The plains east of the river stretched wide and green beneath the dawn mist. Farmers said the dew lingered longer here, held by the richness of the soil. Yet all who looked up from their plows saw the same thing: a castle that glimmered white against the gray horizon, its tall towers crowned with banners of silver and blue.
Château de Montclair.
It was a keep built to proclaim wealth. Its walls were tall, gleaming stone polished by centuries of coin and labor. Its towers thrust upward like spears, tipped with gilded finials that caught the first light. Unlike the squat fortress of de Foncé—where walls were made to endure storms—Montclair's halls were vast and airy, its chambers adorned with glass and gold, its courtyards wide enough for parades.
Inside, servants hurried with polished trays and crisp linens. Guards in bright mail drilled with spears, their formation flawless. Even the floors gleamed, marble veined with gray, polished until the candelabras above cast reflections upon them. Where de Foncé's halls smelled of old stone and smoke, Montclair smelled of incense and beeswax.
At the heart of this splendor, in a long chamber paneled with oak and lined with stag-hunt tapestries, Lord Gérard de Montclair sat at the head of his family table.
He was a man carved for command—broad of frame, hair graying but thick, beard full and streaked with silver. His hands, heavy with rings, gripped the table's carved edge as he listened to the voices of his children.
Louis, the eldest, leaned back in his chair with insolent ease, his boot hooked against the table leg. Dark-haired, handsome, broad-shouldered, he smirked as though nothing in the world could trouble him.
Antoine, the younger son, was narrower of build, his sharp nose and restless eyes giving him a hawkish look. He tapped his fingers against a silver goblet, calculating, always calculating.
At the far end of the table sat Isabelle, their sister. Dark-haired like her brothers, she was slender, poised, and still. Unlike them, she wasted no words. Her eyes, cool and observant, rested on her father.
The chamber was warm, the fire crackling, but the conversation carried a chill.
Louis laughed suddenly, breaking the silence. "So, the gossip spreads like plague—our neighbors, the de Foncé, have spawned a glowing brat. The priests fall over themselves for a red-haired boy, and now every peasant speaks his name as though he were a saint."
Antoine's lip curled. "You jest, brother, but the rumors are not idle. Father Armand himself blessed the child. I have heard it twice now from men I trust. They say he glows with the Light when he breathes. Glows."
Louis rolled his eyes. "Nonsense. He is a baron's whelp from a crumbling keep. What has he but a red head and a loud nursemaid?"
Antoine slammed his goblet down, wine sloshing. "You are blind if you do not see it! The priests flock to him. Each visit raises his family's name higher. Today they call Henri baron. Tomorrow viscount. And if the boy grows stronger—count, perhaps even duke. And then, my brother, you will bow to the man you once mocked as backwater."
The fire hissed as a log cracked. The words hung heavy in the chamber.
Lord Gérard's jaw tightened. His eyes, dark beneath thick brows, flicked between his sons. He had given no command to raise his voice, yet his silence itself pressed upon them.
"You both speak truth," he said at last, his voice low, a growl beneath the crackle of the hearth. "The boy is no ordinary child. The priests do not waste their saddle leather on fancies. And should de Foncé rise, it will not stop until their shadow stretches over us all."
Louis leaned forward, smirk fading. "Then we act first. Their keep is small, their levy smaller. We crush them before their seedling grows tall. One swift campaign, and the Church can praise a corpse all it likes."
"Fool," Gérard snapped, and Louis flinched at the sudden edge in his father's tone. "Raise your sword against a child blessed by the Church, and you raise it against the Church itself. You may win a keep, but you will lose your head to the pyres of heresy."
Louis scowled, muttering, but fell silent.
Antoine, lips curling in thought, spoke next. "Then we need not draw swords. A whisper is sharper. Spread doubt. Say his light is no blessing but corruption, a trick of shadow. If enough tongues wag, the priests may think twice before they crown him their darling."
Gérard's eyes narrowed. "And if the priests themselves deny the slander? Then we are fools in the eyes of the Church and cowards in the eyes of the realm. No. Lies will not save us. Not when faith blinds the people more than any truth."
A heavy quiet followed. The fire popped. The stag banners along the wall rippled faintly in the draft.
And then Isabelle stirred.
She had sat silent, her gaze fixed on the flames, lips faintly curved as if she tasted a thought. Now she rose, her gown whispering as it brushed the floor.
"You quarrel over swords and whispers," she said softly. "Neither will avail you. The Church holds the boy in its hand. You cannot fight it with steel, nor tarnish it with rumor."
Louis frowned, irritation plain. "Then what, sister? Shall we sit and watch a backwater baron rise above us?"
Her smile was slight, cold as glass. "No. We do not watch. We act. If the boy's light threatens to blind us, then shadow must fall upon him."
Both brothers stared. Antoine's fingers stilled upon the goblet.
Gérard's eyes narrowed. His voice was slow, wary. "Speak plainly, daughter. What shadow do you mean?"
Isabelle's gaze met his without wavering. "A curse."
The chamber stilled.
Louis barked a laugh, though unease flickered beneath it. "Madness. You'd have us consort with witches? You want our house dragged into the abyss?"
Isabelle's expression did not change. "You call it madness. I call it necessity."
Gérard did not move, but in his silence the air grew colder. Isabelle waited, patient, as the firelight glinted in her eyes.