Cassian Dravenmoor sat perched on the cushioned window-ledge of his private chambers, chin resting against his palm as he glared out at the courtyard far below. The late-afternoon sun cast long gold bars across the stones, but they did nothing to warm him. The castle hummed with life — bells ringing, servants bustling, steel clashing from the lower yard — yet none of it belonged to him.
His mother had forbidden him from leaving his chambers until supper.
Again.
Cassian let out the long, suffering sigh of a boy who believed fate itself conspired to bore him to death.
"Locked in my own bloody castle," he muttered, tapping the window frame with a restless finger.
"A prince in a cage. Just perfect."
He leaned his forehead against the cool glass, watching two squires spar below, and felt his heart twist with envy.
"If Tov were here," he whispered to himself, "we'd climb out that window and vanish before the guards could blink."
But Tovren wasn't here — his mother had kept Cassian close and Tovren far. His mother's decree had been final: No roaming, no sneaking out, no running wild. Not today.
So he stayed in his chambers, pacing, swinging a wooden practice-sword at invisible enemies, reading two pages of some dry tome before tossing it aside… then picking it up again out of sheer desperation.
Anything to kill the weight of the hours.
He flopped back onto his bed and groaned up at the ceiling.
"I swear the gods mock me. I'd rather fight a pack of wolves than sit through another afternoon of… this."
The sound of his own voice seemed to echo back at him, hollow and unimpressed.
Elsewhere in the castle — in the quiet of the royal library…
Edric Greyharth sat at a heavy oak table drowning in books.
Stacks towered on his left and right like two walls closing ever inward — histories of the Five Western Kingdoms, ledgers of trade rivals, treatises on succession laws, volumes of diplomacy, ancient compacts, broken treaties, and the infamous The Etiquette of Courts Great and Small, which Edric secretly suspected was written by a lunatic who despised joy.
He rubbed his eyes. Then rubbed them again. Nothing made the words any kinder.
Behind him, like a shadow carved from granite, stood his tutor — Master Albrecht Southwell, the king's chosen instructor. The old man was long-fingered, sharp-eyed, silver-bearded, and possessed a voice that could flay the hide off a grown knight without ever rising above a calm, disappointed tone.
"Page forty-three, sentence five," Albrecht instructed, cane tapping once against the floor. "Begin."
Edric drew a slow breath and read aloud:
"'In the Year of Falling Stars, the Lords of the Western March convened to settle the dispute of—'"
He paused, frowning at the sprawling sentence.
"—of land… something about canals… and—"
Master Albrecht cleared his throat, a sound that carried the weight of seven kingdoms' worth of judgment.
"'Canal rights,' Lord Edric. The word is canal. Not 'candle.' Not 'camel.' Do try to remain awake."
"I am awake," Edric said through a sigh. "Just… drowning."
"Then drown with dignity," the old man replied. "Continue."
Edric forced himself onward, stumbling through names, treaties, and dates until his tongue felt numb. When he finally finished, he slumped back in the chair, letting the book drop onto the table with a thud.
Master Albrecht's cane tapped sharply.
"What did we learn from this passage?"
"That… lords are petty?" Edric guessed.
The cane tapped again. Harder.
"That history is dry as dust?"
Another tap.
"That… I should have followed my brothers north."
The cane paused mid-air. The old man's lips twitched.
"Tempting, no doubt. But the North already has wolves. What it lacks is a future duke who can read without wincing."
Edric scowled, cheeks warming.
"I can read."
"You can," Albrecht admitted.
Master Albrecht folded his hands atop the cane and gave him a long, pointed stare.
"And yet Prince Cassian is twelve," the old man said plainly.
"He read these same books when he was seven. Please do better, young master."
Edric felt the heat crawl all the way to his ears.
"Cassian's Cassian," he grumbled. "He remembers everything he reads. I remember… some things."
"Some things," the tutor echoed, dry as desert sand. "And someday 'some things' will never be enough."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice — not unkindly, but with the gravity of a man who'd buried kings, soldiers, and students alike.
"Your father did not send you here merely to memorize dates or treaties," he said. "He sent you because one day, Prince Cassian will come of age. One day he will take up the crown of the South, as his father did before him."
Edric blinked, taken aback by the directness.
"And as the future duke of the north," Albrecht continued, "You will aid him — as your father aided King Godrick. Two houses bound not by blood, but by duty. The realm survives because great men choose loyalty."
The old tutor's gaze sharpened.
"And loyalty, Lord Edric, begins with understanding the realm you are meant to protect. Not tomorrow. Not 'when you feel like it.' Now."
Edric looked again at the mountain of books — histories, wars, alliances, betrayals — and for the first time, they didn't feel like weights meant to drown him.
They felt like armor he wasn't strong enough to wear.
Yet.
He straightened his back, swallowing hard.
"I'll learn," he said quietly.
Master Albrecht allowed the faintest ghost of a smile.
"You will," Albrecht corrected. "Now then — where were we? Ah, yes. The War of the Three Banners. Open the blue volume, page eleven. And do try not to sigh so loudly this time. It makes you sound like a widowed barmaid."
He paused, tilting his head.
"And kindly read it like someone older than twelve."
Edric rolled his eyes — but he opened the book.
Despite himself, Edric's lips pulled into a stubborn half-smile.
Far from polished marble floors and the quiet whisper of turning pages, In the lower city, the air was loud and crowded.
Smoke from a dozen crooked chimneys clung to the narrow lanes, mixing with the stench of fish-guts, piss, and yesterday's rain that never quite left the cobbles. Voices rose and fell in a constant rough murmur — merchants hawking bruised fruit, wives shouting from windows, children laughing as they darted between legs like stray dogs.
At the public well near the market square, a thin boy strained with both hands on the rope.
Tovren's fingers burned, the coarse fibers biting into his skin as he hauled the bucket up from the dark. His shoulders ached, his shirt stuck to his back with sweat, and the muscles in his arms trembled as the weight grew heavier.
"Come on," he hissed between his teeth. "Up dammit."
The rope creaked. The old pulley complained. At last the bucket broke the surface with a wet slosh, water spilling over the rim. Tovren grunted and dragged it to the stone lip, arms shaking, then leaned there a moment, catching his breath.
Around him, life churned on — a fishwife arguing over copper coins, a man with one leg limping past on a crude wooden crutch, a pair of boys trying to filch apples from a distracted vendor's
He cupped a handful of water, and splashed his face. It tasted of iron and dust. He grimaced, then straightened.
Tovren pushed a sweat-damp curl from his forehead with the back of his wrist and, for a heartbeat, let his eyes wander upward.
Beyond the leaning roofs and hanging laundry, high above the haze of smoke and city grime, the castle rose — all pale stone and proud towers catching the sunlight. Banners fluttered lazily from its walls, bright and distant as another world.
Somewhere up there, behind those high windows, Cassian Dravenmoor sat bored in his fine chambers. Cassian, who had once climbed rooftops with him, barefoot and laughing. Cassian, who now had tutors and feasts and guards and silk.
Tovren snorted softly.
"Oi, Cass," he murmured softly to the stones and smoke, "bet you're complainin' about bein' bored again, aren't you? Try carryin' this bucket, you spoiled princeling. You'd drop it in the first five steps."
The smile faded, replaced by something gentler. Something that almost hurt.
"…Still hope you're alright," he added, quieter now.
The thought warmed him, just a little.
He wrapped both hands around the handle and heaved. The bucket swung, sloshing cold water over his legs as he staggered back from the well. The weight dragged at his arms, swaying with every step.
"One day I'm gonna be strong enough to lift two of these… maybe then I'll be strong enough to drag Cassian's stubborn ass outta there."
The square pressed in around him — bodies jostling, carts rattling, someone cursing as a wheel hit a rut. A woman brushed past with a basket of stale bread, a dog darted under his feet chasing a scrap, and Tovren had to twist sharply to keep from spilling the whole bucket.
"Watch it!" a man barked as Tovren nearly clipped him with the pail.
"Sorry!" Tovren shot back, not slowing.
He shifted the bucket to his other hand, his shoulders burning, and kept moving through the crush of the lower city — just one more boy in the crowd, carrying water and dreams that weighed even more than the pail.
The alley narrowed as Tovren slipped into it, the walls closing in like two drunken men leaning against each other. Damp cobbles glistened under the weak daylight. The boy gripped the bucket with both hands and took the stairs slowly, each uneven stone worn smooth by centuries of feet far heavier than his.
At the bottom, the smell shifted — less fish and smoke, more mildew, rot, and old rain trapped where sunlight rarely reached.
This neighborhood was quieter. Poorer. The laughter of market children didn't echo here.
Tovren set the bucket down with a grunt, flexing his sore fingers. He reached for the warped wooden door, nudged it open with his shoulder, then lifted the pail again and stepped inside.
The house was small — a single room of stone and shadows. A tiny hearth crackled weakly in the corner, its flame fed by scraps of wood and dried weeds. Beside it sat a blackened cauldron, steam whispering from the thin broth inside.
And from the bed against the far wall came a harsh, tearing cough.
"Im back, Ma," Tov murmured as he shut the door with his heel. He hurried to her bedside, setting the bucket down. His mother lay half-sunken in the straw mattress, her hair matted, her breath thin and rattling.
Her eyes fluttered open at the sound of his steps.
"Tovren…" Her voice scraped out like something dragged over stone. She tried to push herself up, but her arms trembled.
"My boy… you're home? I didn't even hear you come in. I should've— I should've been up to welcome you back."
She reached for him, guilty even in her weakness.
Tovren caught her hand gently and shook his head. "No need, Ma. You should be resting." His tone was firm, but soft — the way she used to speak to him when he was small.
He dipped a wooden cup into the bucket and poured the water into the cauldron to stretch the broth. Then he grabbed a clean cloth from the table — one of the few they owned — and soaked it in the cold water. He squeezed it out with practiced hands and laid it across her fevered brow.
She sighed at the coolness.
"Tov…" Her voice wavered.
"This isn't how it ought to be. A boy your age ought to be outside… running about, causing trouble. Not… not caring for an old woman like me." Her gaze drifted toward the bucket, her chest tightening with another cough. "It's not right. You should be laughing with friends, not carrying water for a sick mother."
Tovren sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand again. "Ma, I don't mind. Truly. I've plenty of time to run around."
He forced a smile. "The world won't run out of trouble for me to cause."
She gave a breathy laugh that turned into a wheeze, and he steadied her, thumb brushing her knuckles.
"You deserve better, my boy…" she whispered, eyes glistening with guilt.
Tovren shook his head again, trying to sound braver than he felt. "Maybe. Maybe not. But you're the only part of this world that's mine. And I'm not leaving you to freeze or starve while I chase fun."
He tried to grin, though his voice cracked a little. "Besides, I'd just get bored without you yelling at me."
She smiled at that — tired, small, but real.
Outside, a cart rumbled past, the wheel scraping, a dog barking in its wake. The city never paused… but in that room, for a moment, everything stilled.