It was ultimately the clattering that awoke him—chess pieces hit the floor, scattering. He’d arranged them on opposing edges, given the repurposed table’s lack of a designated area for them. It hadn’t been a perfect solution, but they should have remained undisturbed.
Alaric must have somehow shifted in his sleep—either that, or an earthquake struck. Worse yet, waking up like this had him straightening with a jolt, his arms—numbed from how he’d rested his head upon them—flapping against the table with enough force to unbalance it.
The table began to tip over, somehow both light enough for this to happen, and heavy enough to keep him from pushing it away as its weight sent him and his chair plummeting down. It was the slat back that hit the ground first, all but digging into Alaric’s own back, for all it had spared him a direct hit.
He had a feeling he'd be regretting this every time he stood up straight for the foreseeable future, though that was presently overshadowed by a budding headache.
As he'd gone down, the table's remaining chess pieces had rejoined their fallen brethren, with a single pawn making a pit stop on Alaric's head after flying through the air. He winced, tossing it off before pressing two fingers against the spot it had hit. Though he'd felt it as a sharp blow, his hand came back perfectly dry.
Momentarily assured he wasn't about to bleed out from a head injury, Alaric took deep, steadying breaths. He must have jerked in his sleep, somehow hitting the pieces off the table. Which had in turn cascaded into the situation he currently found himself in.
Falling asleep here had certainly not been his intention, but Alaric wasn't surprised. He'd been tired to begin with after waiting for a whole day, and at some point, he just slumped over the table and dozed off.
Ultimately, Alaric hadn't wanted to miss it if his little sister showed up for the promised chess lesson. He had completely failed to consider she might not be the most punctual, but he'd promised. Leaving the room when she might expect to find him here would be terrible, so he'd even had his meals in this studio, leaving only to take an incredibly speedy bath.
He feared that might have been what led to him failing to encounter Adelheid again—or worse yet, that she might have caught him asleep and chosen not to disturb him. The girl was too nice.
In truth, he often wondered if his family was being unfair to her. Growing up with Bernadette as a stepmother from his fifth year onwards had taught him the new lady of the house had expectations, and even as young as Alaric had been at the time, he'd struggled to believe she was in the right. Nowadays, that could just be the rebellious teen spirit everyone kept warning him about, but he would have insisted he had always thought that way.
With a groan, Alaric pushed the table away from himself. The wood it was made from was not particularly heavy, but the table itself was fairly large. It had to be, to accommodate the chess board someone had attached to its top, which had presumably been salvaged from a completely different, actual chess table. Their home had far too many bizarrely repurposed objects like that, but they never ceased to amaze Alaric.
Freed from the table, he rolled to the side and away from the fallen chair, going on to massage his legs. He feared how, under the fabric of his pants, the chair might have left an imprint on them. Whether they ached because of the fall or because of the position he'd fallen asleep in, Alaric didn’t know.
It could have been worse. Most days, he hated knowing he was on the chubbier side compared to his relatives—even if not by much—but he liked to think that extra cushioning had kept such a fall from being as bad as it could have been.
Once he was satisfied enough with how much he'd squeezed his legs—and despite his regret he didn't have a roller at hand to use on them—Alaric went through the motions of shifting into a crouching position, slowly. He stood up with similar care and stretched, paying close attention to the burning and popping sensations in case he strained anything.
Alaric wasn't paranoid, he was just careful.
Leaning down, he lifted the table and returned it to its original position. Despite his efforts, he found no splinters around, and the table looked fine. The same went for the chess pieces, as far as he could tell. After his own body, those had been what he worried about the most.
His father had a lot of the Champion Saint's journals laying around in what he undoubtedly believed were secure places, but from an early age, Alaric had known of them, courtesy of his eldest sister, Beryl. Nothing in this manor was a secret to her, from the tunnels that coursed under it to the lockets Bernadette hid under her pillow.
It had been from those journals that Alaric learned there had been many objects in Zayden's world—usually old ones—that were unknowingly crafted from hazardous materials, and it was only decades later that this was learned.
Or when they broke.
Learning of that had been among Alaric's formative experiences, and as such, he knew better than to break any of the random old things around the house. That said, he wasn't even sure what he would have done if any of the chess pieces had in fact been broken.
Run?
Good thing it hadn't come to that. Instead, he simply had to clean this up. One by one, he picked the pieces up and returned them to where he'd organized them earlier. Alaric was definitely feeling his back now.
It didn't help that he still felt somewhat tired. While the accidental nap had been ever so slightly refreshing, he could only focus on the lingering shock. That, and the grumbling of his stomach. He hadn't the faintest clue as to for how long he'd slept, and he wasn't going to check.
Alaric resettled on the chair, placing an elbow on the table—carefully!—to rest his head upon. He wasn't blind to just how long he'd waited for Adelheid and, chances were, she had probably forgotten about the chess lesson.
It sucked. Paul was a horribly inattentive student, but Adelheid usually made an honest effort. That was part of why Alaric disagreed with Bernadette’s stance on her being hopeless. He didn't dislike his stepmother, but she had narrow views.
She could acknowledge some things, like the sheer incompatibility of her methods with his and Kristoffer's progress. After a quick and woeful trial run, she'd just gotten governesses for them, and so a large percentage of Alaric's education had come from near-strangers who were paid to teach him, and nothing else.
Bernadette's own children were a different story—Alaric wouldn't be caught dead saying it aloud, but it was like that woman still lived in a fantasy world where passing on her silly noble education mattered.
Even the governesses she hired were a bit loony. He'd had to sit through hours of instructions on the proper protocols and curtsies to greet everything from foreign dignitaries to Princes.
As if Alaric were ever going to meet literally any of those.
The point of it was—beyond the mandatory internal whining that accompanied every time he thought of this—was that Alaric didn't believe poor Adelheid was that bad. She was just a curious girl who, like he suspected the rest of her siblings did, had little to no interest in the particular education her mother planned out for her. And unlike the rest, she could just run away from it whenever she wanted.
Alaric couldn't deny the little pang of jealousy that followed. Like every other mortal, he wished he had been born lucky enough to do that sort of thing. But he loved Adelheid, and it wasn't her fault that she got lucky, especially when Bernadette was the skipped generation as far as that went.
Besides, his father and stepmother kind of deserved to have that additional chaos in their lives.
Unfortunately for Alaric, said favorite chaos of his had yet to show up, and while he sat there, half pensive, half about to doze off again, his hunger was making itself known with increasing volume.
He stood up before he could think better of it, resigned to his fate. He'd feel terrible if Adelheid showed up and didn't see him there, but he was hungry.
As Alaric turned the handle, he found it wouldn't budge. He shifted it with increasing franticness, even rocking himself back and forth to see if he could pull it. Had he kept the door shut for so long as he waited that it had gotten jammed?
Yet as he shook it, the sound of muffled snickering reached him.
Alaric narrowed his eyes, letting go for a moment before growing still. Next up, he body-slammed the door with a growl.
The snickering turned to full-on laughing.
“Wave take you, Kristoffer, you think this is funny? What are you, five?”
His brother's unmistakable voice continued cackling.
Alaric shook the door over and over, finding whatever his brother had done too bothersome to overcome, time and time again. Through gritted teeth, he yelled and started kicking the door.
That achieved little beyond scuffing his boots, and after one final kick for good measure, he slapped the wooden door and stepped aside.
Running his fingers through shoulder-length hair, Alaric paced the room. He wasn't going to give his brother the satisfaction of negotiating his way out of here. But he wanted food.
The thought struck him then, the reminder that he was in that studio. He could always, as the turn of phrase went, pull a Beryl. Had he been a more superstitious person, he would have wondered how come this had happened so soon after he'd been, in fact, reminiscing about his older sister.
The only sound within the room was that of his footsteps as Alaric walked to the far end of the room, to the small space between the last shelf and the corner. He barely fit there anymore—which felt ridiculous, given he was the shortest of the older siblings.
He tapped the wooden panel, just like Beryl had shown him so long ago, seeking a crevice there. So much time had passed that he struggled to remember the exact spot, and it didn't help that he had been quite young at the time. He'd been looking up at Beryl, then.
If they met again under similar circumstances, chances were he would still have to look up to see her, actually.
At last, he felt his finger sink into something dry, almost sandy. With a sigh, he focused on it, accruing [Toll].
[Toll] 0 → 25
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
The only sign it had worked was the faint sound of something unlatching and Alaric pushed. The plank opened like a seamless door, and a hall that was just as narrow as it greeted him. He summoned one of his dozen emergency feylights from inventory and allowed the faux plank to shut behind him. Its lock clicked and locked within an instant.
Alaric made sure to examine the floor, walls, and ceiling every few steps. He wished he'd brought a mask, though—Zayden's journals had also warned of fungal menaces that grew in dark places, and while it was unlikely, Alaric hoped his lungs weren't about to catch something that'd suffocate him from the inside out later.
It had been fine when he'd come here with Beryl, but one could never be too careful.
Aside from being narrow, the incline was steep, and the path itself felt infinitely more oppressive than he recalled. His chest even felt tight. Perhaps it was because he'd grown—perhaps it was because of that fungus, the existence of which he'd yet to discard.
The feylight also wasn't perfect. This place didn't have the type of setup it could illuminate in one go, so it mostly served him to check out whichever direction he pointed it at. He even checked behind him, a few times.
Just in case.
Not for the first time, Alaric wished he had the option to pick largely situational but satisfying Skills, instead of the basic ones he got growing up. Something like tunnel exploration Skills would only matter to him once a decade or so, but he would not be this uncomfortable next time, if he had such a Skill.
He still had two empty slots on each category, both the last of his starter ones and those unlocked when he reached the Mortal Esse. It was somewhat shameful, to be nearly sixteen and still only have just as many Skills—and all in the early level 20s, as well—but Alaric refused to fill those slots for the sake of filling them. He wanted to weigh his options, but for that, he needed to have options in the first place.
Bernadette had provided Skills for Matilda, but Alaric doubted she had anything that would suit him.
The same went for his father.
Kristian could probably give him copies of Forged Skills, but there was only a tiny issue there—his father was extremely unlikely to have any Skills that weren't geared towards beating people up, causing panic, or making people panic while he was beating them up.
To Alaric, continuing to live with so few Skills was almost preferable to picking up a combat build. He hadn't liked fighting when his father tried teaching as a child and that had certainly not changed since then.
Yet he was only Level 47, and if he continued stalling, Alaric suspected even Bernadette’s children would soon outlevel him. The paranoid side of him also kept sneaking side glances at his only niece—if he couldn't see that toddler’s level, how could he know for sure that he wasn't falling behind? For all he knew, he could be doing worse than a literal four-year-old!
But, again, that was the paranoid side of him. The rational side was what kept him from voicing such thoughts for his own sake—Alaric hated his life enough as it was, without having to deal with anyone worrying over his mental well-being.
The only saving grace was that Kristoffer was not doing that much better in comparison, considering he did have the maximum number of Skills for his stage.
Thinking of Kristoffer fouled his mood further. Idiot.
Rather than emerge elsewhere in the house, Alaric continued to town through the same route Beryl had shown him so long ago. At least, he tried to use the same route. He thought he remembered it well enough. Probably.
In any case, without the twists and turns of the usual paths, you could get pretty much everywhere in the area through here, in a fraction of the time. He'd thought it a relic of the Champion Saint's days, but Beryl had insisted even their father hadn't known of the tunnels. It was cool in his eyes, as a child. A secret kept even from his parents.
When the matter of Beryl’s disappearance started to spread, Alaric had considered coming clean… but he thought better of it. Not only had he promised to Beryl herself that he would keep it secret, but revealing this could get them in all sorts of trouble. He liked having the option to go through here, even if he hadn't gone down in years.
Plus people in the city didn't like the family as it was. What would they think if they knew they had away to bypass their perimeter and wards, running right there beneath their feet?
Absolutely not. Alaric would not tell a soul.
He liked to imagine Kristoffer must have been either frustrated or confused by now, in any case. His brother also wouldn't out himself by claiming he lost track of him after locking him in the room, so there would be a lot of silent dread at play. Alaric felt it was almost a shame he wasn't there to see it, but imagining it felt satisfying enough.
As he approached the rising steps, Alaric lowered his feylight, using it only to watch his step. He could see slivers of light from here, through the slats of the exit. As he touched the grate, he dismissed the light entirely, returning it to inventory.
In silence, he waited. Neither steps nor voices made themselves known for long enough that he deemed it safe to come out. It was not unlike emerging from a basement, at the corner end of a dilapidated house. The back of an alley was to his right, and the empty rest of the street to his left. Torchlight and feylight alike composed the myriad lights of Beuzaheim, looking like a mosaic to his ill-adjusted eyes.
The grate shut behind Alaric much like the entrance had, and while he couldn't feel it, Beryl had told him it was all warded. No one else could enter, as the mechanisms could distinguish between users and only let a select number of people in. Who those were, he didn't know, but it seemed to include the family, despite their ignorance of the path.
The first time he'd done this, it had been a thrilling excursion, of sneaking out to the city with his coolest, biggest sister without permission.
This time was simply out of necessity.
He hadn't had the time to play Kristoffer's game because he wanted food, and he wanted it now.
The first scent he caught was that of freshly baked bread, and he followed it like a hound. It led him to a joint coffee shop and bakery, with plenty of tables available.
The host seated him in no time, handing him a menu, from which he ordered a simple meat and salad sandwich. It advertised a generous portion, and he paid upfront with a gold coin for the discount that entailed. They could keep the change. When he added a coffee with spices to the order, however, the waiter assigned to him gave him an odd glance.
“Aren't you a little bit too young to be drinking that?” she asked.
Alaric wordlessly summoned another gold coin from his inventory, silently sliding it through the table until it reached her and she picked it up.
No further questions were asked.
In his journals, Zayden had sounded convinced that coffee had been popularized by an otherworlder at some point. Alaric wasn't so sure of that. On one of those rare times she left her hovel, he'd met Old Hildegard, precisely while she had been taking coffee from the kitchens after her own stash ran out.
And she had told him the drink was old, old enough that she doubted any otherworlders had anything to do with that. To Alaric, anyone with the ‘Old’ prefix to their name had the right to say things like that, so he somehow believed her.
Besides, it seemed disingenuous to assume everything good or innovative must have been introduced by an otherworlder. He knew his father was fond of Zayden, but the guy assumed that a lot in his writings.
The sandwich was delicious, as was the coffee. Bitter enough to raise the dead and spiced enough to be enjoyable. Alaric was a very happy customer, and he enjoyed his meat with slow, deliberate bites.
His joy did not last long, as the sound of a commotion forced him to pay attention to his surroundings. A boy was running through the dining area, two guards on his tail. Several patrons yelped as he toppled two mantled tables over, snatching a white takeaway bag from a bedazzled lady, who screamed bloody murder.
It took Alaric a moment to notice the boy was headed straight for him—he shielded his coffee with his arms, unwilling to have a second drink spilled on him this year.
The boy all but flew past him, and Alaric sighed in relief as he left the shop. The guards were still on his tail, and this was not Alaric's problem.
Until it was.
Alaric glared at the empty spot next to his coffee, gripping the handle until his knuckles widened. He stood abruptly, nearly spilling it after all this effort. He almost rushed out immediately—but yes, he still had coffee.
Downing the drink with speed that kept him from truly enjoying it, Alaric put the mug down, and sped outside.
You little shit.
He could have just ordered a new one, and he wasn't going to eat the rest of that one, even if he got it back. He didn't even expect the guards to let him get involved, but he chased after them anyway.
These boots had not been crafted with running in mind, and by the time he caught up with the guards, Alaric could have sworn he heard the soles flapping independently from the rest of the shoes. It didn't help that the floor was inexplicably humid, and a fear of slipping kept him from pushing himself.
He only understood once he saw them that the guards had not been as lucky. They were only standing back up now, with one of them dusting their knees off pointlessly, wet dirt caked into their pants.
Alaric met the gaze of one, as serious as he could manage. “Where did my sandwich go?”
The guard blinked before pointing—he seemed to change his mind almost immediately, lowering the hand. “But don't—”
Alaric was already running. He zoomed through the pavement, ignoring the looks he got from the passersby who must have been wondering why people kept running past them today. As he slowed, the trail going cold as far as he was concerned, an old lady with a decorative umbrella caught him looking around, and pointed to a dark alley.
“He went that way.”
Narrowing his eyes, Alaric examined the lady. And you could be setting me up for a robbery…
There were no—as Zayden would say—red flags about the lady, so Alaric listened, but he summoned a feylight and a very long stick for good measure. If it came to that, he'd just hit whoever was there and run back out.
The alley wasn't deep, and when he pointed the light to the corner, he caught the wide-eyed boy crouched there, his perhaps once-fancy clothes disheveled and dirty, with his cheeks full.
You're eating my sandwich!
“Listen here, you—”
Gripping the remnants of the sandwich with nothing but his teeth, the boy raised his hands, sending a wave of shimmering blue water in Alaric's direction.
He dodged, thinking back to his lessons, if begrudgingly. If it's a mage, keep your distance if you can. Kick their face in, if you can't.
Alaric did as much, a wide-arc kick sending his boot to rest directly upon the boy's crunchy nose. The scream that followed almost made him feel bad for having done it, despite it being validly self-defense.
Father cannot find out. Literally ever. If Kristian found out all that training he ignored and refused to take Skills from had served him in the end, Alaric would never hear the end of it.
“What in any Devil's name was that for?” the boy whined, clutching his bleeding nose. Random pieces of lettuce dotted his face, the crumbled up remains of what was once a sandwich now scattered everywhere.
“You tried to hit me with your magic!”
“It was just water! I was just trying to scare you off. Now you've gone and ruined my only food.”
“That was mine.”
Alaric huffed as he stared the boy down. Now that he was getting a better look at him, he noticed how emaciated he looked. His cheeks looked sunken, the visible parts of his arms terribly boney.
Despite himself, he asked in a whisper, “What in all under the waves happened to you?”
The boy scoffed. “What do you think?” he groaned, pressing his nose again before continuing. “I got robbed on the way here. I sort of still need food to live, you know, so I had to get it somehow.”
…What would Beryl do in this situation?
“Do you have a home you could go back to? Parents?”
“Not right now. If I did, do you really think I wouldn't have already? Devils, this place really is full of country bumpkins.”
Alaric ignored the jab, looking inside instead. He tried to squash the feeling down. Don't do it. Don't do it. He pressed the bridge of his nose, not out of empathy but in sympathy to himself for the headache he was about to bring down on his own life.
“So you need a place to stay.”
“Congratulations on finding out the sea is turquoise.”
“Do you want a hot meal? No strings attached?”
“…What in any Devil's name prompted this?”
Alaric paced as the boy gaped at him, wary. “I was angry. Very much so. But now, I just feel bad.”
The boy scoffed. “I don't need some common's pity.”
“Oh, I'll go alert the guards, then,” Alaric said. He hummed innocently, lifting the stick.
The boy's eyes went wide with terror. “Don't!”
“Good then,” Alaric extended his hand, offering it to the boy. With the other hand, he twirled the stick. “But I'll only warn you once: attack me again and the entirety of Beuzaheim will know where to find a little thief.”
He was taking a risk, no doubt. But seeing this boy in such a state was gnawing at his gut. He'd been so irritated—if reasonably so—by being stolen from that not once had he considered why it'd happened. Here was a boy just around his age, starving in the streets.
In the end, Alaric wasn't defenseless, and he didn't want this sitting on his conscience. He couldn't forgive himself if he turned and walked away without doing at least a little.
I should have just stayed in that stupid studio.