The training yard stank of sweat and lingering mist. Alaric leaned against the cool metal of the spear rack, chest heaving, muscles twitching with exhaustion. Kaelen's voice still rang in his ears: Again. Again. Again.
He half expected the old coot to materialize from the shadows and demand another set.
Instead, a softer voice broke the morning silence.
"Are you planning to spend the night here, young master?"
Alaric blinked through his sweat-stung eyes to find Lira standing there, carrying a folded cloak over one arm and a faint smile on her lips.
"Tempting," Alaric muttered. "The stones and soil are comfortable once you have lost all feeling in your legs."
"I'll take your word for it," she said dryly. "But your quarters are warmer, and I have already drawn a bath. Come on before Kaelen changes his mind and drags you out for another lap."
Alaric groaned but let her hook an arm under his and pull him upright. Lira was barely a head shorter than him, wiry and quick, with the unflappable patience of someone who had been serving him since she was a child herself.
"Honestly," she said as they crossed the yard, "most heirs are far inferior to you in skill, and still you spend your morning rolling in mud and nearly fainting. Inspirational."
Alaric chuckled, half-stumbling up the stone steps toward the inner hall. "Tell that to Kaelen. Maybe he'll let me sleep tomorrow."
"Doubtful," she said with a smirk. "But I can always sneak honeyed bread to your room as consolation."
His quarters were large and opulent. It was warm and dimly lit by a single brazier. Steam rose from a copper tub in the corner, filling the air with the faint scent of lavender oil. Lira helped him strip off his sweat-stiff shirt and tossed it into the hamper.
"Sit," she instructed, pushing him toward the tub.
The first touch of hot water was bliss, sending a groan of relief from his chest. His muscles, taut from training, began to loosen.
"See?" she said, kneeling beside the tub to scrub his body. "Not all parts of noble life are torture."
"Perhaps," he muttered.
Lira leaned her chin on her hand, studying him with amusement. "You're nervous about tomorrow."
He hesitated. "…A little."
"Liar." Her eyes softened. "Don't worry. You've got that quiet-stubborn thing your father has. It'll carry you through."
Alaric smiled faintly. "You really think so?"
"I know so," she said with absolute certainty. "And if anyone doubts you, I'll trip them in the hall."
He laughed, tension easing. Moments like this were always nice in the Veylan estate, where every glance felt like a test.
By the time Alaric reached the dining hall, his legs felt like stone. He paused at the carved oak doors, catching his breath. Beyond them waited the blackwood table, silver chandeliers, and the ever-watchful eyes of his family—sometimes more exhausting than Kaelen's drills.
The doors opened on quiet conversation. The long table gleamed under lamplight. The misted city stretched beyond the tall windows, its bells faint against the clinking of silverware.
Earl Feren Veylan sat at the head, posture perfect, the kind of man who could command a room without ever raising his voice. His dark hair had gone silver at the edges, and his eyes were sharp enough to pin a man to the wall.
Opposite him, Lady Meridyn lifted her gaze with a soft smile. "Alaric. You survived the morning."
"Barely," Alaric admitted, sliding into his seat. His arms trembled as he reached for his goblet.
His father studied him for a long moment, then said in his low, measured voice, "If that's barely, then Kaelen is finally doing his job."
Lady Meridyn's lips curved. "Feren, you make it sound like you want the boy to collapse before the Trial."
"If he collapses, better here than in front of the Myth," Earl Feren said without looking up from his plate. His voice was stern, but Alaric thought he saw the faintest twitch of humor at the corner of his mouth.
Across the table, Marrin leaned back with his usual smirk, twirling a quill in one hand. "You should've seen him, Mother. He looked like a drowned cat crawling up the stairs."
Alaric gave him a look and kicked him under the table.
Lady Meridyn gave a soft laugh. "You two are hopeless. Marrin, if you spent as much time in the yard as you do with that quill, perhaps Kaelen would let your brother crawl a little less."
Marrin clutched his heart in mock pain. "Mother, I wield my wit as a weapon. Surely that counts for something in House Veylan."
"Not if the blade is made of ink," Earl Feren said, finally glancing up. His tone was dry, and Marrin immediately straightened, though his grin never faltered.
"I'm sure the Myth will appreciate whatever tools the heirs bring—ink or otherwise."
The speaker was Uncle Theren, seated halfway down the table, his robes crisp and his eyes half-lidded with the polished patience of a snake in the sun. His smile was small, unreadable.
Beside him sat his daughter, Lyra, poised with perfect stillness. She was as old as Alaric, her black hair bound in silver clasps, her posture effortless and elegant.
"And what tool do you bring, Lyra?" Marrin asked, half-playful, half-wary.
She sipped her wine without breaking eye contact. "A mirror, perhaps. To remind people who they really are."
The table fell quiet for a breath too long.
Then Lady Meridyn's voice cut gently through the stillness. "Every child at this table will find their place in due time."
But the glint in Uncle Theren's eyes said otherwise.
But then Earl Feren's gaze settled on Alaric again, steady and serious. "Tomorrow is your Trial. Eat well. Sleep well. And remember—whatever happens, you will face it as my son. Stand tall."
Alaric swallowed hard and nodded. The warmth of the moment lingered, but so did the weight of tomorrow, pressing against his chest like a second heartbeat.