Ten Winters Passed.
Dawn crept over Castle Garthford with solemn grace, its pale gold light brushing the ancient battlements as though hesitant to disturb their centuries of silence. A thin veil of frost clung to every stone, shimmering faintly beneath the newborn sun. The wind carried a chill that bit gently at the skin, clean, sharp, and unmistakably northern—whispering through arrow slits, rattling banners embroidered with the great Stag of House Garthford, and stirring the faint scent of cold iron and pine.
The world woke slowly.
A bell tolled from the sept.
Hooves clattered in the distant stables.
Somewhere below, a scullion called for more firewood.
Only after the castle itself had drawn its first breath of morning did its people begin to move—maids sweeping dust from the walkways, grooms tending to horses, guards marching the walls in measured steps that echoed with martial rhythm.
Above them all, perched upon the highest spire like a wraith between heaven and earth, sat Prince Nevan of House Garthford, youngest prince of the realm.
His small legs dangled over the parapet, boots dusted. One pale hand rested upon the cold stone, while the other lifted toward a drifting cloud—slow, stubborn, unbothered by the world below. For a long moment he simply watched it wander, as though sharing in its quiet defiance. Only when the wind tugged at his snow-white hair did he lower his gaze to the life unfolding in the training yard far beneath him.
There, the world was noise and heat and steel.
Here, Nevan was stillness.
His skin—pale as winter moonlight seemed untouched by sun or flame. His shoulder-length hair, white as freshly fallen snow, stirred softly in the breeze. And his eyes… ice-blue, glacial, unnervingly calm… watched the world with the depth of someone far older than ten winters.
Servants who glimpsed him whispered "the ghost prince" as they passed.
Squires crossing the yard swore the air turned colder when his gaze fell upon them.
No one ever saw him arrive.
Few ever heard him leave.
Below, the training yard stirred with purpose.
The sharp clack of wooden blades striking echoed off the stone walls. The tang of iron drifted from the forge, mingling with the scent of damp earth, crushed grass, smoke, and the faint yeast of morning bread rising in the kitchens. Squires in green-and-gold livery hurried between racks of shields and spears, preparing for the princes' drills.
At the yard's center stood the heirs of Garthford—each bearing the polish of nobility, each carved from a different strength.
Crown prince William, fifteen, stood foremost—tall, broad of shoulder, and already carrying the unmistakable bearing of a future king. His golden hair shone like hammered sunlight, bound loosely at the back, and his keen green eyes—his mother's gift—missed nothing. Every strike he made carried weight, purpose, and the disciplined force of one who had been trained since he could walk. Even the squires treated him with a respect grown from both fear and admiration.
Prince Eric, a year younger, was the court's golden storm. With chestnut-brown curls brushing his cheekbones and honey-coloured eyes flecked with gold, he moved with a wild, dancer-like grace. He struck fast, footwork light, smile mischievous. Where William embodied strength, Eric was fluidity—swift, elegant, unpredictable.
Prince Martin, eleven, stood between them in nature though not in skill. He bore their father's likeness: light-gold hair curling gently at the ends, deep blue eyes filled with earnest determination, and a quiet sturdiness uncommon for his age. Though his stance lacked William's precision and Eric's artistry, he trained with unwavering resolve, jaw clenched, breath steady.
Around them, the yard pulsed with activity.
Squires fetched shields.
Maids offered water and towels, skirts brushing the cobbles.
The forge crackled, sparks leaping like fireflies.
Yet the world below seemed distant to Nevan—small, dim, almost quaint.
Swordplay… he thought, watching his brothers circle one another.
An art for men who cannot master their own minds.
Eric ducked beneath William's strike and tapped his shoulder lightly.
"Yield, Your Grace?" he taunted, emphasizing William's title with a grin.
William's emerald eyes narrowed. "Stand still and face me, Eric, or do you fear a fair contest?"
Eric laughed, spinning away from another heavy swing. "Your swings are as subtle as a warhammer, brother."
Martin watched, breath held, knuckles white around his practice blade.
I will be strong as William, he thought.
And quick as Eric—and perhaps brave as both.
A single whistle from Ser Roderick cut through the morning.
"That shall suffice! Lay down your arms."
William straightened first, chest rising with disciplined breaths. Eric ran a hand through his sweat-damp curls, still smiling. Martin sheathed his small wooden blade as though it were forged of steel.
A maid approached in a graceful curtsey.
"My princes… Her Majesty, Queen Charlotte, bids you join her in the private south garden for breakfast."
The boys exchanged glances, it was a rare occasion to dine with the queen for breakfast.
Nevan, however, remained still atop the spire for one lingering heartbeat.
His gaze rose once more to that drifting cloud—patient, unbothered, free.
Only then did he rise, descending the narrow stone stairwell like a shadow slipping down the tower's spine. The walls whispered with every step: faded banners of old wars, sconces burning with bright orange flame, rushes scenting the floors with dried lavender.
The castle revealed itself to him as it always did—quiet, vast, watching.
He passed marble columns carved with stags and forest vines.
He passed servants who bowed quickly, eyes lowered.
He passed stained-glass windows that washed him in pale light.
And finally, he stepped into the Queen's private gardens, where the world softened.
Warm sunlight filtered through climbing roses.
Fountains murmured.
The air smelled of crushed petals, clean water, and warm earth.
At the garden's heart sat Queen Charlotte, radiant as a figure lifted from legend. Her dark green gown—layered, heavy, and embroidered with golden thread—caught the sun in every fold, making her pale green eyes gleam. Golden rings adorned her fingers, a necklace rested against her collarbone, and delicate hairpins, each tipped with a droplet of emerald, glimmered through her wavy light-brown hair.
Nevan approached alone.
He bowed with perfect grace, then leaned forward—the only one of her sons bold enough, gentle enough, beloved enough—to place a soft kiss upon her cheek.
"Mother," he murmured.
Charlotte's lips curved warmly. "My sweet Nevan. Sit beside me."
He obeyed, settling at her right hand—the place of affection, not rank.
William arrived next, bowing with the dignity of a future king. Eric and Martin followed as they raced to take a seat.
The servants unveiled a feast worthy of the royal table: roasted duck glazed with blackberry, steaming brown bread, goat cheese soft enough to melt at touch, figs sugared and glistening, and pears simmered in spiced wine. The scents mingled with the roses, warm and indulgent.
They ate beneath rose-laden trellises while sunlight warmed the stone benches and a faint breeze carried the scent of herbs from the garden beds. Silverware clinked softly against porcelain; servants moved like shadows behind them, refilling cups with chipped apple wine and placing fresh platters upon the table.
"So, Nevan," Queen Charlotte began, delicately lifting a slice of duck to her lips, "how did you spend your morning? I do hope you were not cooped indoors with your books again."
Nevan set down his cup with quiet grace. "I was watching the clouds, Mother. It is far too beautiful a day to waste inside."
Eric snorted, nearly choking on his bread. "I wager he was watching us from the tower again—like some pale ghost haunting the stones."
Nevan didn't so much as blink. "Perhaps," he said softly, "though I must confess it was a pleasure to watch you best William today."
A subtle grin bloomed instantly. Try as he might Eric always enjoyed compliments and could do little to hide it.
William stiffened upon Nevan comment.
Nevan hid the faint curl of satisfaction behind a sip of wine. People were so easy to guide when you gave them the words they already hoped to hear.
"That reminds me," Queen Charlotte murmured, brushing Nevan's shoulder with the tenderness of someone afraid the slightest pressure might bruise him. "Ser Roderick sends word that your martial training begins next week. You will join your brothers. I pressed your father to reconsider, but he insists every prince must learn the sword. "
A flicker—thin as a blade glinting under winter sun—crossed Nevan's eyes.
The sword… coarse, loud, filthy. A brutish thing. Strength for those who had no wit.
A blade forced men to fight.
A mind forced them to kneel.
He loathed the idea of smearing himself with sweat and dirt, of letting instructors bark at him like he were some stablehand's boy. He loathed even more the thought of performing under his brothers' mocking stares.
Still, he bowed his head, voice dusted in gentleness.
"As you command, Mother. I shall endeavour to bring honour to House Garthford with blade in hand."
Only the tightening of his pale knuckles betrayed his true feeling.
Charlotte's worry deepened. "Just do not overexert yourself. If it becomes too hard, you are to tell me at once."
William released a quiet, derisive breath—barely more than a scoff, yet sharp enough to cut the calm between them. "Mother, you speak as though he were infirm. He is a prince of Garthford, same blood as the rest of us. Why, then, must he be handled as if he were fashioned of glass?"
Queen Charlotte's fork stilled mid-air. Her gaze lifted, cool yet wounded, the way only a queen slighted by her own son could look. "Mind your tongue, William. Nevan is but a child still—and you would do well to remember that I favour none of my sons."
Across the table, the second prince's handsome face twisted, as though he had bitten into an unripe lime. The expression was brief but telling. Everyone present—maids, guards, even the handmaidens pretending not to listen—knew well enough where the queen's gentlest affections lay.
Before tension could settle, the crunch of gravel signaled another visitor.
A handmaiden stepped into the garden and bowed. "Your Grace… the king's bannermen have been sighted near the western borders. It is said His Majesty will arrive by nightfall."
Queen Charlotte inclined her head. "Very well. You may go."
As the maid vanished, a ripple went through the table. All three older princes straightened, excitement flaring like sparks from a forge.
"Father is finally returning from the war," William breathed.
"It has been two months," Martin added, eyes bright. "I hope he brings back gifts."
Nevan, however, had gone utterly still.
War. Blood. Steel. A king charging into chaos as if death were a mistress to be courted.
He despised it.
He despised the recklessness.
A king should command, not bleed beside footsoldiers like some common hero from a tavern tale.
But his father. King Enoch II was all that and more, he was always in the front line of battle and even broke bread with his soldiers.
He shut his eyes briefly. What good is a dead king to anyone?
"So, Nevan—what would you like?" Martin asked suddenly.
Nevan blinked, drawn back into the world of roses and sunlight.
"I beg your pardon?"
William leaned forward. "The Queen Mother asked what you wished Father to bring you."
Nevan hesitated.
Just a heartbeat—small, but unmistakable.
He lowered his gaze, as though genuinely considering it.
He breathed in slowly, letting the silence ripen, tighten, draw the attention of every person at the table.
Then he lifted his eyes.
"I… need ask for nothing."
Another pause—deliberate yet fragile.
"For truly… I am contented simply with Father's safe return home."
The words left his lips softly, almost reverently—and far too perfectly.
A line that sounded innocent.
Selfless.
Pure.
But beneath it… calculation.
A child performing gentleness so well even the gods might be fooled.
The effect was immediate.
Queen Charlotte's eyes brimmed with tears.
Martin stared, mouth parted.
Eric shifted, guilt flickering—just briefly.
William looked away entirely, jaw clenched, as though something in him twisted.
Nevan remained still, bathed in sunlight, expression soft as parted snow.
"Oh, my sweet boy," the queen whispered, voice breaking. "You are too kind for this world."
When the meal ended and the princes rose to scatter to their afternoon freedoms, Nevan walked with unhurried steps from the garden, the picture of quiet grace.
Only once out of their sight did the glacial calm return fully to his eyes—sharp, unreadable, ancient.
The corridors hummed with quiet life as Nevan walked, his mind drifting far from the cool stone beneath his boots. The queen's words still echoed through him—Father will return by nightfall.
He should have felt excitement like his brothers, but instead a strange heaviness settled behind his ribs. A king who rode into war… a king drenched in blood and honor. Nevan admired him, feared for him, and resented the very risks he chose to take. The contradiction knotted in his chest like thorns.
Around him, the castle stirred.
Maidservants swept through the hall with quick, purposeful steps, their aprons dusted with flour or soot, murmuring to one another about preparations for the king's welcome. A few paused to dip a curtsey as he passed. Pages hurried by with scrolls tucked under their arms, and a pair of squires hauled spears toward the training yard. The chilly draft of the old keep carried the scent of beeswax polish, cold iron, and damp stone.
Nevan barely saw any of it. His thoughts were too loud.
He could die out there.
The idea unsettled him more than he would ever confess—not because of grief, but because the realm needed stability. A king belonged on the throne, not on a battlefield. A king commands, he thought, tone sharp even in his own mind, he does not fling himself into danger like some reckless knight hungry for glory.
Seeking quiet, he slipped into the Great Library.
The heavy door groaned as it opened, releasing a breath of warm air thick with vellum dust and melting candle-wax. Sunlight slanted through tall, arched windows, painting golden bars across rows of towering shelves. Every corner smelled of parchment, ink, and age—a sanctuary for anyone who preferred thoughts to people.
"Already returned, my prince?"
Meister George rose from his desk. He was a tall, slender man with silver-threaded hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck. His spectacles balanced precariously on his long, aristocratic nose, giving him the look of a scholar carved from some foreign marble. He had come from distant lands decades ago, bringing with him rare books, foreign manners, and a cultured calm that set him apart from most men at court.
He had taught Nevan chess.
And though he bested the prince more often than not, he would privately admit—to no one but himself—that the boy made him sweat over every board. Nevan's mind moved like water: quiet, dark, and always deeper than it looked. George sometimes believed he understood him… yet he knew, in rare honest moments, that he understood nothing at all.
Nevan drifted toward the shelves, tracing a pale fingertip along leather spines.
"I seek only a few books," he said quietly.
He selected five—chronicles, military strategy, and a tome on the customs of old kings. Hugging them lightly to his chest, he let a faint, near-invisible smile ghost across his lips.
George bowed. "Shall we play chess later, Your Highness?"
"Perhaps," Nevan murmured, a word he used more often than most, already stepping away.
His footsteps softened into silence as he slipped between the aisles, vanishing like a wisp of smoke into the shadows of the library.
When he emerged into the hallway, the noise of the castle washed over him again. He made his way toward the northern wing, where his chambers lay. The massive oak door, dark as aged wine, bore an engraving of a young stag rearing proudly—his personal sigil. Two royal guards flanked it, armored in polished steel with green cloaks draped across their shoulders.
Upon seeing him, they straightened immediately and bowed low.
"Good afternoon, my prince," they said in unison.
Nevan inclined his head, the weight of the books shifting slightly in his arms, and slipped past them into his chambers—where the world, at last, grew quiet again.
The heavy oak door closing behind him with a muted thud that seemed to seal the world out. The chamber welcomed him with its familiar, quiet grandeur—an elegance measured not in size, but in taste.
It was not as large as William's nor as richly decorated as Eric's, yet it carried a dignity all its own. Sunlight filtered through tall arched windows draped in velvet of a deep forest hue, casting long golden bars across polished floors. The faint fragrance of lavender lingered—subtle, never overpowering—woven into the very air he breathed.
Everything was in its place.
The hearth had been laid with fresh logs, ready for flame. His bed—broad enough to fit five of him—lay perfectly made, furs smoothed, sheets tightened with meticulous care. His figurines were arranged neatly upon their carved shelf, each piece dust-free, each angle straight and intentional.
Nevan crossed the room without sparing the order a single glance. It was expected. It was natural. It was the standard the world should aspire to.
Only one thing bore the touch of his own hand.
The grand bookshelf that dominated the left wall—towering, masterfully carved—held volumes arranged with a precision only he understood. Not by colour nor size, but by era, author, and the complex logic of his mind. He could close his eyes and name exactly where each book belonged.
He placed the five new tomes upon the reading table, aligning their spines with an absent, practiced motion.
At the hearth, he lit the prepared wood. Flames leapt to life, casting warm light across the silver embroidery of his sleeve and the pale edges of his profile.
Taking a blanket of mountain-sheep wool, he draped it around his shoulders—not fussing, but with the natural elegance of someone born to silk and ceremony. He sank into the velvet chair by the fire, its deep green fabric sighing softly beneath him.
For a moment he simply sat—quiet, composed, a small frown pinching the space between his brows.
His thoughts returned, unbidden, to the king's imminent arrival.
A father whose presence disrupted order.
A man who led armies from the front rather than rule from a throne.
A king who mistook recklessness for strength.
Nevan's fingers tightened slightly around the edges of his book.
The fire cracked.
Outside, the castle hummed with life.
Inside, his chamber remained still—his sanctuary of calm, control, and quiet superiority.
Only then did he open the first book, the firelight catching the frost-pale strands of his hair as he settled fully into his own refined world.