"Get up, boy," Phillip barked, his voice gruff and impatient. He extended a thick hand and hauled me to my feet with little effort. In his other hand, he gripped a long wooden sword, its weight evident in the way he wielded it.
I bent down, grabbing my own practice sword, its poorly carved handle rough in my splintered palms. Holding it in front of me, I tried to steady myself, though the bruises along my arms made every movement ache. Egon had tasked Phillip with testing my progress, and I could already tell I wasn't going to impress him.
"Aye," Phillip muttered, shaking his head. "What're we gonna do with you, Roderich? You can barely stay on your feet!"
"Tell Mr. Felzt that," I grumbled under my breath, but it didn't escape his notice.
With a flick of his fingers, he smacked me lightly on the forehead. "None of that attitude, lad. Now," he said, shifting his grip on the wooden blade. His dominant hand slid up the shaft while the other steadied it near the middle. "Strike me."
I hesitated, reluctant but knowing I didn't have a choice. Taking a step back, I lowered the sword to my side before swinging forward. Phillip blocked with ease, his counterforce pushing me off balance. In an instant, he surged forward, disarming me with a sharp flick of his wrist. My sword flew out of my hands and landed in the grass.
"Dammit!" I cursed, frustrated, only to feel a sharp smack on my arm.
"Cursing's for fools," Phillip said firmly. "Understand?"
I nodded, biting back the pain in my arm, the sting lingering even as I dropped my gaze to the ground.
The courtyard around us was empty, save for the two of us, but it was bright—brighter than it had been in months. Winter had ended not long ago, and it seemed the sun had noticed. The clouds had parted, and golden light spilled over the grass, making everything feel fresher, even if my body ached.
The faint smell of lead paint wafted through the air, coming from the freshly coated fence that bordered the space. I breathed it in as I stooped to retrieve my sword from the ground, its rough handle digging into my sore palms.
Phillip's eyes bore into me, heavy with something I couldn't place, before he let out a long, weary sigh. The burly man lowered his makeshift weapon with a faint grumble I barely caught. I followed his gaze as he glanced behind me, noticing a group of children beginning to saunter into the courtyard. Finally, our time was over.
He gestured for me to return the swords to the old shed, its air thick with dust that burned my eyes and scratched at my throat. I half-expected to be dismissed afterward, eager to join Lily and Adam, but instead, Phillip led me inside without a word.
Adam was still devastated by Achim's disappearance. We had explained why he'd left, but Adam refused to believe it. He clung to the idea that Achim had been sent back to their abusive father, convinced that his brother had been deemed "no good" at chores. The weight of his distress hung over all of us, though it was Miss Tunia's reaction that caught me off guard. Over the past month and a half, she had grown stricter than ever—something I had not thought possible.
By the time my thoughts settled, I realized Phillip had led me to the same room where we met each week. It hadn't changed—still dim, still filled with dust that clung to the air and lingered on every surface. What caught me off guard was not the state of the room, but Phillip himself.
He sat slumped in his chair, his arms resting heavily on the sides and his posture curved, far from the disciplined stance he always lectured me to maintain. It was unsettling to see him like that, a shadow of his usual stern and overbearing self. For the first time, the man who always seemed unshakable looked... tired. Defeated, even.
And it scared me.
"I wanted to talk about somethin'," Phillip said bluntly, letting one heavy hand fall flat on the table. His eyes bore into me as he gestured to the chair. "Sit, boy."
I obeyed, sliding into the chair without a word, feeling more like a trained dog than a person.
"Good," he muttered, leaning forward slightly. "Now, Roderich, before I get into it, I wanna thank you. You've been behavin' well—keepin' up with yer studies, doin' yer chores, trainin'. But, as with all things, there's a reason. So, tell me..." He paused. "Are you doin' this for Egon's—" he stopped to correct himself, "the duke's approval, or simply because yer told to?"
The question caught me off guard. I opened my mouth, then shut it again, searching for an answer. Why did I do all these things? Why did I push through the weight of them? At last, I said, "I don't know."
"You better figure it out," Phillip replied sharply. "Now, what I wanted to talk about. In a week's time, you'll be movin' to Kingskeep. I've been reportin' to the Duke, and he reckons you're ready."
"Really?" I asked, my mouth widening in surprise.
"Don't get too excited now," Phillip said, his brow furrowing as he clasped his hands together. "By midweek, you'll pack yer things and say goodbye to Lily and Adam."
I opened my mouth to reply, but the words caught in my throat. The thought of leaving them made my chest feel heavy. "...I don't want to go without them," I admitted quietly, after a pause.
Phillip chuckled, though there was little humor in it. "Well, you gotta, boy." His ruddy hand landed on my shoulder, warm and firm. "Only a few friends last you a lifetime, and it ain't them."
I frowned. He tapped the table impatiently, urging me to speak up. "What if they are?" I muttered. "Achim's there... Can't you take Lily and Adam along?"
"They've got no place in Kingskeep," he said flatly. "You'll understand that when yer there."
I hesitated, the words thick in my throat. Finally, I swallowed hard and asked, "And... if I say no?"
"Is that what yer sayin'?" His voice dropped with a narrowed gaze locked onto mine, unblinking.
I hesitated, my heart pounding in my chest, but after a moment, I gave a small, reluctant nod.
The room erupted. Phillip slammed his fist into the table with such force that I yelped, shrinking back. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "You've got a chance at a higher life here, Roderich!" he barked. "Whether you want to or not, yer goin' to Kingskeep. If you refuse, you'll be thrown out into the woods, and let me tell you, boy, you won't last a day out there."
For a moment, a flicker of something softer passed through his eyes, but it vanished just as quickly. Without another word, he brushed roughly past me and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him with a force that rattled the walls.
I sat there in stunned silence as the room fell still. My heart, pounding moments ago, slowed to a steady rhythm. My gaze wandered, eventually landing on the door where a dragon was etched into the wood, coiled in its menacing posture. Its presence felt heavier than it had before, though I couldn't say why.
The following days were awkward. Phillip was gruffer than usual, his demeanor colder as he took to teaching me manners—how to act around adults, how to sit properly at the table. He lectured me on using silverware instead of my hands and muttering a prayer before meals. Miss Tunia, on the other hand, barely spoke to me. Her clipped tone gave way only to brief reminders about cleaning up my quarters before I left. Beyond that, she assigned me little.
Mr. Feltz's last lessons were brief, lacking his usual intensity, as though even he had accepted that my time in Widowskeep was coming to an end. I found myself with more free time than ever before, time that left me alone with my thoughts about Kingskeep and what lay ahead.
Lily, however, wasn't as resigned. She spoke often about wanting to come along, her excitement bubbling over as she imagined reuniting with Achim or even meeting the royal family—especially the Duke, the man responsible for taking me away. But with every passing hour, her mood darkened. She was realizing that her attempts to convince Phillip were futile.
On the fourth day of the week, I came down for breakfast. The warm smell of lamb's breast greeted me, mingling with the faint scent of baked loaves. Yet the sight of the empty hall caught me off guard. Only Adam was there, seated at the long table. His expression was hard to read, a mixture of sorrow and confusion etched into his young face.
Quietly, I took a seat on the other side of the table. Reaching for a loaf, I broke off a piece and stuffed it into my mouth. We didn't speak for a while, the hum of the mess hall louder than usual in the absence of chatter.
Finally, I broke the silence. "Where is she?" I asked.
His gaze flicked to mine. "Uhm," Adam mumbled hesitantly, his fingers tapping the table in an uneven rhythm. He paused, searching for the words, before finally saying, "They took her somewhere. Said she's too much of a distraction for you... Said boys your age are too distracted by girls like her."
"Oh." The word slipped out quietly, and I said nothing more. I dropped the small piece of sourdough from my hand, my appetite gone. Gone? What did that even mean? Had they thrown her out of the keep? Taken her to some far-off place? Imprisoned her? Killed her? A weight settled in my chest as I realized my question would likely never be answered.
That day, no one spoke to me. Not Adam, not Miss Tunia, nor the other children whose names I barely knew. Even the air in the keep felt heavier.
By the fifth or sixth day of the week—I couldn't remember anymore—my room was stripped bare. The dresser, once filled with the oversized clothes they had given me, was now empty. My bed had been stripped of its sheets and pillow, leaving behind only the cold, hard frame.
That night, I curled into what was left of my bed. The quiet felt louder than ever and wrapped around me along with the chill.
I was alone. Too alone.
A stranger woke me the following morning. He was not one of the usual sentinels who guarded the keep. This man was taller—easily more than twice my size—and dressed in light steel and mail. A sword hung sheathed at his waist, and from what Mr. Feltz had taught me about weapons, it looked like a shorter version of a rapier.
"Roderich of Meadowsway," the soldier said firmly. Once I nodded, he stepped forward, grabbing my arm with a leather-gloved hand and yanking me roughly from the bed. A startled yelp escaped my lips. He didn't seem to care about my state of undress as I scrambled to pull on clothes. The black tunic and oversized leggings they had given me on my first day at Widowskeep felt heavier now, their familiarity oddly unsettling.
I glanced up at the man. His head was mostly obscured by his helmet, save for a horseshoe-shaped gap that revealed his stern face. He extended a hand, which I hesitantly took, and before I could register what was happening, he pulled me along swiftly.
Who is this man? What does he want? My only guess was that it had something to do with Kingskeep. As we moved down the stone corridors, my eyes darted toward the walls, where children gathered to watch, their expressions a mix of curiosity and unease. They muttered among themselves, but I couldn't make out their words.
We passed down the North Hall—a place I hadn't visited in months, as I'd been told not to—and through the keep's main entrance. For the first time in what felt like ages, I stepped into a world unrestricted by walls. The gate stood open, and beyond it, lines of soldiers formed a protective perimeter. The air carried the pungent smell of manure. My eyes locked on a carriage waiting in the center of the clearing.
It was crafted from light, curling wood, with half-metal wheels that sank deeply into the muddy ground. Two horses stood bound to the front by frayed ropes, their coats dull but strong-looking. The carriage door creaked as two sentinels swung it open. Without ceremony, they shoved me inside and slammed the door shut behind me, securing it with a latch.
I swallowed hard, my breath quickening. It felt less like I was being moved and more like I was being imprisoned. My chest tightened as my eyes adjusted to the dim interior of the carriage, and when I turned, I saw a figure seated in the shadows. Startled, I moved back against one of the seats.
"Calm yourself," a familiar voice said. As the figure shifted, sunlight spilled into the cabin. Egon reached up and pulled a string that parted the curtains on a small window, letting more light into the cramped space.
"Good morning, Roderich," the duke said calmly, as though we were still in the keep and not halfway into the unknown. I studied his face—his sharp features and neatly combed brown hair. He hummed, his gaze lingering on me as I refused to speak. "Still quiet as always, I see," Egon said with a faint smile. "Well, in the coming weeks, we'll change that."
Reaching forward, he placed a hand on my chest, and I tensed instinctively. Despite every fiber of my being wanting to pull away, I knew better than to resist. His fingers curled slightly, pressing against my tunic, and he leaned in close. His breath carried the faint smell of mint.
"You have no idea how hard it was to convince the king..." His hand slid to my cheek, tilting my face this way and that, studying me like I was some prized artifact. "You look like your father. That's good..." he muttered, though his voice held a note of uncertainty. "Your eyes are like his as well... an expressive silver. A strange color."
Finally, the duke pulled back, and I took a sharp breath, relief flooding me. Pressing myself firmly into the wood behind me, I tried to steady my nerves as the carriage rocked unevenly over the cobblestone road. Glancing outside, I realized we were deeper into Meadowsway now. Buildings blurred past us—homes and businesses, their wooden beams dark with age. People walked the streets, most of them male, their faces worn and tired, some old, others young.
"You would do well to pay attention," Egon said sharply and drew back my gaze. "Perhaps then I'll tell you why you're so important." I nodded quickly and straightened, but from the way he stared at me, I knew he wanted more.
"Yes... sir."
Egon's eyes lingered on me for a moment longer before he leaned back into the shadows, a faint, unreadable smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, "Good," Egon said, tilting his head slightly as he began. "Your father was an important man. And with power comes the urge to use it, so he came onto your mother—a poor, frail woman. That's all I will say about her."
"Why?"
"Because some things are best left unknown," he replied bluntly, placing a hand against the window. The square holes in the wood let in thin streams of frigid air. "I don't want you dwelling on her memory."
He paused, his gaze fixed on the passing buildings, then continued, "Your father, on the other hand, was a hunter, Roderich. A man who tracked down inhuman creatures and delivered their heads to us on a silver platter."
I blinked, "Inhuman?"
"Yes, inhuman. Dragons, wezthills—it didn't matter. He always finished the job," Egon said reverently. He placed a hand to his face, rubbing it thoughtfully. "If I had more say, you wouldn't have been left in Widowskeep. You have his blood in you, Roderich. And though others may doubt it, I believe you can live up to what he did."
"You're just... laying all of this onto me," I said hesitantly. "What if I'm not like him? My father?"
Egon's eyes narrowed firmly, "Your silver irises are proof enough that you are," he said quietly. "Though... your frame is not as beast-like." That last part confused me, but before I could question it, he waved his hand dismissively.
Reaching beneath his seat, Egon withdrew a book and placed it in his lap. Its light blue, leatherbound cover gleamed faintly in the dim light, and it was thick, almost intimidating. "Can you write, Roderich?" he asked.
I nodded, unsure of what he was leading to.
"Good," he said, his lips curling into a faint smile. "Once we arrive at Kingskeep, you will use this journal to keep notes. Write down what you do, who you talk to, what you learn—even your thoughts." He handed me the book.
I stared at it for a moment before taking it, feeling the cool, smooth leather under my fingers. It felt more like a weight than a gift. Keeping a journal—writing down everything—felt invasive in a way I couldn't put into words.
But what was I to say? Everything Egon had told me felt like too much, too fast. I held the book tightly in my hands, nodding slowly, though my mind churned with disbelief. It almost felt like this was all some cruel game.
"What if I don't want to do it?"
"Hah." Egon chuckled softly, glancing down at the floor with a faint smile, nodding as though agreeing with his own thoughts. "If you don't..." he began. "Then we won't have a need for you anymore. And the risk of a child like you becoming known to the public is... hm." He paused, pretending to mull it over, though the way his lips curved suggested he already had an answer. "It would be a scandal. We'd throw you into Terulvik or Saaorn. Not a nice fate, now, is it?"
I shook my head with a dry throat. Egon reached out and ruffled my hair. "Good boy," he murmured.
After that, the conversation shifted. He spoke of people I would need to know at Kingskeep and, more importantly, those to avoid. The royal family, he warned, were not fond of having a non-royal under their roof. "Avoid them," he said firmly, "unless you are explicitly told otherwise." His voice carried a tone that made me swallow my questions before they could form.
From there, the discussion devolved into less important topics, his tone growing more casual as though the earlier threat had never been spoken. After ten minutes or so, the carriage fell into silence, save for the sound of its creaking wheels and the clatter of hooves on the road.
I watched as Egon leaned back, folding his hands over his stomach and drifting off to sleep. His breathing slowed, his face settling into an expression of ease that felt unnatural after his words.
He was too comfortable with all of this, I thought to myself. Too at ease with the way my life was being molded and moved like a pawn on a chessboard. Hopefully—though the thought felt distant—I'd learn to be just as comfortable soon enough. 66Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPlFzVudX7N
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