The high walls of the northern castle rose dark and solid against the pale northern sky, their weathered stones streaked with age and shadow. The air held the sharp bite of the North, cold enough to sting the lungs, though the grass in the courtyard was still green, and the dirt paths bare of snow. Winter's true heart lay far beyond the mountains, in the lands where the cold was a living thing—but here, for now, the North only whispered of it.
In the courtyard, two young men made ready for the road—Thalen and Wulfric Greyharth, the remaining sons of the Duke. Their packs were strapped to their saddlebags, their cloaks drawn close against the chill. At the great gates waited a knot of riders from the Far North, men wrapped in furs and leathers, their faces shadowed beneath fur-lined hoods. These were the guides who would lead the princes to their new duties at the edge of the world.
Near the steps of the keep, the brothers took their farewells. Their mother stood cloaked in sable, the hood drawn back to reveal dark hair touched with silver. In her arms rested a swaddled infant—their youngest brother—while beside her stood Alina, their little sister, her cheeks flushed with the cold.
"Mind your health," their mother said, her voice steady but her eyes betraying the weight of the parting. "The far winds are not kind to Greyharth sons who take them lightly."
Thalen grinned crookedly. "The winds will have to try harder than that to take me, Mother." He leaned in to kiss her cheek, his hand briefly ruffling his younger brother's hair in a fond gesture. Then he turned to Alina, bending down to press a warm kiss to her forehead, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Don't miss me too much, or you'll spoil the others with all that fuss," he teased. Alina smirked, tilting her head. "And don't you get too used to all the quiet without me around," she shot back.
There, he caught sight of Killian lingering in the shadows, watching from afar. Thalen's smirk widened. He strode over, boots crunching on the courtyard gravel. "While we're gone," he said, voice low and teasing, "try to man up and keep little Alina out of trouble. Can't have you skulking about like some half-drowned cat."
Before Killian could answer, Thalen rough him lightly on the head with his knuckles and strode away. Killian blinked, rubbing the spot, his expression caught between confusion and a reluctant softening. For all Thalen's sharp tongue, there had been something in his tone—recognition, perhaps.
From across the yard, Wulfric called, then walked toward them. Without a word, he reached to his belt, unfastened something, and tossed it underhand. It landed in the dirt at Killian's feet—a dagger in a polished sheath. Killian knelt, lifting it. The hilt bore fine carvings, its steel well-balanced and keen.
"You've a good hand for small blades," Wulfric said. "Had the smith make that for you before we leave. Use it well."
Killian looked up, but Wulfric was already turning away, joining Thalen as they made for the gate. The Far Northern riders straightened, and in a moment the two Greyharth princes were mounted, riding out into the cold wind.
"Don't freeze out there!" Alina called, waving. Her laughter followed them past the walls.
The company rode down the dirt road, cloaks snapping in the wind, until the gates were only a shadow behind them and the land began its slow climb toward the mountains.
Later, Killian sat in a small, lonely tower used for storage, far from the bustle of the keep. At the top, the room was round and narrow, its stone walls set with a single arched window. He sat on the sill, one leg hanging over, a block of wood in his hand and Wulfric's dagger in the other. The wood was slowly taking the shape of a stag—the proud sigil of House Greyharth.
The hatch door in the floor creaked open. Alina climbed up, her breath puffing white in the cold air. Killian frowned at the intrusion, but when she stepped into the light, he only returned to his carving.
Alina stepped inside, her boots making a muted thud on the wooden floor. The chamber curved around them in a wide circle, its stone walls catching the pale light that spilled through the single great window. She took in the scattered maps, the cold draft rolling in from the open arch, then let her eyes settle on him.
"Why are you always up here alone?" she asked.
She crossed the room and sat beside him, pulling her cloak tighter. For a time, he said nothing. The wind sighed through the tower.
"A week ago father wanted you to come with him," she said after a moment, her voice carrying the memory of a week past. "To the south, to the king Dravenmoor. You could've seen the big castle, met the king... and the place where you were born."
Killian didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the open yard beyond the stables, where servants moved about, loading packs onto horses. Looking at the mountains in the far north where Thalen and Wulfric just departed.
"Why didn't you?" she asked.
He gave a small, reluctant shrug, the faintest curl of a smirk ghosting over his lips—not from any real cheer, but as if to mask his disinterest. "No point," he murmured, his voice quiet, lacking any true spark.
"That's not an answer." she said.
"I don't belong there," he muttered. "Didn't belong there then. Don't belong anywhere now." He said. His eyes didn't stay on her. They wandered toward the dark stretch of the quay, as if searching for something far beyond it. Alina caught the flicker in his expression—too guarded for someone his age
Before he'd even reached four years of age, Killian had never once set foot beyond the castle's inner walls. Lady Montclair had made certain of it. The Queen despised him—her husband's bastard—and would not suffer his existence to be paraded through the streets. He'd been kept hidden in quiet corridors, as if the mere sight of him might stain the royal name. His earliest memories were not of sunshine or laughter, but of dim halls and distant voices, the clink of armor from guards who never met his eyes.
It was Duke Greyharth who finally took him from that shadowed prison—though not out of kindness. The King, weary of the Queen's scorn and the boy's inconvenient presence, had given him away like a burden to be passed off. Killian remembered the cold morning of departure: no farewell from his father, no word from his commoner mother, only the Duke's gloved hand gripping his shoulder and leading him through a gate he had never been allowed to cross.
When at last he was brought into the southern streets, the world felt no kinder: sun-baked stone, the reek of the harbor, and faces that slid past him as though he did not exist.
From the Duke's cold grasp came the only warmth Killian had ever known—bitter, but proof he existed.
Alina studied him, then tried a smile, her tone lilting with playful mischief. "But it was your home, wasn't it? All that warm air, the flowers, and sunshine," she said teasingly, as if trying to coax a brighter memory from him.
"I was thrown away from it," Killian said. "What's a bastard to a crown? Nothing good ever came of being born wrong."
Silence stretched between them, heavy and unyielding, the unspoken weight of a past he could never forgive pressing down like frost in the air. Killian's gaze lingered on her, not searching for words so much as wrestling with the bitterness that always surfaced when thoughts of the South and the father who had cast him aside crept in. Alina fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve, sensing the storm behind his eyes—the quiet annoyance he no longer cared to hide.
"You know," she said softly, her eyes bright with the kind of wonder only books could give, "I read it in one of the old histories a week ago—about bastards who rose high. The Vyrmyrs had them, too—sons and daughters not born of queens. They fought in wars, carved their names into songs, and earned their place. Some even wore the crest, just like a trueborn."
"They went mad," Killian replied, his tone carrying the weight of disdain. He cast her a sidelong glance, as if measuring whether she could grasp the bitterness behind his words. "Tore their house apart. The West buried them for it. They're not even from the West… They were foreigners, through and through. To them, even a bastard had a place."
"Maybe so. But they didn't let where they came from decide where they were going, and who they should be." Alina replied with a triumphant little grin, clearly pleased with her clever counter.
Killian's grip tightened on the dagger, a surge of conflicting emotions churning within him—resentment, longing, and a gnawing sense of not belonging. His gaze lingered on the half-formed stag, as if it were both a challenge and a reminder of the place that had cast him aside.
"Do you really think being a bastard makes you nothing?" she pressed.
"It's not a thought," he said flatly. "It's the only truth I've ever been given."
"Not to me," she replied, her eyes lighting up with the kind of wide‑eyed excitement only a child could muster. "And anyway—can you imagine? Some of them actually tamed wyverns! That's like… the most amazing, craziest thing ever."
Killian let out a small, dry huff, his gaze drifting away as if the weight of her words barely touched him. "Hah... that's just a story," he said, the faint curl of his lip betraying a mix of disbelief and an old bitterness he could never quite shake.
"Everything's a story—until someone makes it true. I guess what I'm saying is…" she continued with a small, determined smile, "it's not a curse unless you wear it like one. You could wear it like armor instead. In the end, everyone bleeds the same. Royalty doesn't make you bleed gold you know?" she teasingly said.
He looked at her, brow furrowed, her words stirring something uncomfortably close to agreement in him. Killian lowered his gaze, feeling the weight of her childlike certainty pressing against his long-nursed bitterness. He didn't answer, but he didn't scoff either—a small concession in itself. For now, that was enough. A faint, reluctant smile tugged at his lips, as if some part of him wanted to believe her… that being half-blood didn't make you less.
The company rode down the dirt road, cloaks snapping in the wind, with each stride kicking up dust and frost. Patches of snow slowly appeared as they climbed higher toward the mountains, the air growing thinner and the cold sharper. Thalen and Wulfric's excitement was tangible, the thrill of the unknown ahead lighting their spirits.
Wulfric glanced at his older brother as they rode. "Do you think the guides will test us today?" he asked. Thalen smirked, tightening his grip on the reins. "Test us? Perhaps. But we're Greyharths. We meet whatever comes with steel in hand."
Wulfric chuckled, then fell silent for a moment, watching the snowflakes swirl around the horses' hooves. "It's… beautiful, in a harsh way. I've never seen the mountains like this."
"The Far North doesn't give its beauty lightly," Thalen said. "Respect it, or it'll humble you. And remember—each step north is a lesson in patience and endurance. We'll see soon enough."
The ride stretched long into the day, the brothers keeping pace with the rugged guides, the landscape shifting from wind-battered plains to jagged, frost-lined ridges. Thalen occasionally glanced toward Wulfric, noting the determination in his younger brother's posture. Despite the cold biting through their cloaks, both pressed on, eager for the responsibilities that awaited them.
Hours passed, and the cold stones of walls finally came into view—the Frosthorn Range. This was Thalen's destination, where his duties lay as Warden, sworn to defend the northern passes. Pride and duty filled him; he would make his father proud and uphold the Greyharth name.
Wulfric slowed his horse, glancing toward the diverging paths ahead. "This is where we part, brother."
Thalen grinned, teasing. "Don't get lost among the peaks, little brother. Or cry when the cold hits."
Wulfric rolled his eyes but leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Thalen's in a brotherly gesture of farewell. "May the winds favor your ride, Thalen. Make our house proud."
"And you, Wulfric. Keep your wits about you and survive the mountains," Thalen replied, voice firm but warm.
With a final nod, Wulfric veered off with the remaining men along the path to his post, leaving Thalen at the gates to his duties. The Frosthorn Range loomed ahead, silent and formidable, yet Thalen felt the weight of his purpose settle upon him. He drew a deep breath, ready to step into the life he had been destined to claim. The wind whispered against the stone, carrying the promise of trials, honor, and the enduring legacy of House Greyharth.
And with that, the two brothers now on paths separate yet bound by blood, courage, and the distant call of the Far North.