For the better part of the day, all had proceeded without a hitch. That is, until Ed Singer made his appearance.

Narya had been in the kitchen, instructing the cooks and maids on the art of confectionery. "The lady of the house dislikes men handling her food," the maids informed her. This, anyhow, afforded them the luxury of gossip. Isty, meanwhile, was granted the freedom to roam the kitchen and the castle's back yard, though he was barred from venturing further. He seemed content enough.

As the cranberry biscuits were slid into the oven, the eldest maid stepped out to inspect the newly arrived fresh produce, leaving the younger girls to inexplicably start a flour war, tossing handfuls at each other, transforming the kitchen into a cloud of white.

They were young, after all, and even the most mundane game could be played with gusto.

It was during this moment of chaos that Narya heard that somewhat affected voice.

"Hey, where does this young miss hail from?"

Narya looked up, her black curls dusted with flour, her face smeared with grime, and she glared at the grinning youth with an unexplainable surge of ire.

The youth had a slightly receding hairline, his black hair neatly tied back, his eyes a deeper blue than Isty's and far too large, squinting as he smiled, dressed like nobility yet casually perched on a decrepit bench.

The kitchen fell silent. The girls ceased their play but continued to sneak giggles, seemingly unafraid. Narya surmised the boy was no figure of import — and even if he were, she felt no obligation to entertain him; she was not of this castle.

"And whence do you come? Run out of wild berries in the forest?" she snapped, wiping her face and leaving a broad red mark.

The boy paused before realizing he'd been insulted, looking not angry but rather perplexedly at her flushed face: "Are you angry? You are, aren't you? Whatever for? I've not even done anything yet!"

"It sounds like you're rather eager to," Narya glowered at him.

"What can I do! I'm merely wandering about, seeking conversation to stave off boredom unto death!" the young man protested in an aggrieved tone: "Why must you be angry?"

"Perhaps I simply detest speaking with you? Why not wander elsewhere, we're busy and have no time for idle chatter."

"…Alright, I suppose I can find amusement elsewhere." The youth sniffed, somewhat dejected as he hopped off the bench and meandered through the kitchen into the backyard.

Narya exhaled deeply, patting her chest: "Who is that insufferable sod?"

"That lad," a golden-haired girl with braids replied with a snicker: "is the young master of this castle, Ed Singer."

"…He certainly doesn't look the part!" Isty looked every inch the noble compared to him.

"What's the harm? He takes after his father. Lord Singer is ever so amiable, never a cross word to us. But why such disdain for him? He's quite the charmer, isn't he?"

Not in the slightest.

Narya brooded, vigorously clapping her hands: "Let's then turn our efforts to crafting something delicious for ourselves!"

...

Ed Singer couldn't fathom where he had erred with the comely black-haired girl. One moment she was all laughter, the next, a fury unleashed upon him...

By the gods above, he truly only sought friendship, with nary a nefarious intent!

He wandered into the yard, his gaze immediately drawn to Isty. The youth's golden hair shone blindingly in the sun, his profile, soft and lovely, akin to a maiden's. He was absorbed in watching the servants sort fruit, as if it was the most fascinating of spectacles.

"Another unfamiliar face!" Ed murmured to himself, his spirits lifting as he approached.

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"Hello there!" Learning from his previous blunder, he greeted in the simplest manner, yet the blond youth still seemed startled.

"Hello," he replied, with a shy smile.

"I'm Ed, and you are? I don't believe we've met before." Ed bent down, picked up an apple, and bit into it. "I detest apples, too hard, always wounding my gums, see?" He showed the youth the faint bloodstain on the apple, then, unbothered, took another hearty bite: "Want one?"

"No, thank you… I'm Isty, I came with my sister, she's making sweets in the kitchen," Isty explained earnestly.

"The black-haired one is your sister? She's quite the spitfire, isn't she?" Ed frowned, tossing away the half-eaten apple: "You don't much resemble each other, does she treat you as roughly?"

Isty shook his head, eyeing him curiously: "Do you live here?"

"Indeed," Ed gestured towards the castle: "Born and bred, and then, after a decade and a half, I returned! The whims of fate!" Yet he seemed less than thrilled with fate's whims.

"You were born here?" Isty's expression turned peculiar: "When?"

"Fifteen years past?" Ed answered: "And you? How old are you?"

"Fifteen."

"By the fates!" Ed exclaimed with glee: "We are destined to be friends! Care to explore the castle? It's dreadfully large, always gave me the creeps. Cool in the summer, but in winter, so bitterly cold! The sun never penetrates; why on earth don't they install more windows?" He rambled on with his grievances, then quickly added, hoping to still entice his new friend: "But there's an incredible armory on display, care to see it?"

Isty hesitated. He had gazed upon the castle from the yard for a long while, yet it felt strangely foreign to him. The once dilapidated and decrepit castle had evidently been restored, with heaps of broken stones piled in the yard, craftsmen coming and going, the work of renovation ongoing.

He feared entering the castle only to find that everything familiar had vanished, just like the first ten years of his life that he could never return to.

Ed watched him expectantly, and without waiting for an answer, seized his arm: "Come on!"

Isty stumbled slightly, yielding to the hand of fate.

...

They didn't pass through the kitchen again but entered the castle through a side door.

"We can't let your sister find out, she'll think I'm abducting you to sell!" Ed said, looking genuinely alarmed, eliciting a touch of sympathy from Isty.

"Narya is good," he offered: "You'll see."

"So you'll come again?" Ed asked, hopeful.

"Perhaps." Isty wasn't sure.

"Come on! It's deathly dull here!" Ed exclaimed: "We're friends, aren't we? Friends should frequently visit one another!"

Isty remained silent; he couldn't recall when he'd become Ed's friend. Even during the years spent in the South, aside from Narya, he hadn't really made other friends. Carvo didn't object to him interacting more, but he was accustomed to staying home, and he didn't much like mingling with others.

But Ed Singer… he wasn't unpleasant. Perhaps it was his forthright manner, as if they had known each other for years, that made Isty feel as if this weren't their first encounter.

Ed suddenly stopped; they were climbing a hidden staircase by the side door.

"Shush!" he whispered.

Low voices approached, then receded.

Ed breathed a sigh of relief.

"My mother." He explained with an air of mystery: "She mustn't see us; she thinks I'm in my room reading. May the gods forbid she checks while I'm absent."

He peeked around the corridor, then motioned to Isty: "All clear!"

They slipped out of the staircase, tiptoeing on the thickly carpeted corridor. Isty curiously regarded the patterns beneath his feet. The corridors used to be uncarpeted; one winter, Scott even iced the polished granite floor for sliding fun, leading to an arduous de-icing effort after no one could safely traverse that stretch. Lida, going for Scott's laundry, had tumbled repeatedly, unable to stand, eventually just sitting there, laughing uncontrollably, as would-be rescuers fell in a comical cascade.

Boredom was a stranger to him then.

Ed whispered a running commentary: "This is my room," "That's my parents' room," "There's the study, I detest that place," "These are empty rooms, empty rooms, and more empty rooms," "That's mother's favorite sitting room"… Isty found he didn't mind others residing here; perhaps for him, "home" was purely a matter of familial presence. And now, those familiar faces existed only in memory.

—But he was indeed glad to hear his and Scott's rooms were "empty rooms."

They made their way to the third floor without incident. The armory, at the end of the east corridor on the third floor, had been a favorite haunt of young Isty, housing mostly mundane weapons with a few carrying the Thirk family's long and wearying history.

He remembered every item — those memories were his sole treasure. Elen once said that forgetting was also a gift from the gods, making life a tad lighter.

"You can't always carry everything with you on the road," he had said.

But for Isty, forgetting was a luxury too dear.

He followed Ed in silence until his forehead bumped into the back of Ed's head.

They had halted at the corridor's corner.

"The old man just went into the armory!" the black-haired youth exclaimed in surprise: "He never goes in there, what's he doing? Always said it was haunted!"

He craned his neck, torn between investigating and retreating.

Isty tugged at his sleeve.

Footsteps echoed from behind them on the staircase, a deep, angry voice barking orders.

Ed's scalp tingled.

"My mother." His voice was a strangled whisper: "This is wrong, terribly wrong, fate conspires against me! Why! It's not fair!"

Isty watched him wordlessly.

They might have made it to the other side of the east corridor, but Ed was now paralyzed with panic, glued to the wall like a gecko under a cat's gaze, despairing: "Well, we're done for."

A cold hand seized him, pulling him into darkness.