"Good exercise my ass." Alaric muttered on his descent. These stairs might be the death of me. One might think him paranoid, but over the years, there had been enough accidents to make him cautious—and Alaric was determined not to add to that tally. Outside, a midday breeze drifted through the open mantel shutters beside him, carrying an earthy hint of the scattered woodlands below. The air was warm and ticklish, drawing goosebumps and making his hair stand on end.
Alaric took a moment to peer from the tower mantel. Wolvern's keep—the seat of House Audramn, infamously referred to as the Wolf Den—sprawled beneath. Dark grey curtain walls surrounded the foot of the steep hillside the Den perched upon, encircled by a ring of old-growth forest. During the day, warm drafts rose from the valley floor to meet the castle walls, while at night, cooler winds slipped down to settle in the valley like a mist. The castle itself was fortified with volcanic ash, its foundations built from a metallic, glossy black stone that Alaric’s ancestors had sourced from deep within the mountain—seeming as ancient as the forest surrounding it.
Alaric stepped away and made a detour through a corridor connecting the library tower to the servant quarters. Wooden floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he passed by partially open doors. From one of them, muffled voices drifted, tangled in a heated debate. Alaric knew the source well — the Royal Chronicle’s scribes were notorious for their endless bickering. Not all the rooms contained inhabitants. Alaric knew of one leading to a cellar, containing tomes and historical texts. A little further down, he reached a door from behind which faint cawing and soft rustling of feathers could be heard. Swifcrow coops, he thought. Chroniclers and lords alike used the large, intelligent crows to fly messages quickly across the kingdom.
Eventually, the creaking stopped and his surroundings changed. Recent renovations driven by Mother and funded by the griffins hoard, had entirely altered the servant quarters. Porcelain vases ran along the side the doorways, placed on pedestals. On the ceiling, a mosaic 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 pine smell.
The flurry of foot traffic within chamber 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 all too much. Their voices overlapped, merging into a wave crashing in his ears.
Alaric took a deep breath. “Everyone!” Silence entered the room. Seeing he had their attention, Alaric lowered his voice. "Pay no mind to me. Please, continue as you were." He felt his cheeks burn, and grinned sheepishly. "And um… pardon my outburst."
Word would travel fast. By day’s end, tales of his outburst in the servant quarters would be told a hundred times over. And no doubt, the High Steward and Queen would hear of it, leaving him to catch no stoppage of grief from either of them. Alaric decided not to add more fire to the gossip and hastily excused himself, ignoring the stares that lingered at his back. He headed straight for the entrance the servants used to slip in and out of the quarters. Tunnels well-kept and dug long before his birth, ran beneath. The household staff frequented them often, as a shortcut to parts of the castle, and navigate unseen by guests. Alaric bounded off the stone steps, stopping short of the red-bricked columns.
He glanced at the three archways, racking his head over which lead to the chapel. The leftmost tunnel connected to the royal pantry and its undercroft. Leaving the right and middle — one certainly went to the Great Hall. Honestly, he was ready to leave it to the Eld's design and pick at random. When a reedy man with an unkempt beard, wearing a white-laced tunic under a tight-collared tailcoat, caught his attention. Dark stains marked his coat, though in the dim light, Alaric couldn’t tell what they were. Perhaps wine thrown by Jordan, during one of his drunken rages.
Something metallic gleamed beneath the folds of a bundle held tightly at the man’s waist. He seemed in a hurry, breezing past Alaric without a second glance.
"Excuse goodman! Wait, please." Alaric avoided using the authoritative tone he had used earlier. He disliked how much it echoed Lord Laersmont's commandeering voice. Besides, lowborn servant or not, they were deserving of respect paid in kind. Unlike his elder brother, none of them had laughed when Alaric first struggled to adjust to his newfound “gift.” Some were afraid of him — he’d seen it in their fleeting gazes. Others looked at him with quiet awe, like the Lady's faithful. But at least they all treated him with a quiet dignity he rarely found elsewhere.
The man tapped his foot impatiently and sighed. "What is it? I'm in a hurry, be quick about it." His back was still turned, oblivious to whom he was addressing. Alaric guessed he must be a new servant, likely unfamiliar with his voice. So he forgave the servant's lack of decorum, and spoke softly. "Apologies. Do you know which tunnel goes to the chapel?" Alaric's next lesson with Father Brychan would be there.
The servant shook his head. "You must be new. None do, not anymore."
"Truly?" Alaric rubbed his head, confused. He hadn’t visited the tunnels since his eighth nameday, but he remembered sneaking down to the pantry’s kitchen one night, prowling for food. During one of those late-night excursions, he’d grown curious about the other tunnels branching out and explored. He could’ve sworn one of them had led close to the chapel.
"Yes, quite." The servant responded curtly, still not bothering to turn and see who he was addressing. Alaric found it quite odd. "Recent construction in the servant quarters caused a collapse in the tunnel leading there."
"With all this construction going on, why aren't any diggers or laborers here? Has the Queen not ordered repairs?" Alaric asked, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. His mother was the main driving force behind the Wolf Den's renovation. She had often complained about the ancient parts of the castle, describing them as “too dull, foreboding, and grim in general."
"It's not our place to question the Queen's decisions," he said with a shrug, readjusting the bundle beneath his arm. "Just like it's not my own to waste time answering questions. Goodbye." Alaric wanted to say more, but the man had already bounded up the stone steps into the servant quarter. His encounter left an impression Alaric could not help but dwell on as he walked through the midmost tunnel.
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On a few rare occasions such as today, the Great Hall of Wolvern was empty.
"Prince." A man-at-arms in a surcoat of blue, bearing the silver sigil of the wolf, saluted with his fist. The gesture was repeated by eleven others dressed in mail over boiled leather. All of them armed with an arsenal of polearms and spears.
Perhaps not completely empty, Alaric thought. His journey from the tunnels below where the castles servants slumbered had assured him of two things. The danger of relying on past memory for directions, after Alaric got side tracked by several walkways that lead nowhere. It assured him to stick with routes he confidently knew. It also confirmed—from the tolling he heard outside—that Father Brychan had likely begun his sermons, with Mother most definitely attending the mass, meaning his own absence had not gone unnoticed.
Alaric broke from his pondering and nodded respectfully at the guards; it was easy to forget these men-at-arms were not statues. Though they stood still, the faces behind those visorless steel helms were ever watchful, their eyes always roaming. Alaric shifted his gaze to the silvered doors leading into the throne room. Each half of the entrance commemorated a historic moment, forever recorded in elaborate engravings.
On one side, a massive wolf stood proudly on the bow of a longship, its sapphire eye gleaming with fierce intent. Clamped in its maw, a longaxe pointed forward, steering the ship to a distant city illuminated by inlaid rubies. On the other door, the same wolf reappeared, the longaxe in its maw now replaced for a crown. This wolf sat on its haunches, seemingly small, bowing in deference to the colossal roots spiraling from the ground, knotting and twisting into the form of the sacred Eld.
Today, both doors were sealed. The king was out hunting with his companions. Alaric looked down at the carpet beneath his feet, running from the throne room to the massive ironwood gates of the Great Hall. Shadows and light danced across the vast hall in a checkered pattern. Tall, narrow stained-glass windows lined the walls above, casting colored artworks on the somber granite floor. Court was held here when the king received his guests in the throne room. Yet the Great Hall also played host to ballroom dances, grand banquets, and the occasional wedding, numbering near a thousand.
"So this is where you scampered to." A gruff voice materialized from behind, clamping a hand on his shoulder. Alaric jolted like a deer caught in snares.
"Sir Careridan ... what a surprise." Alaric said, trembling under the sly fox's iron grip.
"Forgive me. Did I startle you, my prince?" Sir Careridan loosened his grip, allowing Alaric to turn and face him. Years of enduring harsh winds and sea storms, brought by an upbringing on the Saltcoast, had toughened the knight’s face like salted meat. This made his every expression, even the apologetic one Alaric knew was fake, sullen.
"Me? No... Shouldn’t you be with my royal father, protecting him?" Alaric asked, glancing over the knight's shoulder. His hope for a timely intervention by his father, enough to save him from whatever Sir Careridan had in mind, was swiftly dashed.
"Sir Accalon and Sir Brandt accompany the king. I swore to an oath to be your guardian, not His Majesty's."
"My father made you my guardian. What choice did you have? The prestigious Sword of Reildor, reduced to watching over a newborn babe like a nursemaid." Alaric snorted. "What an honor that is." Seizing a moment of opportunity, he twisted, writhing in an attempt to break free from Careridan’s grip.
Sir Careridan reaffirmed the iron vice he had over the him. "None. However, I keep my oaths." His voice was flat, yet the scowl Alaric saw betrayed displeasure and a hint of pride. "Since you've taken it upon yourself to skip your lessons with the priest, we can begin our training early." Alaric opened his mouth but thought better of it. The oathsworn gave him a shove toward the cerulean gates, and he reluctantly complied. The halls marbled steps spilled out to the Ebon Bailey. Black, metallic asphalt smoothed the ground below, lending the inner bailey its name.
Just outside the beating heart of the Wolf’s Den, Alaric took in several structures connecting to the keep like the wings to a gryphhawk. Shield Tower rose within the western walls, housing the armory and quarters for oathsworn and banneret knight alike. A towerhouse with arched windows and chamber balconies loomed across, inhabited by the Royal Chronicle and his order members that managed the library tower closeby.
As they headed north, the concentric tops of Torstun’s twin gatehouse towers came in hazy view, increasingly clearer with every step. Banners, blue as the sky above, struggled against the wind, flapping this way and that—three silver lupine heads, the Audramn triwolf. Figures roamed the keep’s bridged walkway, their silhouettes blending with the dark gray columns supporting it below. Crossbows were poised at intervals along the battlements, and high above on parapet walks, their bearers watched silently. Nearby, Audramn men-at-arms stood in loose formation, guarding the gatehouse ramparts. They were flanked by stone wolves perched on ledges, with fierce, unblinking gazes cast outward. Dozens of stone wolves like these could be found across the Wolf Den, each statue an eternal guardian. Alaric craned his neck, trying to glimpse them all as he passed under the portcullis of Torstun's Gate.
“Do you believe the stories? That the spirits of my ancestors reside in those statues?” he asked, thinking of the tales his father had told him as a child. Before the crypts were built, the Audramns of old buried their dead beneath an eldroot sapling, where their souls were said to live on in the wolf statues, guarding the Den from beyond the grave. Some traditions remained; the history and deeds of the deceased were carved into the bark of an eldroot within the Den's heartgrove.
“No,” Sir Careridan replied curtly, his eyes fixed ahead.
Alaric felt a twinge of annoyance. The oathsworn had guarded him since he was a babe, yet Alaric could not recall a time they truly conversed beyond necessity. His favorite pastimes seemed to be exchanging as few words possible with snark or dry silence, and scaring Alaric of his wits.
The prince tried again. “What about the one where we’re reincarnated as wolves?”
“No,” Careridan repeated, his tone flat.
“What do you believe? "Alaric said exasperated.
This time, Sir Careridan gave him a sidelong look, a glint of amusement in his brown eyes. “In watching your surroundings.”
"You are horrid at conversation. You know this, yes?"
"My Prince." Sir Careridan brought his fist to his chest. The white cape fluttered over his shoulder as he dipped into a curtesy.
Alaric narrowed his eyes. The spry fox was never this courteous. "Why are you —" A childish squeal interrupted his sentence.
"Al!"
A flurry of tiny hands, legs and feet crashed into him. Alaric signed and looked down, tightly wrapped around his waist was a bundle of dirty blond hair and mud-stained clothes. The bundle shifted, revealing emerald eyes and an impish face.
"Hug me!" It commanded, hugging him tighter.
"You've been playing in the gardens again." A toothy grin was all he got as a response. Alaric, in his nursery years, had been known as the unruly, defiant child. But everything changed when the third prince was born—a boy as wild as a restless wolf cub, with a spirit that bucked like an unbroken horse at any attempts to tame it.
"Trevelyn," he said, attempting the same tone Mother in used her scolding's, "you know well how Mother despises seeing your court attire sullied with mud and leaves
"Carry me as you did before!" Prince Trevelyn demanded, tightening his hold. Alaric glanced at Sir Careridan for help, but the man was conveniently preoccupied, inspecting a scuff on his armor. Any trace of the Queen's icy countenance melted away as warmth blossomed in Alaric's chest when he saw those pup-like eyes. Happy and unafraid, brimming with affection.
Alaric couldn't help but smile. "Later, and only if you behave," he patted his brother gently. "Now, where's your caretaker?"
Trevelyn shrugged, "Dunno."
"Here, your grace." Matron Pella trudged behind, scooping the child prince up in her long sleeved arms. The woman of wasn't far behind Sir Careridan in age. She served as the Audramn household's nanny for as long as Alaric recalled.
"The little one and I were headin' the nursery for a quick scrub. 'Til he scurried off, fast as a field mouse, that one." She lifted him over her shoulder, ignoring his wails.
"What are you doing? Al, save me!" Trevelyn cried and kicked, writhing like a fish freshly netted from the river.
"Drawing you a bath. Keep misbehavin', and I'll be telling the Queen the state of your stockings." The prince immediately quieted to a whimper. Matron Pella caressed him softly, "Hush, now, princeling. A good scrubbin' and fresh clothes, and it'll be like nothing was amiss," the caretaker smiled at Alaric, dark rings under her eyes. "Once again, apologies, Prince Alaric." She bowed her head before taking leave.
Alaric turned to Sir Careridan, who seemed satisfied with his inspection. "Do you have children?" Alaric eyed him critically, "You're of the age to be a grandfather."
The knight shook his head. "Oathsworn may neither wed nor sire offspring, not till the High King deems our service complete."
"What of family?" Alaric always assumed the saltcoaster hailed from a landry or banneret house, given he possessed a surname, Blackshoal. Unlike the lowborn or poorer landowners that introduced themselves as: Robbard son of Eric, or Master Aldwin from Smallburrow.
Sir Careridan said nothing, he simply motioned for Alaric to continue their descent of the motte in silence.