[Chapter size: 1650 words]
White Harbor, The North. Year 286 AC
The pre-dawn cold was a wild animal, biting through the wool.
Corbyn, bundled in a thick coat that his mother, Maris, had insisted on knitting, found himself in the outer yard, ready to ride. The difference between him and the rest of the expedition was ridiculous.
Lord Wyman Manderly, immense and thundering, rode a warhorse as wide as a cart. Ser Karyl, the master-at-arms, and a dozen Manderly guardsmen wore mail and carried spears. They were strength, weight, and tradition.
Corbyn, only five years old, was perched on a small pony. His leather boots barely reached the stirrups, and beneath his coat, he felt the reassuring weight of his two wooden daggers and his yew bow. He looked less like a hunter and more like a lost delivery boy.
Eight-year-old Wylis was triumphant, mounted on his own sturdy pony, already dressed in light leather armor.
"Don't you dare fall off, Corbyn," Wylis muttered, just before they set off. "It's embarrassing enough that Mero made you dance, I don't want a hunting dog to rescue you."
Corbyn simply nodded, his face impassive. 'Wylis only understands social shame. He doesn't understand that weight is the enemy of speed, or that his arrogance will make him miss what truly matters.'
The group rode west, leaving the fortified gates of White Harbor. The murmur of the city was soon replaced by the muffled silence of the Wolfswood.
The interior of the forest was a labyrinth of snowy pines and ancient oaks. The snow was thick in the shadows, and the cold grew dense, penetrating the bones.
As they rode deeper, the "pull" that Corbyn had felt since his fever intensified. It was not a sound or a vision; it was a pressure in the back of his mind, a biological necessity, like hunger or thirst, guiding him northwards.
Lord Wyman led the group towards an area that, according to his hunters, was known for boars and stags. Wylis rode noisily, snapping branches and clanging his gear.
Corbyn, on his small pony, soon fell behind. Ser Karyl, riding nearby, turned to scold him.
"Lord Corbyn! Keep pace! Boars don't wait for the slow ones."
"My... my pony is slow, Ser," Corbyn croaked, using his small stature to his advantage. Manipulating his childish voice was a key tool. "And... and I think I saw a different track. Fresher."
Ser Karyl scoffed. "Tracks? A harbor pup like you doesn't know what a track is. Come on!"
"The pony slipped, Ser. I need to slow down," Corbyn lied, abruptly stopping the pony.
Lord Wyman, who had overheard the exchange, turned, his face already red from the cold.
"Leave him, Karyl!" Wyman roared. "Let him go slow. It's his first hunt, not a race. Corbyn, follow the men's tracks. If you get lost, wait in a clearing."
'Perfect. I've been given license to wander off,' Corbyn thought, feeling an icy relief.
Corbyn waited for a minute, until the sounds of the main party had sufficiently faded. Then, he gently spurred his pony, not to go faster, but to take a side path, towards the place where the mental pull was strongest. It was a barely visible trail, covered in fresh snow, leading him toward a small, frozen stream.
He rode for what seemed like an eternity. The pony snorted with the effort. Fear, the thrill of the hunter, and necessity filled him in equal measure.
As he crossed the stream, the landscape changed. The forest opened into a small clearing. And the sight hit him with the force of a punch to the stomach.
'Oh, no. This isn't a happy encounter,' was Alex's first thought.
In the center of the clearing, the snow was stained with dark blood. The body of an immense female giant elk lay inert. It had not been hunted gracefully: it had deep wounds made by crude knives and spears. It was a magnificent beast, of a pure white color.
Around the carcass, three men, filthy and dressed in ragged furs that smelled of cheap liquor, struggled with something. They were not Manderly hunters. They were poachers from the coast, bandits operating on the outskirts of the Northern domains.
And what they were struggling with was a baby elk.
The calf, covered in white down like virgin snow, let out a mournful cry that echoed in the silence of the forest. It was small, easily lifted with one's hands due to its size, moving frantically, clumsily, and desperately.
Corbyn felt the air rush out of his lungs.
'I can't fight. If I get close, they'll catch me. I need them to run away. I need panic,' Corbyn thought, his student mind taking over.
One poacher raised a short axe, preparing to stun the calf.
Corbyn reacted instantly. He didn't jump into the fight. Instead, he got off his pony and, using the desperate strength of his real panic and the vocal resonance learned with Mero, let out a cry that was not a child's.
"By the Manderly Guard! They are here! Surrounded!" The cry was sharp, high-pitched, and, crucially, projected to sound like an adult man's command, not a childish lament.
The three poachers froze. The sound bounced off the pines, distorted by the forest's acoustics, seemingly coming from multiple directions.
"It's a sound trick!" snapped one of the men, the thinnest and most nervous, named Tormo. "I saw a flash of red over here!"
"Stop the nonsense, Tormo," said the ringleader, a man with a nasty scar on his chin. "If the Manderlys had arrived, we'd have arrows in our butts already. It must be a lost child. Get out of there, you little beggar! Or we'll tie you to the sled!"
Corbyn, on the verge of collapse, understood he had to show himself. If he stayed in the brush, they would find him and silence him permanently. He stumbled out of his hiding place, his clothes covered in snow.
The ringleader looked at him. He saw a pale, tiny five-year-old boy, trembling with cold and exhaustion. He let out a dirty laugh that broke the silence.
"Look at him! A little lord in diapers! It's little Lord Manderly playing at being a man!" he mocked, bending down and grabbing Corbyn by the arm. "Where's your guard, little guard? Did your pony surround us?"
Tormo and the third man joined the laughter, relaxed by the relief. Corbyn felt the sting of humiliation, but his mind stayed cold. 'I need to hold out for ten seconds. Just ten.'
In that instant, the ground beneath their feet began to vibrate. The sound was not a distorted cry, but the rhythmic pounding of heavy horseshoes and the jingle of chainmail. The sound was coming from the exact direction Corbyn had shouted from.
"By the Seven! It's Lord Wyman!" hissed the third poacher, panic freezing the mockery on his face.
The ringleader dropped Corbyn as if he were burned. The three of them scrambled to flee, abandoning their axe and running at full speed through the dense thicket of the forest, knowing that capture meant the gallows without mercy.
The baby elk stopped, exhausted and trembling, hunching over its mother's body. The tension broke.
And a few yards away, the small body of Corbyn Manderly, with a nasty bruise on his arm where he had been grabbed, fell onto the snow.
Lord Wyman Manderly, Wylis, and Ser Karyl arrived seconds later, their horses kicking up drifts of snow.
What they found left them speechless: a dead white giant elk, a trembling baby elk covered in blood, and, next to the calf, Corbyn's small body.
Wyman dismounted with a roar of panic.
"Corbyn!"
"He's fine, my lord. He's breathing," Ser Karyl said, quickly checking the child.
Corbyn slowly opened his eyes. He saw his father's giant face leaning over him. The baby elk whimpered and approached, touching Corbyn's cheek with its soft muzzle, a caress of thanks and an incipient bond.
Corbyn, feeling the cold, knew this was the moment.
"Father..." Corbyn whispered, his voice hoarse from the effort. "They... they were going to kill him. They screamed and ran when you came... when you came."
Corbyn forced his small body up and stumbled to the elk. He put his hand on the white fur.
"Father. The animal is a gift. The white is the North. It is a sign."
Corbyn looked at his father. His Alex mind knew Lord Wyman was a practical man, but also a man desperately seeking the prestige of the North. A white giant elk, an animal of legend, was the perfect symbol.
"The beast has chosen. It belongs to House Manderly," Corbyn said, sealing the claim.
Wyman looked at the majestic calf that did not flee, but snuggled against his son. He looked at the body of the dead mother, with no trace of Manderly arrows. His face transformed from confusion to fierce pride.
"By the Seven and the Old Gods! An animal of legend! This is a blessing! Corbyn Manderly, you have found the greatest omen in the North!"
Wylis, looking at the small elk, could only whisper: "He's tiny..."
Ser Karyl, who was already checking the calf, spoke in a practical voice: "My Lord, he is a newborn. Given his lightness and small size, we will wrap him in a blanket and I will carry him in my arms back to the stables myself. Lord Wylis, you and two men must return to the city immediately and ask them to prepare hot goat's milk and a straw shelter for the calf."
Wyman, ecstatic, nodded. "Yes! Do it! Wylis, move! Make sure your brother's omen has the best stable!"
Wylis, despite his disdain, obeyed, a mix of fear of disobeying his father and the shock of the scene.
Corbyn stroked the soft fur of the baby elk.
The real preparation had begun.