Three days passed after the lesson at the forge.
The winter air grew sharper, the frost lingering on the edges of the windows each morning.
Kaizlan spent most of his hours between the small library and the training yard, his routine steady but unremarkable.
Then, one evening, a rider approached the manor gates.
His cloak was dusted with snow, the seal of House Mortani stitched in silver thread across his shoulder.
He carried a single envelope.
The servant delivered it to Lord Sevald, who read it in silence before turning to his son.
"You will accompany me to the capital. There will be a gathering—nothing more."
"A gathering?" Kaizlan asked.
"A banquet. For the season's first snow."
The boy had never attended such an event.
Banquets were the affairs of high-born families, filled with titles and names that held more weight than swords.
Still, he gave a short nod.
The journey to the capital took two days.
They passed frozen fields, forests heavy with snow, and villages that barely stirred under the cold.
Kaizlan rode quietly beside his father, noting how every mile seemed to bring taller walls, cleaner streets, and fewer eyes willing to meet his.
When they reached the outer gates of Aster, the city's heart, the streets were alive with carriages and torchlight.
Banners of noble houses hung from the stone towers, their colors sharp against the winter sky.
That night, as he lay in the guest chamber of the Mortani estate, Kaizlan stared at the high ceiling, the carved beams, and the silence that felt heavier than the snow outside.
He wondered what kind of people would be gathered tomorrow.
What kind of world they lived in—
and whether he could belong to it.