Alaric awoke to the faint glow of morning light slipping through the frost-laced windows of his chamber.
The bed beneath him was softer than anything he'd ever slept on. His body ached less, though his muscles still groaned with each breath. The linens smelled faintly of pine and lavender, and a thick wool blanket rested over him. For a moment, he simply stared at the carved ceiling beams, unsure of where he was—or what day it was.
A soft knock came at the door.
A maid, perhaps in her early twenties, entered with a gentle smile. Her uniform was trimmed with silver and blue, the colors of the duchy.
"Good morning, young sir," she said kindly. "The duchess and her family are about to take breakfast. They'd like to speak with you… about what happened."
Alaric blinked slowly, then nodded. "Okay."
She gestured toward a polished basin, fresh towels, and a steaming kettle of water. "Would you like to freshen up first?"
He nodded again, more slowly.
The water was warm, and for a brief time, silence filled the room—just the sound of Alaric washing away the ash and blood that still clung to him. He stared into the rippling surface of the basin and saw a stranger: bruised skin, thin frame, hollow eyes.
But beneath the grime and scabs, a boy remained.
Once clean, he donned a soft wool shirt and vest provided by the maid. She gave a slight nod of approval.
"This way, please."
A Royal Resemblance
The dining hall was vast, with tall arched windows that let in the soft northern light. A long table of polished oak stretched across the room, already set with fresh bread, smoked meats, cheeses, fruit preserves, and warmed cider.
At the far end sat the duchess and her family.
As Alaric stepped in, guided by the maid, the younger of the duchess's twins gasped.
"Whoa," the girl said, leaning toward her brother. "He looks like a royal! His hair—it's shiny white like theirs!"
The maid, a little flustered, bowed. "Your Grace… this is Alaric. He's the boy rescued from Hearthvale. I—I don't know his full name."
The duchess's eyes narrowed slightly in recognition, but she said nothing for now.
Alaric stood awkwardly, unsure whether to bow or speak.
Though he looked ragged from days of pain and fear, there was no denying it. Alaric was a striking boy. His hair, white as winter frost, shimmered faintly in the morning light—soft and fine, inherited from bloodlines long forgotten. His eyes, in contrast, were a deep and quiet black, kind and haunted all at once. Though white hair was not unheard of in the kingdom, it was rare—and among the royal bloodline, it was absolute. Every direct descendant of the First King bore the same gleaming white hair. Some commoners bore white hair by chance, but it was never paired with eyes like Alaric's—dark and deep, yet strangely warm.
"Come, Alaric," the duchess said, gesturing. "Sit. You must be starving."
Alaric hesitated but moved forward and took a seat at the long table's edge. The warmth of the room, the smell of food, the distant sound of birds outside—it all felt… unreal.
He looked at the plate in front of him. Fresh bread. Steamed potatoes with herbs. A slice of roasted meat. A bowl of thick stew that still steamed gently.
He glanced around once more, then picked up the spoon.
At first, he ate cautiously—one bite, then another. But his hunger soon overpowered his restraint. He began to eat faster.
"This is… really good," he muttered between bites.
Marek chuckled quietly from across the table.
"Easy, lad," he said kindly. "There's more if you want it. Take your time."
Alaric paused, looked at him, and then gave a small, grateful nod.
The twins leaned in again, brimming with curiosity.
"I'm Lira," the girl said brightly. "I'm nine, and I'm already Rank 2 in water and earth magic!"
"I'm Malric," the boy added proudly. "Knight Rank 2 and Water Mage Rank 1. I can already spar with the trainees."
Lira grinned. "Once you're better, we'll show you around the city. There's a snowcake shop by the fountain. They have cinnamon syrup!"
Alaric smiled faintly. "I'd like that."
He finished his bowl of stew and was already eyeing the fruit preserves when the duchess spoke again.
"How are you feeling now?" she asked gently.
"I'm… better. Thank you. My name is Alaric Durnhart," he added. "My father was Captain Dain, stationed at Hearthvale."
Lireya's posture shifted slightly, as if confirming something in her mind.
"You're safe here, Alaric," she said. "You have my word. Can you… tell us what happened?"
He set his spoon down.
"There was… a man. And others with him. They came during the night and destroyed everything."
His voice trembled. "My papa fought them. I saw him… fall. Mama hid me and the other kids in the cellar. We escaped. We waited in the forest for days, hoping someone would come."
His eyes welled up.
"They found us again. Took the others. Took my sister. Mira… she's only two. I couldn't stop them. I tried, but they…"
Tears rolled down his cheeks.
Lireya's voice was soft but clear. "Do you know why your village was attacked?"
Alaric hesitated. His fingers tightened around the edge of his seat. His gaze shifted—first to the duchess, then to Marek, then to the twins who were quietly listening.
He opened his mouth—but stopped.
Lireya noticed. Her expression softened.
"It's alright. You've said enough for now. Please—eat more. We'll speak again later."
He nodded slowly, picking up a slice of bread.
The Duchess's Study
Later that day, Alaric was brought to the duchess's private study. It was a spacious room, lined with ancient books, regional maps, and a wide desk of carved pinewood. A fire crackled softly in the hearth.
Lireya stood by the window, her arms crossed, eyes distant.
When Alaric entered, she gestured toward a chair by the fire.
He sat without speaking.
She joined him after a moment. "You hesitated earlier," she said gently. "Do you know why Hearthvale was attacked?"
Alaric lowered his head. He did.
But the words stuck in his throat.
Then he remembered something. A night by the fireplace. His father speaking quietly, as if entrusting him with something important:
"The duchess isn't like the others. She fights with us. She cares. If you're ever in danger, Alaric, go to her. She's one of the good ones."
Alaric looked up.
"It's because of… the Equinox Flame."
Lireya's breath caught.
"…What did you say?"
"My mama… she said it wasn't hers anymore. That it passed to me. That's why they came."
Lireya rose slowly, her eyes wide.
The fire behind them flickered, throwing shadows across the stone.
And in that moment, the duchess of the North realized that the war she thought was buried three hundred years ago… had just begun again.