Dawn did not arrive all at once.
It crept.
Slow and deliberate, like a cautious hand brushing against the ancient stones of Castle Garthford, testing whether it might be permitted entry. The first light came pale and thin, seeping through the eastern horizon in muted hues of grey and gold, touching the highest towers before daring to descend further.
The castle stirred beneath it.
Not awake yet. But stirring.
A cold mist clung low to the courtyards, curling around cobbled paths and creeping along the base of the outer walls like something alive. Frost still lingered in the shaded corners, clinging stubbornly to iron railings and the edges of stone, glistening faintly as the light found it.
The air was sharp.
Clean.
It carried with it the scent of pine from the distant woodlands, mingled with the ever-present trace of iron and old stone. Beneath that faint, but unmistakable—the smell of ash from hearths long burned through the night, and the early stirrings of bread rising deep within the kitchens below.
Somewhere, a bell tolled.
Low. Measured.
Not to summon, but to mark.
A reminder that time moved, whether men did or not.
Along the battlements, the night watch gave way to the morning guard. Boots struck stone in quiet rhythm. Cloaks shifted. Steel brushed softly against steel as spears were exchanged, as duty passed from one set of hands to another.
In the stables, horses stamped and snorted, their breath rising in pale clouds. A stableboy murmured low, calming, as he brushed down a restless mare. The scent of hay and leather drifted outward, carried by the waking breeze.
Servants began to move.
Soft-footed.
Practised.
A door creaked open. Water sloshed into a basin. A hushed voice called for more firewood. The faint scrape of broom against stone whispered through the corridors.
The castle breathed.
And slowly—It woke.
---
Nevan had been awake long before it.
He sat near the window, unmoving, the early light painting his pale features in soft gold that did little to warm them. His gaze rested upon the coat draped carefully across the chair opposite him.
Dark velvet.
Northern fox fur.
Untouched. Perfect.
For a long moment, he simply looked at it. With a ghost of a smile lingering upon his lips.
His eye shifted outside the window catching the sunlight.
"Mother." He thought.
Of course it had been her.
The choice of fabric, the cut, the subtle elegance that spoke not of war, but of refinement—it bore her hand as surely as any signature ever could.
And yet… He would not say it.
He would let them believe. That he was the honored one. Beloved by both parents
Let them doubt. Let envy slowly eat away at them.
They had always looked down upon him.
William, with his rigid sense of righteousness—so certain the world must bend to his strength alone.
Eric, with his careless grace, seeing Nevan not as a brother, but as something lesser. A burden. A spectator.
And now—A crack so small but real.
He had seen it. Felt it.
As they looked at him as he recieved the gifts. William especially, it was like a cold splash of water to his pride.
Nevan exhaled slowly.
Satisfied.
---
A soft knock came.
"Enter."
The door opened a fraction, and a boy slipped inside, careful not to disturb the stillness that clung to the room.
"Good morning, my prince."
Thomlin. His page
No older than fifteen, perhaps sixteen at most. His brown hair was cut short, practical, though it never quite obeyed its own shape. His eyes—deep brown, watchful. They held the quiet attentiveness of one long accustomed to service.
He carried a tray filled with warm bread and an array of fruits. A small pitcher of warmed milk sat at the side.
Nevan did not turn to greet him, nor acknowledge his presence.
"Draw the bath."
The command was gentle.
But absolute.
"At once, my prince."
The tray was set down with care, not a sound wasted, before Thomlin moved toward the adjoining chamber. Water soon followed—poured, measured, steaming faintly as it filled the carved basin of stone.
Nevan rose only when all was ready.
---
The inner chamber was warmer.
Steam curled lazily through the air, carrying with it the soft, calming scents of lavender and sage. The stone walls held the heat well, trapping it close, wrapping it around the body like a second skin.
Nevan removed his garments without ceremony.
Folded.
Set aside.
Then stepped into the bath. The water embraced him. Warm and still. For a moment, he closed his eyes.
Not in relaxation.
But in stillness.
Thomlin moved quietly behind him, hands steady as he began his work. Cloth dipped, wrung, pressed gently against pale skin. Careful. Precise.
As though tending to something fragile. Something that might break if handled poorly.
Nevan said nothing.
He never did.
The silence stretched, but it was not empty. It had weight.
Thomlin washed his hair last, fingers working the oils through strands of white so pale they seemed almost unreal beneath the rising steam. Lavender. Sage. Scents chosen with intention, never excess.
When he was done, he stepped back and waited.
Nevan rose.
Water slipped from his skin in quiet rivulets, catching the light before disappearing against the stone floor. Thomlin moved quickly then, wrapping him in soft linen, drying him with careful hands.
Clothes were brought forward.
Prepared. Selected. Thomlin reached for them—
"Not that one." A voice called out.
Nevan's head tilted slightly. A small gesture toward the chair.
The coat.
Thomlin swallowed.
"Yes, my prince."
---
As he dressed him, the silence returned.
Familiar as alway.
Thomlin worked carefully, smoothing fabric, adjusting seams, ensuring every line fell exactly as it should. His fingers were steady.
But his thoughts were not.
The prince was… Different. Not like the sons of lords he had served before. Nor like the other princes.
There was no childish impatience. No bursts of temper. No careless laughter. He was like a man trapped in a child's skin.
Only stillness. And those eyes.
Glacial blue. Too clear. Too knowing.
It often felt, when Nevan looked at him, that nothing remained hidden. As though every thought, every fear, every small imperfection had already been seen… and judged.
Yet worse than that— Was the absence.
No anger. No praise. No sign.
Only that same calm, unreadable expression.
Unchanging. Unyielding.
It left Thomlin uncertain.
Always.
Like walking across a floor scattered with eggshells… in complete silence… never knowing when one might crack beneath his step.
---
Nevan stood before the mirror a moment longer after Thomlin's hands fell away.
The chamber was quiet again.
Not empty—never empty—but quiet in the way a place becomes when it bends itself around a single presence.
The boy in the glass stared back at him.
Pale. Composed. Unmoved.
The coat rested upon his shoulders like something ordained—dark blue velvet drinking the morning light, the white fox fur framing his neck in soft contrast. It softened him. Elevated him.
Made him appear… fragile.
Nevan's fingers lifted, adjusting the cuff ever so slightly—just enough to create the perfect line.
A faint breath left him—not quite a sigh. "Thomlin," he said.
The boy straightened instantly. "My prince?"
"Fetch my books."
"At once, my prince." Thomlin moved quickly to the desk, gathering the volumes Nevan had arranged the night before. He held them with care, almost reverence, before returning to stand a pace behind him.
Always a pace behind.
Nevan turned without another glance at the mirror.
And left.
---
The corridors of the northern wing stretched long and high, their stone walls still holding the night's chill.
Morning had begun its quiet work upon the castle.
Servants passed in hushed rhythm, their arms laden with linens, polished trays, fresh rushes. The faint scent of beeswax and lavender drifted through the air, mingling with something warmer now—bread baked deep within the kitchens below.
Sunlight filtered through the narrow windows in pale slants, catching dust motes that drifted like slow-falling snow.
Nevan walked through it all untouched.
His steps made no sound.
His gaze lingered on nothing. And yet— He saw everything.
A servant who bowed a fraction too late. A guard whose posture betrayed fatigue. A maid who stole a glance—then quickly looked away.
All noted.
All filed.
All useful.
Behind him, Thomlin followed in silence, careful, measured… cautious not to disturb the stillness that seemed to cling to his prince.
They moved as one shadow stretched into two.
---
The path to the great library lay ahead.
Nevan knew it well.
Every turn. Every arch. Every shift in light.
And yet—
He slowed. Just slightly.
The study lay to the right.
A smaller chamber. Warmer, livelier, used not for solitude—but for presence.
For routine. For habit. For them.
Voices drifted from within. Low and familiar.
Nevan stilled at the threshold. Unseen.
"How convenient." He whispered. His fingers rose, brushing lightly against the sleeve of his coat.
A subtle adjustment.
The fur collar shifted—just enough to sit imperfectly against his shoulder. The line of the velvet broke where it should have flowed.
A flaw. So small but visible. Deliberate.
Then— He pushed the wooden door. The smell of warm bread and cheese fruit hitting his nostrils.
The room breathed warmth. Sunlight spilled generously through wide windows, pooling across polished wood and the soft green of woven rugs. A smaller table had been set near the hearth, breakfast laid out in quiet abundance—bread, fruit, soft cheeses, and warm milk still steaming faintly in its jug.
His brothers sat gathered there.
William straight-backed, composed even in rest.
Eric half-turned, mid-sentence, a grin not yet finished.
Martin leaning forward, listening with open attention.
The moment Nevan entered something shifted.
Not silence. Not fully. But a pause. A glance. Then another.
The coat had been seen. Good.
"Prince Nevan… what a pleasure that you should join us."
The voice came smooth as poured silk, each word measured to perfection.
Lady Katherine did not raise her tone, yet it carried easily across the chamber.
"One might hope," she continued, her dark blue gaze settling upon him, "that punctuality would one day accompany such appearances."
Nevan inclined his head, the motion graceful—precise.
"My apologies, my lady," he said, his voice soft, touched with a careful note of contrition that did not quite reach his eyes. "Sleep proved… most insistent this morning. I fear I lost all reckoning of the hour."
Her gaze did not leave him. It moved—slowly.
From his face… to his shoulder. To the line of his coat.
A pause followed.
"It is little wonder," she said coolly, rising from her seat, "that your attire suffers the same neglect."
She stepped toward him, each movement composed, deliberate.
"If you are to wear His Majesty's gift," she went on, lifting her hands to the fur-lined collar, "you would do well to wear it as it was intended."
Her fingers adjusted the fabric with practiced ease, smoothing the velvet, aligning the fall of it across his shoulder, restoring order where he had so carefully undone it.
"It is a fine piece," she added, almost absently. "One not lightly given."
Nevan's lips curved into a smal smile.
"Is it not?" he murmured. "It would seem… most thoughtfully chosen."
For the briefest moment—
His gaze shifted.
Not to her.
To William.
Then back again.
"As though it had been made with me in mind."
Lady Katherine stepped back, her eyes sweeping over him once more, ensuring perfection had been restored.
"It would be well that you carry it with the dignity it deserves," she said.
Then, after a pause—
"Will you remain? Breakfast has yet to conclude."
Nevan folded his hands lightly behind his back.
"I fear not, my lady. I have already taken my meal. I was, in truth, on my way to return a number of books to the library."
A flicker.
Something almost like surprise touched her features—brief, contained.
"Indeed?" she said. "I marvel you found the time… given your earlier confession."
The faintest shift.
Then—
William's voice.
Calm.
Controlled.
Sharp beneath it.
"I share that wonder."
Nevan turned his head just enough to meet his brother's gaze.
Nothing hurried. Nothing forced.
"Perhaps, I'm just lucky," he replied gently.
A pause. His eyes held William's for a fraction longer than necessary.
Then slipped away.
As though the moment had never existed at all.
-----
Nevan made his way toward the great library, the tension of the morning settling into a quiet, private satisfaction.
The corridors seemed softer here.
Quieter.
As though the castle itself exhaled in the presence of ink and parchment.
He had accomplished what he set out to do.
The coat had been seen. Felt. And—most importantly— Envied.
The faintest curve touched his lips before it vanished again.
The doors of the library groaned softly as he pushed them open.
Warmth greeted him at once.
The scent of aged parchment, candle wax, and leather-bound volumes wrapped around him like a familiar embrace.
"Back so soon, my prince?"
Meister George did not look up at first, though the corner of his mouth hinted at quiet amusement.
Nevan drifted further inside, his fingers brushing along the spines of books as though greeting old companions.
"The texts were… rather compelling," he replied. "I found myself unwilling to linger elsewhere."
George chuckled softly beneath his breath.
"Ah. A dangerous habit, that."
Nevan said nothing.
Only moved deeper into the silence.
Time passed there differently. Unmeasured. Unnoticed.
Until— A voice. Soft. Intrusive.
"My prince," a maid's voice called gently, "your meal has been prepared in the courtyard."
Nevan closed the book before him.
Another soft thud.
Another thought released.
"I shall attend."
---
The courtyard was alive beneath the midday sun.
Light spilled across the stone like molten gold, warming the air and stirring the scent of trimmed hedges and damp earth. A faint breeze carried with it the fragrance of herbs from the garden beds, mingling with the distant smoke of the kitchens.
His brothers were already seated.
Waiting. Or perhaps— Watching.
Eric stood slightly apart, one arm raised as his falcon circled high above.
Storm.
The creature cut through the sky like an arrow given life—dark blue wings flashing as it wheeled once… twice…
Then dove.
A blur.
A strike.
The unfortunate mouse vanished beneath talons that did not hesitate.
Eric laughed, bright and sharp.
"Storm grows swifter by the hour," he said, pride threading his voice. "He nearly claimed the gardener's hat this morning."
"A fair price," William replied coolly, "for the man's endless delay in trimming the hedges."
Then—
His gaze shifted. Settling on Nevan.
Nevan took his seat without a word.
A servant stepped forward at once, placing a platter before him—steamed pie, bread still warm, fruit glistening beneath the sun.
The clink of cutlery followed. Soft and measured.
Yet the silence beneath it was anything but gentle.
It pressed. Tightened. Waited.
Martin shifted first. Always the first.
"I have been considering," he began, his voice careful, "what song I might play upon the harp."
His fingers tapped lightly against the table, betraying him.
"Perhaps something lively… or solemn. I cannot decide."
He glanced between them.
Seeking.
Anything.
"Would either of you—"
No answer came.
Not from William.
Not from Eric.
Not from Nevan.
The silence deepened causing Martin to swallow. A cold line of unease slid down his spine.
"I am surprised you chose to join us," Eric said at last, his amber eyes catching the light as they settled upon Nevan.
Nevan lifted his gaze slowly.
"Why so brother?"
There was no challenge in his tone.
Only curiosity. Or the imitation of it.
Eric leaned back slightly. "I had thought you might still be… occupied."
A faint pause. "Clinging to your newest treasure."
"Your coat is rather eye-catching," William cut in, his voice calm.
Too calm.
Nevan turned to him. A soft smile touched his lips. "Thank you. It is… as soft as it appears."
William's fingers tightened faintly around his goblet.
"And how does it feel," he asked, "to wear something worth more than a bannerman's horse?"
A beat.
"Does it not weigh upon you?"
Nevan's hand stilled upon his cup.
Then—slowly—he stirred his tea.
Once.
Twice.
The faint chime of porcelain against silver rang louder than it should have.
"On the contrary," he said softly, lifting the cup to his lips, "I find no burden in it."
A measured sip.
Calm.
"The only burden present… is envy."
Something sharp shifted. It's effect immediate.
A vein rose faintly at William's temple.
Eric's jaw tightened.
Martin froze.
William exhaled slowly.
Controlled.
"I had also wondered," he continued, "that you would grace us with your presence at all."
His eyes did not leave Nevan.
"You seem most content… beneath the shadow of our parents."
A pause.
Heavy.
"It would be a wonder to see you step into the sun."
Nevan lowered his cup.
Set it down with care.
"Well said, brother," he murmured.
His gaze lifted to met William's.
"But shadows," he added, voice soft as snowfall, "are cast only by those who lead."
A breath.
"And I find it curious…"
A slight tilt of his head.
"…that you possess so little of it."
Complete silence fell upon the courtyard, even the wind seemed to still. The faint cries of the falcon circling above halted for a fraction of a second.
William's face turned red in annoyance like a volcanoe about to erupt.
Nevan exhaled faintly. As though bored.
"As ever," he said, rising smoothly to his feet, "I find myself overstaying where I am not desired."
Martin blinked, startled.
"Nevan—"
"And where do you think you are going?"
Eric's chair scraped sharply against stone as he rose.
Nevan did not turn.
"For a walk," he said lightly. "Or perhaps—"
"I am sick of it."
The words struck harder than any blade.
Nevan paused. Slowly turning.
Eric's chest rose and fell with restrained fury.
"That tone. That look. As though you are above us all."
His voice shook—not with weakness, but with anger held too long.
"You are not."
A step forward.
"You cannot fight. You cannot lead. All you have—"
His hand clenched.
"—is Mother's favour."
Nevan's expression did not change.
"Now, now," he began softly, "I cannot be faulted if Mother favours me more."
Eric let out a short breath—almost a laugh, but there was no humor in it.
"You think that's what this is?" he said, shaking his head slightly. "That this is about favor?"
His jaw tightened. "You stand there, saying things like that—as if you don't know exactly what you're doing."
Eric grabbed his collars, his grip tightening by the second.
Then perhaps she favors you… because you have nothing else to stand on."
"You give my words more weight than they deserve," Nevan said softly. "I had not thought them so important."
The blow came without warning.
A sharp crack split the air.
Nevan's head snapped to the side as the force drove him backward, his body striking the stone with a dull, unforgiving impact.
For a moment— The world rang.
Then—
Another blow.
And another.
And another.
Eric straddled him, fists striking with unrestrained fury, each impact dull and heavy against flesh.
The taste of iron flooded Nevan's mouth.
Warm. Metallic. Real.
Servants gasped. Frozen, uncertain of what to do.
"What is the meaning of this!"
The voice cut through the chaos like thunder. Everything stopped at once.
King Enoch II stood at the edge of the courtyard.
Still.
Terrible.
His presence swallowed the air itself. Warmth fled. Laughter died.
Even the sun seemed to dim beneath his gaze.
Eric recoiled as though burned, stumbling back to his feet, breath uneven, hands trembling.
All bowed. All except one.
Nevan.
Slowly— He pushed himself upright. Blood traced the corner of his lips. His head swam. Yet still— He lowered himself to one knee.
"Princes of Garthford," Enoch said, his voice low, edged with something far colder than anger, "rolling upon the ground like common brawlers."
Disgust. Bare and unhidden.
"I will not repeat myself." His piercing gaze swept them.
"What has transpired here?"
"For.." Nevan was instantly cut off.
"Forgive me, Your Majesty," Eric spoke quickly, his voice tight, desperate beneath control. "Nevan… forgot his place."
A swallow.
"He spoke out of turn against the Crown Prince."
A breath.
"I sought only to correct him."
William said nothing. Only inclining his head in agreement.
Silent and deliberate. A ghost of a smile threading his face, satisfaction flooded him from head to toe.
Nevan sensing the conspiracy lowered his gaze.
"It was but a careless word," he said quietly. "It shall not be repeated."
Enoch's eyes settled upon him.
Lingering.
Searching.
As though weighing something unseen.
Then—
"So be it." He said at last.
Relief passed through the courtyard like a fading storm.
Too soon.
"If you would behave as barbarians," the king continued, his voice rising—not loud, but absolute, "then you shall be treated as such."
A pause.
Cold.
Measured.
"Steel suits such conduct far better than words."
Nevan's heart dropped. No
"Ser Thane."
A guard stepped forward instantly.
"Your Majesty."
"Escort my sons to the training yard."
A breath.
"Let them settle their grievances properly."
Nevan's pulse struck once. Hard and heavy.
"How fitting," Enoch finished, his gaze unyielding, "that those who seek spectacle… should provide it."
The courtyard did not move. It did not breathe.
Nevan rose slowly. The world tilted slightly beneath him.
His mind, however—
Was clear. Calculating.
Eric was a superior swordsman. Faster, stronger, more experienced. And now, fuelled by anger.
Around them, the servants watched their gaze lingering.
Waiting. Watching. Hungry.
Nevan's fingers curled faintly at his side.
For the first time—
Not in thought.
But in consequence—
He had stepped into a game where words alone…
Would not suffice.