---
"A hawk does not hunt for hunger alone."
Dawn came soft over the hills, gilding the vineyards of Erydonel in pale gold. Mist clung to the lower slopes, seeping between the terraced vines and the orchards heavy with fruit. From the highest window of the keep, Jorren Elric watched the fog drift like breath across the valley.
Seven years had passed since the verdict at Harlowe Heath, and the world had changed—but only in the way rot changes wood, slow and unseen until the grain splits under touch.
He had grown tall for his age, all lean muscle and quiet poise. The silver streak that once marred his childhood curls now cut clean through the dark hair at his temple, catching the morning light. The golden eye—once a curiosity among servants and maesters—remained the same: unblinking, assessing, too calm for a boy of eleven turning twelve.
He set aside the spyglass and drew the shutters closed. The world beyond could wait. The world within was his first game of the day.
---
The solar smelled of parchment, wax, and candle smoke. Maps lay scattered across the central table—rivers, keeps, and trade routes drawn and redrawn over years of shifting claims. Jorren ate his morning bread as the maester droned beside him, voice thin with age.
"…Lord Varron Ruskyn proposes another gathering at Harlowe Heath, my lord," said Maester Brevan. "He writes of tariffs and banditry upon the eastern roads."
His father, Lord Meryn Elric, looked older now. Grey threaded his black beard, and his hands trembled slightly when he turned a page. "Varron writes of peace when he means profit," Meryn said dryly. "The fox fattens on words."
Lady Alenna stood by the hearth arranging lilies, her voice even. "And the River King? Does he still watch and wait?"
"The old one watches," Meryn said, "but his son does not. The boy rides the borderlands himself—polite, charming, measuring every man he meets."
At that, Jorren's quill paused above the map. An heir who measures men. The thought drew a thin smile.
Lorasen, sixteen and broad-shouldered, leaned against the window polishing a practice sword. "Let the river lords measure themselves to death," he said. "We'll be ready when they tire of counting."
Lia, fourteen, did not look up from her embroidery. "You mistake patience for weakness. Those who wait often strike last—and hardest."
Lorasen grinned. "And you mistake caution for cleverness."
Their mother's voice cut through the tension, soft as it was firm. "Enough. The realm has enough fools; it does not need more of my blood joining them."
Jorren said nothing. He watched the play of words as he might study a board of stones—moves, counters, patterns. His siblings played their parts loudly, each certain of their own wit. But it was their father's silence that held the room, and that silence taught him more than any tutor could.
---
After breakfast, Jorren slipped away to the yard. The clang of practice arms and the grunts of squires filled the air. He took up a mace from the rack, feeling its weight settle naturally into his hand. The sword was for ceremony; the mace was for certainty.
He trained until the blisters reopened on his palms. The pain steadied him. His strokes were measured, precise, not driven by fury but intent. When a guard passed and muttered, "The boy's got the makings of a commander," Jorren kept his face blank. Compliments were debts, and he preferred to owe no man.
Later, he walked among the walls. Beyond the keep, a small town was beginning to bloom—smiths and vintners, weavers and traders, drawn by Elric coin and fertile soil. Jorren knew the names of the men who owned the mills, and which ones owed more to his father's ledgers than they liked to admit. He knew which guards took bribes at the southern gate, and which merchants smuggled river goods through the vineyards at dusk.
He had never once reported them. Some truths were better held than spent.
When he visited the villages, the folk smiled to see him. He spoke softly, asked after their families, listened more than he talked. He left small coins in the chapel bowl, gifts of grain at the door of the old midwife. They called him the quiet lordling, and some said he had his mother's heart.
They were wrong. He simply knew that loyalty bought openly cost less than loyalty forced.
---
That night, when the keep had quieted and the torches guttered low, Jorren sat alone in his chamber. The candlelight trembled as he wrote, his quill moving with deliberate patience.
Seven years of peace had bred restlessness. Lord Varron Ruskyn—the Fox of Harlowe—had gathered allies through marriage and trade, binding half the valley to him with gold instead of oaths. The old River King, weary and unbending, refused to march or speak of war. His son, though unseen, was said to travel among lesser keeps—soft-spoken, observant, learning what his father ignored. The world whispered of change, though no banner yet flew.
His father's patience was thinning. The lords of the valley were shifting like fish in a drying pool, each seeking deeper water before the river turned to dust. And amidst it all, Erydonel stood proud but solitary—a hawk circling above men who mistook the sky for safety.
Jorren smiled faintly and began a letter.
> To Ser Brennar Ruskyn, Heir of Harlowe Heath.
I trust this letter finds you in good health. My lord father speaks well of your house's vigilance upon the trade routes. I am told your hawks take well to falconry, as mine have—perhaps we might exchange some notes upon their training. The vineyards here grow restless with the season; perhaps yours do too.
Polite. Harmless. The words of one young lord to another. But layered beneath the courtesy were questions—how sharp was the Fox's heir? How deep ran his father's roots? What sort of man replied to so careful a letter?
He sealed it in crimson wax, pressing the sigil of House Elric—the red hawk spilling green wine upon a field of yellow—then gave it to his page.
"See that this reaches Ser Brennar's own hand," he said. "No others."
When the boy was gone, Jorren turned back to the window. The vineyards shimmered silver in the moonlight. Beyond them, the river gleamed like a blade half-drawn.
He rested one hand on the cold stone sill and whispered to the night, "The board's been set again. Let's see who moves first."
This is a shorter chapter because ive been writing non stop I'll be taking break