"Up and about Alaric." Fabric rustled, and beam of light poured into the chamber a moment later. A fox of a man, tall, sinewy and spry despite his old age, stepped away from the blue and silver curtains.

"Go. Away..." A groan erupted behind, wood creaked as the small figure in question, a boy, scrawny and fair skinned, raised the silk sheets over his head. To the boy's dismay the elder man didn't leave. Instead, he advanced, scuffing his boots against the polished stone floor, each infernal step louder than the last until Prince Alaric could bore it no longer.

He sat up with a growl.

"I'm the prince, blast it!" Alaric roared, snatching a pillow beside him, "Leave me!" He the flung it like a javelin, enough strength behind it to give someone an unpleasant day. The pillow burst against the wall in a cloud of feathers, far from its intended target. Alaric glared, hoping to see even a flicker of surprise, but Sir Careridan merely observed the feather-strewn mess.

"Good morrow, prince," he said calmly, without the decency to even flinch. Ridiculous.

"What in seven hells are you?" Alaric complained as he slid himself off the bed.

"Not a servant," the grandfatherly knight replied with a slight tut, as though the answer was obvious. Entirely true, considering the plate armor he donned. Golden, ornately crafted, with a short cape—white and spotlessly clean—that hugged his shoulders. The uniform of his father's Oathsworn, guardians bound by sacred vow to serve the royal family.

A glorified brotherhood of knights, if one asked Alaric.

"Yes, yes, you're my father's knight." Alaric gave an exasperated sigh. "But Sir Careridan, I am his son. You serve the royal family. Me." He straightened, smiling triumphantly.

"Correct, His Majesty, Her Highness, Princess Nurelia, Crown Prince Jordan, Prince Trevelyn—and you." The sly fox added as an afterthought.

Alaric's smile disappeared. "What's that supposed to mean?" Trevelyn was the youngest prince, not him.

"It's as you said my prince. I serve the royal family." Sir Careridan clapped his hands, suddenly brisk. "Now, dress yourself. The time we waste bantering is time better spent training." He paused. "Today."

"Forefather's no..." Alaric groaned, falling back onto the bed.

Sir Careridan gave a slight bow and turned to leave. "I'll await outside."

"Have mercy!" Alaric hollered as the door clicked shut behind. Today wasn't going to be an easy day, then again—"When is it ever?" Alaric muttered. He dragged himself out of bed, shuffling to the wardrobe. He picked out a loose linen shirt and trousers, dressing himself without calling a manservant. He preferred doing it alone; not everything had to be a ceremony.

After brushing his teeth and splashing some water on his face, he stared at his reflection in the washbasin. The unruly mop of black hair on his head was a lost cause. No point in taming it if it would be soaked with sweat by morrow's end. Alaric steeled himself, taking a breath before striding toward the door, cracking it open just enough to peek outside.

The hallway was alive with servants scurrying in all directions, their jackets stiff and buttoned, carrying buckets of bathwater, and baskets of fresh linens and clothes. One gaunt, stern-faced man balanced a silver platter that caught Alaric's eye. Its contents were sealed under a dome, but the aroma of the food hit Alaric’s nose, making him swallow. Nothing in the royal pantry was ever bland, he had raided it plenty enough to know.

"Breakfast is downstairs. Best get on with it my prince." A man whispered gruffly beside him. Alaric nearly jumped out of his own skin, right there. Only a prodigious effort kept him from flinching. He wouldn't give the sly fox the satisfaction.

"Thank you, Sir Careridan." The prince said dryly. "Though, I must say, a man of your age sneaking up on children is unbecoming. Especially a knight." He found the knight leaning against the wall.

"Apologies, Your Grace." Sir Careridan replied, his tone as sincere as a merchant hawking wares at a fair. "Eat well, there'll be plenty for us to train." And with a nod, he moved past the prince's shoulder.

“Bastard,” Alaric muttered under his breath.

“Pardon?” Sir Careridan called out behind him, but Alaric had already rounded the corner, darting toward the stairs. He nearly bumped into a servant as he clambered down the spiral staircase.

Alaric gingerly held on to the wooden railing while he caught his breath, "I'm doomed. Absolutely and utterly doomed." The wizened knight didn't know what 'holding back' meant, especially in weapons practice. Sword, spear, dagger, battle-axe, it didn't matter. Alaric was always on the receiving end, bruised and battered. This only being the days his teacher was in a good mood. On the bad, well, he couldn't remember them afterward. He forced his thoughts away from the impending torment and continued trekking the stairs until he found an archway to the dining halls.

The ground here was covered with huge, square clay tiles. They were glazed in patterns that twisted and slithered, amassing in one shape like a sea serpent. Alaric paused for a moment, his eyes tracing cracks that spiderwebbed across many of the tiles. They were like the scars of an old warrior, some even bore fresh grout like stitched wounds. He reflected on the history of his ancestral home.

Wolvern Castle hadn't been built at once; it began as a humble keep rooted firmly between the backside of the Cauldron's mountainous ridges and steep hills, hungrily expanding over eight generations. His skin tingled as he walked into a tri-halo of light, feeling its warmth seep past the thin linens he wore. Alaric glanced up at the skyglass embedded in the ceiling, shielding his eyes lest he go blind. The panes that kept the glass from plummeting, connected in three interlocked loops. He idly wondered, looking at the sunlit floor, if his pious mother realized the ancient druidic knot these shadows had cast above.

Her way was the Faith of the Lady, or 'Three-faced harlot,' as a certain gothi Mother despised, called it. She, along with the clergy residing in the chapel, were always odds with the seidhr of Gothi Harveult's grove. For the Path condemned all gods as false, save for a warrior-prophet turned deity, whose life was divided into three divine aspects. Already, Alaric could hear that blasted rhyme in his head, 'First lead the Justicar, with order in hand, Whence cometh The Reaper, to harvest the land, Next ascended The Saintess, bestowing grace so grand.'

He saw nothing graceful about the Lady. Everything about Her Path felt rigid and suffocating, an endless litany of tenets and rituals that strangled any sense of freedom. Alaric preferred the Forefathers Way—venerating the ancestral spirits and offering thanks to nature and seasons passing at his choosing.

"Forefathers, help me stop flapping this mouth of mine," Alaric prayed, his words trailing off into the open hallway. He started forward, but the soft rustle of skirts brought him up short. A small group of young women, barely past their age of majority, strolled past, their bright laughter echoing lightly through the hall. Perfumed and neatly coiffed, in flowery dresses that flared with each step, they could only be his sister’s handmaidens.

Alaric recognized a few as daughters of his father's sworn landry, though they rarely interacted; Mother preferred it that way. One of the girls glanced over her shoulder, maroon lips pressed in a smirk, and leaned toward the others with a whisper. Another giggled. Alaric’s brow twitched. Had they overheard him? Were they laughing at him? His mouth fell open, barbed words already forming on the tip of his tongue.

"Yes, I praying to myself! So what?" He glared with an intensity comparable to the sun, "At least I don't strut about like peacocks, vying for my sister's favour." A grin crossed his face. "Then again, 'peacocks' is too generous. You have the brain of the fowl, but none of its beauty."

The handmaidens stared back, five pairs of narrowed eyes, visibly outraged. He could tell they wanted to respond, to cut him down to size, but instead, they simply curtsied stiffly. "Good day, Your Grace." They forced the words out, laced with venom Alaric knew they couldn't quite express aloud.

"Cats paw got your tongue?" Alaric chuckled, watching their scowls darken as they lifted their noses and turned tail.

"Well now, boy. What have you to say for yourself?"

A deep, resonant voice made Alaric's spine stiffen. He rotated slowly, and found himself face-to-face with Nathaniel Laersmont, Lord of Griffindale, Duke of Lotheign, father to the Queen Consort, and his grandfather. As always, the man stood upright like a pillar of granite, unyielding and severe, his graying hair trimmed meticulously, with strands of gold clinging to it like memories of youth. His sable overcoat nearly swept the floor, casting a dark cloud over Alaric. Griffins embroidered in gold adorned the brocade, their wings spread high—the proud heraldry of House Laersmont. Medallions clinked faintly on his breast, reminders of a long, iron-fisted service as High Steward to the King.

The High Steward's pale, imperious face inspected Alaric quietly, with the same steel-gray eyes the prince had inherited from his mother. In all other ways, they shared little resemblance. Alaric swallowed, feeling a bead of sweat slide down his neck. He searched for words and forced himself to meet that gaze.

“Ah, good morrow, my Lord Duke.”

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Lord Laersmont brushed aside the greeting, flaring his aquiline nose with a faint harrumph before schooling his expression. "To begin with, you were foolish. I observed a prince led by his yellow humors. Instead of taking the reins, he foolishly let them overrule his rationale. Pray tell me, what sort of reputation might one acquire by lashing out at passing maidens?" Alaric kept his mouth firmly sealed. His grandfather was a man who posed questions not meant to be answered. Nor would he be humored by the retort Alaric had in mind.

In years past, he might have been desperate to disprove such remarks, eager for his grandfather’s approval. He could still vividly remember sneaking away from his caretakers one evening, stumbling upon the heart of the griffin's nest: A dim, firelit study. It had smelled of old leather, parchment, and the rich scent of oils, its coziness pulling him in.

But that eagerness had long faded, just like the warmth of the old man’s attention.

"Master your ill-temperament, boy, else others shall fashion this weakness for themselves." Lord Laersmont continued, his intonation grating in Alaric's ear like the rusted chains of Torsten's gatehouse. Alaric clenched his teeth, trying to keep his irritation in check. The High Steward had a knack for turning every conversation into a lesson.

He forced himself back to the present, loosening his fists. "Come now, Your Grace. I'm thirteen." He managed a smirk. "Isn't a bit of foolishness expected? My age of majority won’t be for another three years." Even as he said it, Alaric inwardly groaned at the thought of the month-long celebration. Jousts, melees, endless ball dances, all culminating in the grand feast that would formally introduce him to Reildor's nobility.

Lord Laersmont flicked his hand dismissively, cutting through Alaric’s excuse like a whetted blade. “Do not be coy with me, boy.” He spoke firm, measuring every syllable with the conciseness of a hammer and chisel. “You are a Laersmont. The griffin pays no mind to bleating lambs. Its concern is to act in a manner befitting its reputation—with strength, majesty, and wisdom. None of which I taught you, I see in you today."

Alaric swallowed hard; the rebuke stung more than he cared to admit. It stirred memories he had long tried to bury. His grandfather’s disappointment had always been silent but profound, like a sudden chill brought by an unexpected wintry breeze. One careless remark, one moment of distraction, and that barely perceptible twitch would appear on Lord Laersmont's lips—a subtle frown accompanied by those smoldering gray eyes that conveyed a quiet, damning displeasure. Then came the casual flick of the wrist; dismissal. And oh, it hurt. It cut deeper than one of Mother's razor tongue-lashing. And ached worse than any of Sir Careridan’s training sessions would the next morning.

It wasn't always like this, he lamented. The ducal lord standing in front of him had once been Grandfather. Grandfather, he'd watch for hours, just out of sight. Fascinated by the feathered quill dance across parchment. His legs would burn from standing so long, waiting—hoping—to be noticed. Grandfather would sign as he always did, setting down his quill and pulling Alaric onto his lap. Being nestled there, in the lap of the sternest man in the kingdom, Alaric had felt special. Truly special, as Mother and her clergymen proclaimed he was by The Lady.

Alaric stirred from the clouds of his reverie, locking away those memories. Lord Laersmont awaited with harsh, unwavering eyes. The grandfather you knew is gone. He repeated the mantra over in his mind, using it as a poker to stoke the fire rising in his chest. The prince straightened his back and placed a hand over his chest, offering a grin. "A griffin, Your Grace? I am a wolf. A great, silver, howling wolf!" He threw the jab, fully aware of the High Steward's disdain for the royal head of the house of wolves.

"A wolf?" Lord Laersmont's eyes narrowed to slits, sharp as steel-tipped arrows. Alaric’s grin widened, though his heartbeat quickened. He had baited the griffin, and now the talons would come as he had hoped.

"No, boy," he said terse. "Wolves have purpose," Lord Laersmont repeated, each word sharp and deliberate, like the lash of a whip. "They know their place, their duty to the pack, and above all, their limits. You, Alaric, are a prince, and yet you waste your talents acting the fool."

"So, a talented fool then?" Alaric quipped, unable to resist. The tightening of the ducal lord's mouth was all the confirmation he needed to know the jab landed. A heavy silence fell between them, the only sound the rustle of the lord's coat tails as he strode over. Alaric held his ground, ignoring the smallness he felt as Lord Laersmont stopped just short, his shadow engulfing him.

"You seem to believe that my patience is endless simply because you are my blood. I assure you, it is not. I do not train you for my amusement, nor do I indulge these exchanges to see if you can outwit me. I am preparing you for a future that will demand more from you than petulant jests and defiance." Without another word, Lord Laersmont walked down the hall, his long shadow finally peeling away from Alaric. The scrape of his boots echoing against the floor was the last thing to fade, leaving Alaric alone in the vastness of the corridor.

"Farewell, Grandfather," Alaric muttered, waving half-heartedly in the direction where the imposing figure of the lord had disappeared. Once out of sight, the prince felt his shoulders relax. Given time, he could read a person's character. But only a glimpse. There were rumors—whispers spoken by courtiers, people both feared and respected the Duke of Lotheign. When the High Steward spoke, his words carried authority, and his demeanor promised swift, brutal action.

Alaric rarely saw that darker edge, the ruthless side of his grandfather’s nature. Yet he’d heard the stories recounted by grizzled men-at-arms who had marched under the griffin banner in the Void Wars. Burned fields and salted earth, the scorched skeletons of towns, cisterns fouled with butchered limbs, livestock carcasses strewn along the roads. Entire noble houses had been swept from the realm, their bloodlines snuffed out in the Dread Griffin's wake.

The prince grimaced, inwardly chastising himself for nearly provoking that part of his grandfather. It annoyed him that the old man spoke some truth; Alaric did often let his temper outpace his common sense. No one in the High Kingdoms dared goad the Duke as brazenly as he had. And if he pushed him just a little harder, Alaric was sure—blood or no blood, there would’ve been no turning back.

"Three times, huh," Alaric remarked, rubbing his eyes. "By the Eldtree's design, please. No more trouble." A sweet and savory smell interrupted his woes, lifting his head and beckoning him forward. He gladly obliged, following the scent and keeping his mouth shut. The aroma led him straight to the royal dinehall, where breakfast was clearly being served.

Alaric pushed open the thick, iron-lined hardwood doors with ease, his eyes lighting up in delight at the sight that greeted him. It was a feast of morning delicacies: golden-brown custard tarts, flaky cheese pastries still warm from the oven, and spiced gingerbread stacked in neat rows. Bowls overflowed with fresh berries—blueberries, raspberries, blackberries! While sliced oranges and apples gleamed under morning rays that shone through shuttered blinds. Platterfuls, spanning across the chamber, on a long oval table. Servants stood by, dutiful and silent, holding jugs filled with an assortment of refreshments. All for me, thought Alaric. None of this shall be going to waste. He solemnly vowed.

"I see the freak has arrived." The insult, high-pitched with a whine, came from the blond, broad-shouldered fifteen-year-old seated to the left, swirling a goblet of spicewine. Alcohol stained his doublet, a bright and frivolous thing. Cheeks flush, and the cuffs of his sleeves rolled up; Alaric could practically smell the Crown Prince's intoxication from where he stood.

"Good morrow to you as well, Jordan." Alaric said neutrally, finding seat far away from his elder brother. Please, he prayed, let me eat in peace. A servant immediately came over, handing him a trencher and fork and knife different from the rest on the table. The metal in his hands was thick, made of crude iron, harder to bend than the normal silver cutlery.

"Poor freak," the elder brother crowed, "Are you still unable to use a proper fork and knife?" Alaric ignored him and shoved a honey roll into his mouth, chewing silently. "To have all that strength," Crown Prince Jordan raised his knife, twirling it in his hand, "Not able to control it." He dropped the knife, meeting Alaric's eye. The silverware clattered onto the table, a servant quietly fetched it before safely retreating.

"How sad."

Alaric clenched his fist and opened his mouth, but someone had already begun to speak.

"Now, now, beauties. Settle down." At the opposite end of the table, their mother, Queen Eleanore rose from her seat. She was strikingly beautiful, with autumn-yellow hair, gray eyes, pale skin, and a lithe figure. When she spoke, it was as if she sang, her voice gentle and melodic. A fine black gown, slashed with gray, graced her hips. Around her neck was a silver torc encrusted with rubies, and atop her head rested a tiara.

"There shall be no fighting at this table. Mind yourselves in front of the servants—rumors can spread like the plague." Mother shook her head, disappointment clear in her expression. Then fixed a regal glare, befitting a monarch, and brandished it like sword at the lowborn serving them. She looked and acted every part the queen, Alaric often just wished she were less obsessed with etiquette and courtly decorum.

"Do you wish to embarrass this family?" she hummed patiently, waiting for an answer. Neither brother spoke; they knew better. "Not only do you risk your own reputation, but you bring shame upon us all. Jordan, my sweet, curb your drinking. If I find you deep in your cups again before the morrows passing, by The Lady Herself, I'll have all our cellars emptied of wine."

She then turned her glare to Alaric. He stopped eating and quickly adjusted himself in his seat.

"Good," she said with a nod. "It's distasteful to slouch as you dine. And another thing, Alaric—I sent for you nearly half an hour ago. To have kept your host and her guests waiting this long is a great offense. But an even grosser offense," she continued, her voice taut, "is that you began eating without waiting for your host, who graciously held back for you to arrive before starting the meal. I will not have it. Understood?"

Alaric nodded, properly scolded, before returning to his meal in silence.

Morning breakfast thus ensued, Jordan went back drinking, Mother sat down, and Alaric continued stacking his wooden plate with food. From time to time his eyes would wander over to head of the table. The chair was carved of a fine oak, inlaid with cushions, and several decorative metals forming an elegant silver wolf and gold griffin. There was only one man who sat there. Nowhere to be seen.

"Where is father?" Alaric voiced his thoughts. When no one offered a reply, he repeated himself—louder this time.

"Where is he?"

"Obviously not here." His brother answered.

"Clearly." Alaric signed, "But my question remains the same."

"Freak."

"Yes, you've said this."

Jordan slammed his goblet, spilling wine across the table "Because that is what you are little brother!" He lifted a shaky finger, "An abomination."

"Oh, you mean like this?" Alaric emptied the bronze goblet he drank from. With a single squeeze, the metal groaned in his palm. With a bit of pressure, the goblet's rim sprouted like a rose petal, curling outward as its base crumpled beneath his grip.

Imagine this being your head, he thought.

"His Majesty is out hunting with his bannermen. " Mother said quietly. She slipped her fingers beneath the neckline of her gown, drawing out a string of translucent, white-striped beads. At the center hung a gold triangle, engraved with a sword crossed with scales, a sickle, and a single flame cradled in an open palm. "Saintess, forgive my precious boy," she murmured, her fingers winding tightly around the rosary. "Drink has addled Jordan's good judgment. He meant not to blaspheme the blessings you bestowed upon Alaric. This servant begs you, O'Lady, stay the swinging scales of the Justicar's Judgment..." Mother bowed her head, prattling incoherent prayer.

Of course, Alaric reflected bitterly. If Father wasn’t off hunting in the wolverwoods, he was out flying his gyrphhawk, or too preoccupied with duties to the kingdom. It was hard to recall the last time he had shared a meal with the family. But still, Alaric held onto hope that one day, his royal father might be seated at the table with them again.

"Thank you, Mother." Alaric grabbed a cloth handkerchief and wiped his mouth before standing up. Not a single morsel of food remained on his side of the table.