The bells of House Caelvyrn rang across the night sky, deep and cold as iron.
From the marble courtyard, servants scurried like quiet birds, their hurried steps echoing through the corridors. The manor was alive with noise, rushed voices, clattering basins and the faint scent of herbs and blood in the air.
"More towels! Boil more water!" shouted the midwife, her voice sharp with strain.
"Where is His Lordship?" Has no one found the Marquess yet?"
A servant hesitated by the door, trembling. "He's still riding back from the capital, madam. They said the roads–"
"Damn the roads!" the woman snapped, wringing he hands. "The Mistress is losing strength!"
Inside the chamber, the Marchioness lay drenched in sweat, her pale hair clinging to her face. She gripped the sheets until her knuckles turned white, her cries of pain cutting through the night like shards of glass.
"Please...just a little longer," the midwife murmured, forcing calm into her tone. "You must hold on, my lady. The child is almost here."
The Marchioness's breath came ragged. "He...promised he would be here..." she whispered between gasps, her voice breaking on every word.
The midwife swallowed hard."He will, my lady. Just focus on breathing."
Outside, the wind pressed against the shutters, howling low and mournful as if the night itself shared her suffering.
The bells tolled once more, their echo resounded across the darkened hills, solemn and heavy.
The servants fell silent.
Somewhere within that silence, a single cry rose thin at first, the sharp and clear.
The 2nd son of House Caelvyrn had entered the world beneath iron bells and storm winds.
**********
"Young master...young master Frederick, please wake up."
The girl servant's voice was soft at first, almost pleading. When no response came, she sighed and tried again, a little louder this time. "Frederick. You'll be late again if you keep this up."
The boy stirred beneath the heavy quilt, mumbling something unintelligible before turning to face the other side of the bed.
"Five more minutes…"
"You said that yesterday," The girl muttered under her breath. She tugged the curtains open, letting pale morning light spill into the room. The cold of early spring slipped through the window's edge, brushing against Frederick's cheek.
"There," she said, hands on her hips. "The sun's up. So should you."
Frederick groaned and finally opened his eyes—dull, grey, still hazy with sleep. "You're cruel, Ayla," he said in a hoarse voice.
"Cruel would be letting you sleep through the morning and getting scolded by the housekeeper," she huffed. "Be grateful that I spared you from The Marchioness's ears."
He winced at her words and sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The faint light caught in his hair, pale as frost and much like his mother's. For a moment, Ayla's expression softened.
"Ten years old," she said quietly. "You've grown fast, young master."
Frederick blinked, still half-asleep. "You sound like an old woman," he mumbled. "You're only three years older than me."
Ayla laughed under her breath and shook her head. "Old enough to know time won't wait for anyone, not even you, my lord."
She went to the wardrobe and retrieved his uniform, a crisp tunic of black and silver adorned with the Caelvyrn crest. Behind her, Frederick sat on the bed's edge, his gaze wandering toward the window.
Outside, the manor grounds lay quiet beneath a veil of mist. The bells that had once rung on the night of his birth now hung silent, as if waiting for something to stir again.
Ayla laid the folded uniform on the bed and began to lace his boots.
"Breakfast is already being served," she said. "Your father left earlier for inspection at the training grounds, but Lady Caelvyrn will expect you to attend morning prayer."
Frederick gave a faint nod, though his thoughts were elsewhere. After Ayla left to prepare the table, Frederick slipped out through the side corridor. The cold morning mist met him like breath from a sleeping beast. He pulled his cloak tighter and followed the stone path toward the Caelvyrn Garden, where no one usually went at this hour.
The garden stretched wide behind the manor, wild in some corners and carefully tended in others. Pale roses climbed the fences, their petals heavy with dew that glistened in the faint morning light.
Frederick stopped by the old willow near the pond, his favourite place. The air here felt gentler, as if the world itself breathed more slowly. He rested against the tree, the bark damp with morning dew, and let his gaze wander across the still water where faint ripples caught the light.
Somewhere in the distance, the manor bells tolled, not the iron ones of night but the softer silver chimes for morning prayers.
He didn't move. Not yet.
For a while, he simply watched the mist begin to lift from the garden, the pale light catching on droplets that clung to the grass. A hush lingered over the pond, broken only by the slow ripple of water against the stones.
Frederick exhaled softly and murmured, "Mother won't mind if I'm a little late."
The wind stirred the willow's hanging leaves, brushing his cheek in gentle reply.
He was just beginning to close his eyes when a sharp voice shattered the calm.
"There you are!"
Frederick groaned. He didn't bother to look, knowing there was only one person in the manor who could sound that irritated this early.
"What in the blazes are you doing here, lounging like a stray cat?"
Rowan strode down the path, boots crunching against the gravel, his faint red hair slightly dishevelled as if he'd run all the way from the main hall. The silver clasp on his guard uniform gleamed in the mist.
"The Marchioness is waiting for you," he said, crossing his arms. "And His Lordship wants you at the training grounds after prayer. You're keeping everyone waiting, my lord."
Frederick tilted his head, still leaning against the willow trunk. "You sound just like the steward. How old are you again, Rowan? Fifty?"
"I'm seventeen, and I'll live to see eighteen if you stop making me chase you all over the estate."
"Good for you," Frederick said with a yawn. "Now, why don't you be useful and fetch me the book from the library, The Song of the Spheres, or whatever it was called."
Rowan blinked, incredulous. "You're joking."
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
"You look like you're trying to die by your father's hand!" Rowan snapped, grabbing him by the arm. "Up. Now."
Frederick sighed, letting himself be pulled up from the grass. "You're becoming quite bold for a servant, you know that?"
"Someone has to keep you alive long enough to inherit something," Rowan muttered, dragging him toward the courtyard.
As they walked, Frederick cast one last glance at the willow, where the wind still stirred softly through the leaves.
For a fleeting moment, he thought it sounded almost… amused.