"What foolishness, boy."

"Ah, hello to you too Grandfather." Alaric stiffened, slowly rotating, and found himself locked in a staring contest with his grandfather. Gold flecked the man's severely trimmed hair, once blond, now showing it's years. The sable overcoat he wore nearly touched the floor and cast a dark shadow over Alaric. Griffins threaded in gold, wings spread high, decorated the fabric, with several medals hanging from his breast.

A pale, slender man in his mid-fifties, neither short or tall, with a regal nose, and somewhat brooding face. You'd be hard pressed to find a resemblance between grandfather and grandson. The only physical trait among them being steel grey eyes.

"Your childish behavior is unacceptable for a prince." The Lord High Steward, His Majesties right-hand man, Nathaniel Laersmont, scolded his favorite grandson. Out of all the King's children, Alaric was the only to show any interest in actually running a kingdom. The boy was usually smart for his age, near genius, showing an proficiency in literature, history, and mathematics. As a result, high expectation was set for Alaric, Nathaniel grooming him to be his successor.

"I'm thirteen, isn't that considered normal?"

"Don't give me that boy. You are a Laersmont, the griffin should not concern himself with the opinion of lowborn sheep." The banner of House Laersmont was a golden griffin on a black field.

"A griffin?" Alaric grabbed his chest, smirking at his grandfather. "I, sir, am a wolf. A great, silver, howling wolf." He emphasized every word, hoping to humor the rigid man. The High Steward held no love for the sigil of House Audramn, the King's noble house.

Nathaniel Laersmont narrowed his eyes. "More a fool, wasting his talents. And my time."

"A talented one then?" Alaric said with a grinn wide enough to put a jester to shame. He couldn't help himself.

"Enough idle chit chat," The Lord High Steward flicked his hand, striding away. "My job is not to amuse."

"Farewell, Grandfather." Alaric waved, watching the brooding, military man disappear. Once out of sight, the prince felt his shoulders relax. Given time, he could read a persons character, only a glimpse. There were rumors—whispers, people both feared and respected his grandfather. When the High Steward spoke, his words carried authority, and demeanor promised harsh action. Alaric rarely saw the other side, the side his grandfather's enemies witnessed:

No Heart Nathaniel.

"Three times, huh," Alaric muttered, rubbing his eyes, "I'm already off to a good start." A sweet & savory smell lifted his head, beckoning him. He gladly obliged, following the trail, keeping his mouth shut. It came from the castle's dining hall, breakfast was being served. Alaric pushed open the thick, iron-lined, wood doors with ease, delighted in what he saw.

Sweet tarts, pastry rolls, an assortment of fruit and cheese. Platerfulls, spanning across the hall, on a beautifully carved oval table. Servants stood by, dutiful and silent, holding jugs filled with water, juices, and wine. All for me, thought Alaric. None of this shall be going to waste. He solemnly nodded.

"I see the freak has arrived." The insult, high pitched and whiney, came from the blond, broad-shouldered, fourteen year-old swirling a goblet of wine, seated to the left. Alcohol stained his tunic, a bright and frivolous thing. Cheeks flush, and the cuffs of his sleeves rolled up; he reeked of intoxication.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"Nice to see you too brother." 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 plate 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 tore a chunk off a breadroll, 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. "How sad."

The silverware clattered onto the table. A servant quitely fetched it before safely retreating. The atmosphere in the room grew tense. 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, Queen Elianore Laersmont rose from her seat. She was strikingly beautiful, with autumnn yellow hair, steel 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 in gray, graced her hips. Around her neck was a silver torc encrusted with rubies. And atop her head, rested a crown.

"There shall be no fighting on this table, especially infront of the servants. Rumors can spread like the plague." The Queen shook her head, disappointed in their behavior. She looked and acted every part like a queen—if only the same were true as a mother.

"Do you wish to embarrass this family?" She hummed patiently, waiting for an answer. Neither brother said a word, it was pointless to argue. "Not only do you put your reputation at risk, but it puts a stain upon us all. Especially me, as your mother." Queen Elianore comforted herself with another glass of wine, "Imagine, what the ladies might say." She murmured, referring to her friends.

Awkward silence ensued, The Crown Prince went back drinking, the Queen Consort sat down, and Alaric continued stacking his 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. A single squeeze and the metal bent in his hand. With little a pressure, the cup was crushed entirely.

Imagine this being your head.

"The King is out hunting with his bannermen." Queen Elianore finally answered. Not a surprise, if he wasn't hunting in the wilds then he was hosting tournaments. It was hard to remember the last time the King shared a meal with his family. But Alaric was young, he still held hope he might see his lord father one day at the table.

"Thank you, mother." Alaric grabbed a napkin and wiped his mouth, standing up. Not a morsel of food remained on his side of table.