With the end of winter, Mr. Felzt hadn't let up on his lessons. What had once been simple drills—dodge, block, dodge—had evolved into learning how to fight freely, both with and without a sword. I had no idea why I needed to know this, but the bruises on my arms suggested that questioning it wouldn't change anything. The afternoons were spent with Phillip, who jabbed a finger impatiently at yellowed parchment, pushing me through letters that blurred together. Meals afterward in the kitchen hall felt hollow, each bite tasteless.
But today was different.
It began at breakfast. A restless night had left me groggy and barely aware of Adam and Lily's chatter beside me. I lazily spooned soup into my mouth, the broth practically water, while my eyes drifted around the room. The mess hall was quieter than usual, and a strange sight caught my attention as I lifted my head.
The long table was set as it always was, mismatched plates and tarnished silverware scattered across its surface. A draft slipped through the narrow slits of a window, carrying with it a faint chill. But what drew my gaze was Phillip, seated at the head of the table—Miss Tunia's usual spot.
Miss Tunia stood beside him, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her knuckles pale against her skin. Between them, Achim stood on a low stool, his head bowed, dark hair falling over his face. His shoulders were unusually stiff. On the table in front of him lay a piece of parchment, its edges curled slightly. Even from where I sat, I could see the dark, waxy seal pressed into it—a coiled dragon encircled by thorns.
It was the same one I'd seen on the entrance doors of Widowskeep when I first arrived.
Beside me, Lily sucked in a sharp breath. "That's..." she started, but her voice faltered and trailed off as Miss Tunia's gaze snapped toward us.
"Shouldn't you be in the courtyard?" She tapped the table with a nail, her eyes darting briefly to Phillip, who didn't bother to look at us.
"We were finished," Lily replied softly, her tone almost meek. She took a step back, her hand finding my arm as she pulled me toward the corner of the room. From there, we could still see the table, though the shadows concealed most of us. Miss Tunia and Phillip stayed silent for a time, their focus returning to Achim as Adam hurried up the stairwell, his footsteps echoing to create the illusion that we had left.
"I don't want to leave," Achim muttered as he shifted on the stool.
Phillip leaned forward, his arms uncrossing. "You think it's up to you, boy? The duke has decided. You're going to Kingskeep."
"Why me? What did I do?"
Miss Tunia placed a hand on Phillip's shoulder, a small gesture meant to temper him and turned to Achim with a softened expression. "It's not a punishment," she said. "It's an opportunity."
"Opportunity for what?"
Miss Tunia hesitated, her gaze flicking toward Phillip, who grunted but didn't interrupt. "The duke sees potential in you," she said at last. "That's all you need to know for now."
Achim hesitated before speaking again. "What about Roderich?" His words startled me, and I stiffened. "He's the one meeting with the duke, not me."
Phillip let out a heavy sigh. "If the Duke says you go, you go. End of story."
Miss Tunia straightened, brushing her hands over the folds of her dress. "This conversation is over. Achim, return to your quarters and prepare your things. You'll leave by week's end."
Phillip waved a hand dismissively, already turning his attention to the tankard in front of him. Achim lingered, his hands trembling as he slid off the stool. His movements were slow and hesitant, his head bowed as he shuffled toward the door.
As he passed us, his eyes briefly met mine. For a fleeting moment, I thought I saw something there—fear, uncertainty, perhaps even a plea for help. But then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a heavy creak.
"Come on," Lily whispered, tugging at my sleeve. "We shouldn't be here."
I nodded and began to move, but my gaze lingered on the parchment still lying on the table. I couldn't get the image of that dragon and its thorns out of my head. We slipped out of the room quietly. Achim was leaving, and though I didn't fully understand why, I couldn't shake the feeling that it was somehow connected to me.
By evening, my arms were sore from the day's chores. Dark gray clouds churned overhead, and soon the rain came down in cold, sharp needles, soaking my skin and turning the dirt beneath us into thick mud. Lily barely spoke after what we overheard. Yet, I felt oddly indifferent. Kingskeep was supposed to be a place of hope, wasn't it? A place for children like us, so we wouldn't waste away in Widowskeep.
Later, after supper, I wandered the empty halls. My steps eventually led me to the library, a small, dimly lit room I had only been to once before with Phillip. The air inside was stale, thick with the scent of dust and old wax. The velvet carpet bore faint marks of melted candles that must have dripped from the iron sconces overhead long ago.
I let my fingers trail along the spines of books, pausing on one particularly worn volume. Its cracked leather cover caught my eye, and I pulled it free. Inside were illustrations—detailed, but mundane—depicting the history of Meadowsway.
Disappointed, I set the book aside, letting it fall with a soft thud onto the carpet. I lingered, unsure of what I was looking for, only knowing I needed something to occupy my mind—a distraction from the rain, from the day, and from thoughts I couldn't quite piece together.
"What're you doin' in 'ere?" Phillip's gruff voice came from behind me.
I didn't turn to face him, my eyes fixed on the dimly lit corner of the room. His shadow stretched across the floor and blanketed me as it reached ahead.
"Hiding from Miss Tunia." I admitted quietly, "She wanted to talk about my tasks."
Phillip slid a chair out and lowered himself into it, the wood groaning under his weight. His eyes flicked to the book I had tossed onto the floor, and for a moment, his expression flattened. His dark, graying hair fell loosely into his face, but he made no effort to brush it away. Whatever thought crossed his mind about the discarded book, he decided not to voice it.
"You overheard, didn't you?" Phillip asked, his tone low but matter of fact. I nodded, not bothering to deny it.
"Roderich, not even I know why the duke wants you or Achim," he admitted, leaning back in the chair. "But when someone from the world's highest family makes a request, you'd best see it done. The prince is next in line for the throne, and I'm guessing it has to do with that."
I furrowed my brow to which Phillip chuckled dryly. "What do I expect a ten-year-old to know..." he muttered, shaking his head. His fat hand landed on my back with a heavy pat. "Now, how's the readin' coming along?"
I groaned softly. "You want to do this now? We studied earlier."
"A man's gotta be a master of all trades. Not just physical discipline." He bent down, retrieving the book I had tossed aside, and shoved it into my chest. "Start readin' that aloud."
And so, I did. The words came haltingly at first, my tongue stumbling over the strange shapes and unfamiliar rhythms. I dragged a finger across the rough and old pages, mouthing the words aloud. Every so often, Phillip would grunt when I mispronounced something or give a nod when I got it right.
The book told the story of Meadowsway's origins. It had begun as a humble farming settlement a century and a half ago, slowly growing into a hub for nobles to trade goods. Over time, larger settlements emerged around it, and Meadowsway became a makeshift stopping point between them. But its peaceful growth was shattered during the War of Ter-Uk, when the conflict was brought to its doorstep. The keep was built in a single year, hastily constructed, which explained its odd mix of grandeur and imperfection. The war itself lasted three winters, ending with Chaluk pushing Terulvik back over two hundred miles—a victory that marked the last physical war Chaluk had ever fought, its strength making such conflicts unnecessary.
The book also spoke of infamous generals born in Meadowsway and its political importance over the years, but the pages seemed endless. Within half an hour, I noticed Phillip struggling to keep himself upright. His head bobbed slightly, and his eyes drooped as moonlight spilled through a narrow window, bathing the floor in silver light.
Within a few minutes, Phillip had me return the book to its place, sliding a marker between the pages where I'd left off. He insisted on personally escorting me back to my quarters, muttering something about keeping an eye on me. The keep was unusually cold that evening, but I couldn't help noticing how strange it felt to walk on carpet instead of bare stone. It occurred to me, as we passed through the hallways, that I'd never seen anyone roll the carpets out. It was as if they had always been there, though I knew better. When I reached my room, I didn't feel particularly tired, but as soon as my head hit the pillow, I fell asleep
Only a few hours later, I woke again. The room was still and quiet, the darkness of the night wrapping itself around me like a second blanket. From somewhere beyond my door, the faint echo of footsteps drifted through the halls—sentinels, patrolling the keep as always.
The mattress beneath me felt stiflingly warm, and I slipped out from under the covers. My bare feet met the cool floor, and I paused, glancing around the dim room. After a moment, I reached for undergarments and a long gray robe, cinching it at the waist. The clothes, as always, were far beyond my years—too big, too mature for someone like me. They hung loose on my small frame, a reminder of how little I truly was.
The sound of my own skittering steps echoed lightly as I made my way to the door. With care, I swung it open and peered into the hall. The cold air of the keep hit me immediately, but it didn't deter me. For reasons I couldn't quite explain, something in my mind itched for me to go to the courtyard. Despite the chill, despite the late hour, it felt like I had to.
I stuck close to the walls, moving where the shadows obscured me so the sentinels wouldn't notice. Faces seemed to stare at me from the dark stone walls—some angry, others persistently mournful. Each left a queasiness in my stomach that I couldn't shake. Moments later, I reached the courtyard doors, latched tightly shut.
Wind whistled through small cracks in the wood, sending brisk air into my face. Pressing my cheek against the door, I tried to peek through a crack. The icy air stung my eye, but I didn't flinch. My breath hitched as I caught sight of it—an eye staring back at me through the narrow gap. Light amber in color, unblinking.
I stumbled backward, my heart thundering in my chest, falling to the floor with a soft thud.
"The silver-tongued beast," a voice muttered from the other side of the door. Feminine, almost melodic, but carrying an edge that unsettled me. "It comes, the silver-tongued beast. Faster, and stronger, and cleverer."
Knuckles rapped softly against the wood. Her hand slid along the door as her voice lowered. "You need to get away from him."
"Who—" I started to ask, but the question died on my lips as she gasped. The crunching of grass underfoot grew frantic, fading away as she ran into the darkness.
For a moment, I sat frozen, bewildered, my heart still hammering. Swallowing hard, I scrambled to my feet and pressed against the doors one last time, but they wouldn't budge. Whoever that woman was, she sounded young—no older than Adam or Lily.
Shaking, I retraced my steps back through the keep and returned to my room. Throwing the blankets over me, I sought their warmth and safety. But why had I wanted to go down there in the first place? It felt like a gut instinct; one I could not explain.
Sleep never came that night. My thoughts lingered on the amber eye staring back at me, on the voice that warned me, on the strange feeling that had drawn me to the courtyard.
The following morning, over breakfast and after starting chores, I told Lily and Adam what had happened.
"That's impossible," Lily said dismissively, biting into a piece of bread. "You were up too late. Sometimes the mind plays tricks."
"Tricks?" I raised an eyebrow.
"Yes, tricks," she insisted. "I've had them before too. A hand knocking on my window, ghostly figures in the hallway. All of it passed with time, now that I'm mature."
"You're twelve," Adam corrected with a smirk, ducking as Lily swatted at him. "And another thing..." he added, "I think Lily's right."
I huffed but didn't argue. Maybe they were right. Maybe it was a dream—or a trick of the mind. But that week, I couldn't stop watching the courtyard closely, inspecting the fences for any weak spots or holes where someone could have slipped inside. At night, before bed, I'd glance toward the courtyard doors, waiting for something, anything.
But there was nothing. No amber eyes staring back, no voice, no sound. Just silence. And as time passed, I began to convince myself that it really had only been a dream. 70Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡb8IPaQGqsi
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