Word travels fast. By the days' end, story of his outburst in the servant quarters would be told a hundred times. Alaric didn't linger long, best not to add more fire to the gossip. He hastily excused himself, heading straight for the door servants used to leave 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 tunneled 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 things to chance. Thankfully, a reedy man with a trimmed beard, white buttoned shirt, and tight collared tailcoat, appeared in front of him. There were stains on his coat, but the room was too dimly lit to see of what kind. Likely wine thrown by Jordan, during one of his drunken rages.

The man was in a hurry, so much so he walked straight past Alaric without a glance.

"Excuse sir! Wait, please." He didn't like using a commanding tone when addressing the castle's household staff. Servant or not, these were people. A lot of what they did went unnoticed and was directly responsible for the royal families' comfortable lifestyle. In his eyes, a decorum of respect was due. The Audramn's of the old was said to have built Wolvernwood from bottom-up, but Alaric wondered if it was the people they ruled over instead.

The man tapped his foot and signed. "What is it?" His back was turned, he still had not seen the prince. "I'm in a hurry, be quick about it."

"Right. Do you know which tunnel goes to the chapel?" Alaric's next lesson would be there.

The man shook his head. "You must be new. None do, not anymore."

"Seriously?" Alaric scratched his head. He hadn't visited the tunnels since his tenth nameday. But did remember sneaking into the pantry's kitchen at night, hunting for food. It was during one of these excursions he became curious about where the other two tunnels led, and explored.

"Yes, quite." At this point, Alaric found it quite odd the servant hadn't decided to see who he was talking to. "Recent construction to the servant quarters has collapsed the tunnel to your right."

"With all this construction going on, why aren't any diggers or workers here — has the Queen not ordered repairs?" His mother was the main driving force behind the Wolf's Dens renovations. The reason being she found the ancient parts of the castle, "too dull, foreboding, and grim in general."

"To know is not our place nor ask why." He started walking again. "I must get on my way."

"I see. Nevertheless, thank you." Alaric wanted to say more but the man had left. Their encounter left an impression he continued to dwell on as he walked through the midmost tunnel, up the passageway.

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On a few rare occasions such as today, the Great Hall of Wolverwood was empty.

"Prince." A man-at-arms in a surcoat of blue, bearing the silver sigil of the wolf, saluted with his fist. The mantra was repeated by eleven others dressed in segmented plate and leather. Armed with an assortment of simple sword and shield and spears.

Perhaps not completely empty.

Alaric respectfully nodded, it was easy to forget these statues were men. The faces behind those visorless steel helms always remained the same; expressionless. He shifted his eyes to the iron-wood gates leading into the throne room. Today, they were sealed. The king was out in the valley's forest, hunting with his friends.

A carpet stretched from the throne to the hall's gilded doors. Shadows and rays of light ran back and forth the massive chamber like checkered tiles. The windows were narrow and elongated, made of stained glass, and spaced apart.

Court was held here while the king received his guests in the throne room. But the Great Hall also boasted ballroom dances, banquets, or the occasional wedding, numbering the thousands. It never ceased to amaze Alaric how lively this place could be.

"You're late prince." A gruff voice materialized from behind. Then a hand clamping on his shoulder, the prince jolted like a deer caught in snares.

"Sir Careridan ... what a surprise." Alaric trembled under the old fox's iron grip.

"Did I startle you, prince? You're pale."

"Me? No ... Should you not be with my lord father, protecting him?" The grip loosened, enough for Alaric to turn and face the knight.

"Sir Accalon and Sir Brandt guard the king. I am sworn to watch over you as your guardian."

"My father made you become my guardian. What choice did you have? The greatest warrior in the Heartlands forced to watch over a newborn baby." Seeing a moment of opportunity, Alaric writhed trying to break free.

"None. However, I keep my oaths." Sir Careridan reaffirmed the iron claw he had over the boy. "And you've decided to skip religious studies. We can put that time into training."

Alaric opened his mouth but thought better of it. The old knight gave him a shove toward the gilded doors and Alaric reluctantly complied. The Great Hall's granite steps spilled out to the Dark Courtyard. Black metallic asphalt smoothened the ground below, giving its name. The very same stone found in the castle's foundation.

The hall lay in the body of the castle, the keep. Connected with two other buildings like the wings of a bird. Tower West, in direction of its name, adjoined with the Oathsworn Barracks, contained the armory. Across was Tower East, larger and wider in comparison to Tower West. The balconies mid-level housed guests, the king, and his family slept above.

They passed under the iron gates of King Anwar's gatehouse. Wolves guarded the ramparts, perched above, watching them silently. Dozens like them could be found all over the castle.

Alaric craned his neck, trying to glimpse at them. "Do you believe the stories. That spirits of my ancestors reside in those statues?" It was said when an Audramn died their body remained in the crypts. But the soul went on to live in, guarding the Den.

"No."

"What about the one we're reincarnated as wolfs?"

"No."

"What do you believe?" Alaric said, exasperated.

The knight stared at him, a gleam in his eyes. "Watching your surroundings."

"You are horrid at conversation, you know that?"

"Prince." Sir Careridan raised his fist and kneeled.

Alaric questionly raised a brow, 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, tighly wrapped around was a bundle of dirty blond hair and mud-stained clothes. The bundle shifted, revealing emerald eyes and an impish face.

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"Hug me!" It commanded.

"You've been playing in the gardens again." A toothy grin was all he got as a response.

"Trevelyn, you know how Mother feels about getting clothes dirty."

"Carry me as you did before!" Prince Trevelyn demanded, increasing his hold. Alaric turned to Sir Careridan for help, but the man was conveniently preoccupied.

"I spoil you too much. Where's the matron?"

The wild child shrugged, "Dunno."

"Here your grace." Matron Pella trudged behind, scooping the child prince up in her robed arms. The woman of cloth wasn't much older than Sir Careridan. She served as the Audramn household's nanny for years.

"We were going to Tower East for a bath when the little one saw you and scurried off." She lifted him over her shoulder, ignoring his wails.

"What are you doing?" Prince Trevelyn cried.

"Drawing you a bath. Keep misbehaving, and I'll inform the Queen of your clothes. The prince immediately quieted to a whimper. "Once again, apologies Prince Alaric." Matron Pella bowed her head before walking off.

"Not a problem matron." Alaric turned to the man next to him. "Do you have children?" He eyed him critically, "You're old enough to be a grandfather."

The knight shook his head. "Oathsworn can never wed or sire offspring."

"What of family?"

Sir Careridan said nothing, opting to walk in silence. Smoke rose below, emitting from red-bricked chimneys of the forge. From the steep pathway, going down, he could see nearby torrents of river Colstice. They flowed perpendicular, diverted long ago as a natural barrier. Across, spanning several miles wide, stood the Capital. A city built on the eastern coast of the Heartlands, one of the seven realms.

Hammers pounded metal, weapons clashed, carts rattled, and horses were led into stables. The Oathsworn knight and the prince reached the outer castle, heading straight to the training field near the guard barracks.

"If any of youse stop, it'll be another lap!" Boots crunched grass. A group of trainees ran past, some lagging, with a burly two-fisted man barking behind.

"Archers, on my command!" Elsewhere a dozen arrows could be heard being nocked. "Draw!" The line of lightly armored men, several hundred feet away from target posts, raised their bows.

"Loose!" Bowstrings released with a steady *twang* and the archers played their deadly song. Alaric looked on with interest but Sir Careridan tugged him along.

They reached the concrete pillars of the guard barrack's pavilion. From wrestling to swinging swords at straw-filled dummies, and sparring with one another. It was here the castle's garrison trained.

"A moment." Sir Careridan approached one of the weapons racks. Seconds later, a long wooden sword clattered at Alaric's feet.

"Pick it up." He said, selecting a weapon of his own from the rack.

"We've always fought with wooden swords. Since when have you used a real one? Alaric grabbed the lead-filled prop cautiously, watching the old man pull out a two-handed broadsword.

"Since now. A tournament is approaching, His Majesty expects you to participate." Sir Careridan swung the blade in experimental short strokes.

Alaric shook his head. "Father is always hosting a tournament. There must something special about this one. Also, give me a shield and some armor at least, you could cut with that thing."

"You shall not need it. Tourney blade, it's dulled." The knight nodded, satisfied with his weapon. He shifted in stance, one foot forward, hilt held beside his head, the blade aimed at Alaric's throat. "Arms raised and slightly loose. Use your strength to lessen the blow, and let the legs absorb the rest."

Alaric barely managed to ready himself, because then he was upon him. First came the thrust, it snaked outward like a tongue. He brought up the sword, parrying with the edge. The knight twisted, bringing his blade back before Alaric had a chance to follow up with a strike of his own.

Second, came a slash that would have cut Alaric from shoulder to stomach. He gritted his teeth and stood his ground, barely managing to block. It didn't end there — the knight kept the pressure on, ruthlessly attacking, one strike after the other. Alaric felt his hands grow numb, slowly being pushed back. He waited for the moment, an opening, because of their heights the knight would reach down exposing himself more.

There.

A lunge left Sir Careridan's midriff open. Alaric parried then riposted with a thrust. But third, came the feint. The prince may have been strong and a natural, but the old fox had decades of experience over him. Before he knew it, Alaric found himself sprawled on the floor, disarmed. A boot placed itself firmly on his chest, Sir Careridan peering from above.

"Yield."

Alaric struggled under the weight of the man's armored boot. "What happens this time if I do?"

The knight cocked his head, "You run. Six laps around the field."

"Four." He immediately retorted. The pressure on top increased.

"This isn't a negotiation."

"You-ou sadist." Alaric wheezed, he felt his chest slowly being crushed.

"Let me finish. Six around the field. Three going up the keep and down. Then weight training." Sir Careridan removed his foot, allowing the boy to finally breathe. Alaric shoved aside the knight's hand as he stood up.

"Why is it I'm the only prince out here training every day? I never see Jordan waking at the crack of dawn just to learn about geography or history, religion, seven hell's — military theory!" Alaric kicked the wooden blade, sending it flying off the floor.

"Sard!" He immediately cried out in pain, dropping to the floor, letting loose an unsavory string of words. Ser Careridan returned the broadsword into the rack and left. A moment later, he came back with Alaric's sword, placing in its rack.

"Finished?" He lifted a limping Alaric to his feet.

"Yes."

"Good. Now, listen. Crown Prince Jordan one day will be king. He will have men like me to do the fighting. Men like your grandfather, the Lord High Steward, to run his kingdom. And a council of men for everything else."

Alaric tapped the floor, unwilling to meet Sir Careridan's gaze. Eventually, he gave in to anger and looked up. "Then what's the point of being king? Sit on a chair and do nothing, twiddle my thumb while I look majestic? Meanwhile, I work the people beneath me to a bone and take all the credit. I refuse—nay I swear to never respect such a ..." A gold plated gauntlet smacked against his cheek.

The Lord Commander of the Oathsworn withdrew his arm. Sir Careridan stood silently aside, rapt at attention. Next to the Lord Commander were two other Oathsworn, Sir Accaclon, a cheerful stocky young man, and Sir Brandt, a sturdily built mid-aged man with flaming red hair. Behind them, walking silently, his jewel adorned coat dragging across the floor; the king.