark circles beneath my eyes, the tremor in my hand as I return the book to the shelf. “Alaric,” he says, his voice edged with concern. “You do not look well. When I got your letter, I didn’t expect… this.” His expression is unreadable, but he crosses his arms, his gaze pressing into mine. “Tell me what has happened.”

So, I do. I tell him everything—the plague that first claimed my mother and then began to gnaw at my father’s spirit, turning him into a shadow of the king he once was. My older brother, Adalard, fought tirelessly to protect Avenridge from mounting attacks as neighboring lands circled like vultures, drawn by the scent of weakness. I recount how he died on the battlefield, cut down defending our borders, leaving only our father’s fragile resolve to hold Avenridge together.

After Adalard’s death, my father—already hollowed by grief—fell swiftly to the plague, reduced to a shadow of the king he had once been. On his deathbed, he pressed into my hand the family sword and a small, ancient coin, a treasured heirloom. Though I don’t share these details with Edward, I only tell him of the crown’s weight passing down to me. How I done my best to shore up what defenses remained, but the strain was relentless, and the borders grew weaker by the day. Then came the final blow—the French invasion. They struck with brutal precision, their forces sweeping over Avenridge as I held the line with everything I had. But they were too many, and we were only a small nation, no match for the might of the French Empire.

In the end, all that endured was Annalise and me. My sister, so young and full of dreams, her eyes wide with terror, clinging to my arm as I led her to the depths of the castle. We hid, not out of fear for my sake, but to shield her from the horror crashing down around us. I swore I’d protect her, clenching my father’s sword, vowing to keep her safe even as I held her close, my hand pressed firmly over her mouth to muffle her cries. We heard our people falling, our home crumbling above us, until Avenridge was gone, seized by the French in under a day.

I grit my teeth as I speak, trying to steady my voice. "Annalise and I… we had no choice but to hide… hide like vermin.”

Edward listens in silence, his expression taut as he absorbs each word. His arms cross over his chest, muscles tense, fingers digging into his sleeves. Finally, his gaze sharpens, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “And Annalise…where is she?”

“She did not survive,” I manage, my voice barely a whisper. “Ten days after she showed the first signs of the plague… she was gone. I built a funeral pyre and burned her with my own hands.” The memory sinks heavily into me, and a dull ache spreads through my chest, grounding each word.

“Everything is gone, Edward. Everything I had.” I pause, feeling the weight of those words settle like stone.

“All that remains is what I carry.” My hand drifts to the cloth-wrapped sword slung across my back—the last fragments of home, bound to me by memory alone.

“It was the day I burned her… that I wrote to you,” I say, my voice low and weary. My head throbs, exhaustion gnawing at the edges of my words.

Edward’s jaw tightens as he watches me, his gaze assessing and cautious. He keeps his distance, eyes lingering on the pallor of my skin and the dark circles beneath my eyes. “Alaric… what are you planning?” His tone is measured, as if weighing every word. “Do you have a plan, or… is that why you’ve come to England?”

The weight of his question settles over me, pressing down on the hollow ache in my chest. “I have nothing left in Avenridge. The plague claimed my family, and the French took advantage of our weakness. But I am not finished. I’ll rebuild, somehow…”

“I don’t have all the answers yet, but I will take Avenridge back, one way or another. That is my only purpose now.” I say, forcing a steadiness into my voice.

Edward’s eyes narrow thoughtfully as he studies me from across the room, his expression softening just enough to reveal a flicker of sympathy. “Then stay here,” he offers, his voice shifting to a gentler note. “You’re welcome at court as long as you need. I can help with what I have, and when you’re ready, England will stand behind you.”

I manage a nod, feeling exhaustion settle over me, heavier with each moment. “Thank you, Edward,” I murmur, my voice faint. “I’ll fight for England if you’ll have me, help however I can.”

A faint smile pulls at his mouth. “There’s strength in you still, then,” he says, but his eyes linger on me, still cautious, still wary.

As the pressure in my head builds, the room begins to tilt, my vision swimming. Edward’s voice grows distant as he says my name, but I can barely hear him. The walls blur around me, darkness closing in as I feel my legs give way. The last thing I see is the painted ceiling, angels staring down, serene and unyielding, as I slip into the dark.