Did gods see as he did — through a window, high above? Humans no bigger than insects, constantly moving, building castles and towns like ant hills. Staring down at the courtyard below, watching the hustle-and-bustle of life, Alaric wondered so.

"Are you listening?" A wooden rod smacked against the desk, demanding attention. The bark was battered and peeling away. Faded green-white stripes covered the gnarled amber.

The prince, who had been leaning in his chair, fell back in surprise. His arms flailing, the chair tipped over, and the prince found himself performing a balancing act.

"Help." Was all Alaric managed to say before a mottely hand, stained with ink, seized him by the tunic. The leathery, freckled face of Grand Master Theldore appeared. Bushy brows furrowed, and nose wrinkled in displeasure. His attire could be mistaken for that of a monk: brown wool robe, a balding head, a leather sash filled with ink bottles, and spare quills.

Except monks wore no jewelry, like copper medallions, or carried sticks. He was a member of the Order of Chronicler. A group composed of scholars, scribes, and physicians; dedicated to the study of knowledge.

"Do try daydreaming some other time. I hate to repeat my lectures." He stood Alaric up, returning to matter at hand. "Now, where was I?" The scholar paced back and forth, resting the rod on his shoulder.

Shelves stacked the corners of the room, filled with leather bound books and parchment scrolls. The floor itself, a private study, made of bricked stone, circular and musty, was the highest in the library tower. Alaric often complained of the grueling trek up the stairs; Sir Careridan called it good exercise.

"That." The raven haired boy pointed. In the front, hanging on a wall, was a map nearly the size and width of a carpet. The oversized decoration depicted the northern portion of the known world, dotted with islands, surrounded by a sea of blue. Three landmasses stood out like sore thumbs: one to the east, one to the west, one north.

Ekadrith. Reildor. And Constanbul.

"Yes, I remember now." The pacing stopped, and the man in robes tapped his rod against the map. "My prince, where are we?"

"In a castle." The prince deadpanned, stifling a yawn.

"Do use your head." Master Theldore replied, patiently.

"Can you be a little specific?"

"Enlighten me."

Alaric rolled his eyes, What is it with old men being cryptic? And why are so many my teachers, he thought. "I'd be happy to enlighten you, Master Theldore." He smiled sweetly. "At your age, it's only natural to forget."

The prince gestured to the left of the map. "This is Reildor. A land formerly divided into seven sovereign kingdoms, and a queendom. Centuries before that, an imperial province when Drachara ruled supreme."

"And now?"

Alaric shrugged, "The Drachen Empire fell when the Jotunn hordes invaded from Constanbul. And those sovereignties became nobility — the Highborn Houses. Seven realms — each with their own vassal houses and bannermen. All swearing semi-featly to the Crown of Reildor."

"Indeed." Master Theldore hummed pleasantly. Outside a bell tolled, the sound carried itself in vibrations — bouncing across the thick stone walls. "The empire crumpled and arose the Kingdom of First Men, forged by kings."

"Kings and a queen." Alaric corrected as he sat up, gathering his things. The bell marked the beginning of noon, and end of morning lessons. "I doubt the Sea Lioness of House Reycel would agree with your version of the song. From what I hear, they're quite matriarchal in the Spice Isles." As his hand moved for the doorhandle, his teacher called out.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

"Wait," Master Theldore gestured with his rod, "the door. Careful my prince."

"I'm aware. It won't happen again." Gently, Alaric grabbed the knob, his fingers slowly twisting. Too much pressure, the knob could bend. And if he pulled too fast it might break off entirely.

Something the queen had said echoed in his head, "He may look an angel, but this baby carries the grip of a man," He didn't understand why, but the words seemed to fit the situation.

Seconds later, the door swung open without a hitch."I bid thee farewell, Theldore." Alaric bowed. He glanced at the narrow flight of steps awaiting below. They were like rows of teeth, jaws wide-open, waiting for him to trip and break his neck. Or legs. Perhaps both.

"Good exercise my arse." He mumbled on his descent. "These stairs will be the death of me." One might think him paranoid, but over the years there were a number accidents — and Alaric was determined not to add one more. Outside, the midday breeze blew it's way past the window shutters. The air was warm and ticklish, drawing goosebumps, and made his hair stand on end.

Wolverwood— the seat of House Audramn, informally known as the Wolf's Den, was a dark grey castle situated in the mouth of a valley. Built on a steep hill slope, surrounded by an outer ring of old growth forest. During the day, warm air would rise up from the valley floor. At night, cooler winds came down, settling into the valley. The inner wall and curtain walls were created using volcanic ash. His ancestors used a special type of metallic stone, black, glossy, and nigh impossible to scratch, as the castle's foundations.

Alaric took a sharp turn left, making a detour through a corridor connecting the library tower to the servant quarters. Wooden floor boards creaked beneath his feet. He could hear voices arguing — Master Theldore's scribes and their apprentices, over something mundane. Not all the doors contained inhabitants. Alaric knew of one leading to a cellar, containing tomes and historical texts. Another populated by homing pidgeons, a bird coop, messages often being relayed.

Eventually, the creaking stopped and his surroundings changed. Recent renovations had entirely changed the servant quarters. Porcelain vases ran along the side the doorways, placed on pedestals. On the ceiling, a mosiac composed of azure tiles depicted three silver wolves chasing the moon. Fresh paint been added to the otherwise barren cobblestone walls. And the old rotting floorboards were replaced with lacquered cedar planks, giving an earthy smell.

The flurry of foot traffic within room came to standstill. A line of black tailcoats began filing around Alaric.

"Your grace."

"Pardon, my prince."

"Do you require anything, prince?"

"Pleasure to you see as always ..."

It was to big of a crowd for any child to handle, let alone a thirteen year-old. Alaric took a deep breath. "Everyone!"

Silence entered the room. Seeing he had their attention Alaric lowered his voice. "Please, continue as you were." He felt his cheeks burn, and grinned sheepishly. "And um, forgive my outburst."