The ravens circled above Blackmere Keep like shadows torn from the sky.
They always came before storms.
Or death.
Aren Valewood stood in the outer yard, barefoot in the frostbitten mud, gripping a rusted practice sword. His hands were numb. His knuckles bled. His breath rose in thin clouds.
"Again," barked Master Corvin.
Aren swung.
The blade slipped.
He fell.
Laughter followed.
Not loud. Not cruel.
Worse.
Quiet.
Dismissive.
The sons of knights stood along the fence, wrapped in wool and leather, watching him like one might watch a dog try to speak.
Aren was not one of them.
He never would be.
He was the backward baron's mistake.
The forgotten son.
The boy born of a servant girl and a drunk lord who barely remembered his name.
Baron Eldric Valewood ruled Blackmere, a minor fortress on the far edge of the Kingdom of Valenreach. It guarded nothing. It protected no trade routes. It commanded no armies.
It was a dead stone island in a sea of forests and snow.
And Aren was its shame.
"Stand," Corvin said flatly.
Aren rose, mud dripping from his knees.
"Again."
He attacked.
This time, he did not slip.
He did not hesitate.
He struck.
The wooden blade cracked against Corvin's shield.
The old soldier's eyes flickered.
Just once.
Surprise.
Then it vanished.
Corvin shoved him aside.
"Better," he muttered. "Still useless."
The boys laughed again.
Aren said nothing.
He never did.
Silence was his armor.
That night, Blackmere burned.
It began with screams.
Aren woke to the smell of smoke and iron.
Blood.
He ran barefoot through corridors lit by fire.
Guards lay butchered.
Doors were shattered.
The banners of Valewood were torn down.
Replaced.
A black wolf on red cloth.
The sigil of House Draven.
Enemies of Valenreach.
Traitors.
Rebels.
Killers.
He saw his father once.
Baron Eldric lay against the throne dais.
A spear through his chest.
Eyes empty.
Mouth open.
As if still trying to command.
Aren froze.
Something inside him broke.
A scream rose in his throat.
He swallowed it.
Silence was his armor.
He turned and ran.
By dawn, Blackmere was ruins.
By dusk, Aren was gone.
Hunted.
Nameless.
Homeless.
But alive.
And somewhere deep in his chest, beneath fear and grief and rage, something else burned.
Not hope.
Not yet.
Ambition.