The morning sun poured through the windows in golden streams, its warmth dancing across the room. Alaric lay fast asleep, the only one in bed, his breathing slow and deep. The gentle wind teased the curtains, lifting them in lazy waves before letting them fall again.
A light tap on his leg stirred him slightly, but he wasn't ready to wake. He rolled over to the other side, curling into the blankets. The tap grew more insistent, turning into vigorous shaking. Still, he clung to the comfort of sleep—until the memories of the night before began to stir. Rowenne's words, her warnings, the promises she had made… they all came rushing back.
For a fleeting moment, he wished it had all been a dream—but the weight of the necklace resting against his chest told him otherwise. The phoenix pendant felt warm against his skin, a silent reminder of something he didn't yet understand. Last night, it had only filled him with confusion. Now, lying here, it brought an unfamiliar sensation: fear.
The shaking stopped. The room was suddenly quiet.
He cracked one eye open, shielding it from the sunlight—only to see a tall figure standing by his bed, blocking part of the light. The man was clad head to toe in the gleaming steel of the king's knights. A sword hung loosely in his grip, its point resting against the floor, while his gloved hands clasped the hilt in a way that felt… ceremonial. Almost like a warrior pausing to offer a prayer for the soul of the man he was about to slay.
Alaric's eyes flew open, his heart jolting. He scrambled upright, but the knight's gauntleted hand shot out, seizing his arm in a grip like iron.
He looked up to see the man's face, but it was hidden behind the cold, expressionless visor of a helmet. Before he could twist away, the knight yanked him forward and pulled a heavy black hood—thick and suffocating—over his head. The coarse fabric pressed against his face, the scent of leather and dust filling his nose. His hands were wrenched behind his back, held fast in the knight's grasp.
Then, without warning, the world tilted. Alaric felt himself hoisted onto the man's shoulder like a sack of grain, the knight's armor clinking with every step.
He kicked, he twisted, he tried to scream—but the hood muffled everything, turning his cries into low, desperate sounds.
After only a few steps, the knight stopped. Alaric was set roughly on his feet, and the hood was yanked away. He blinked rapidly as the sunlight stabbed his eyes.
And then… he froze.
In front of him stood Rowenne and Edmund—laughing so hard they could barely breathe.
"Quite a loud one," the knight said, pulling off his helmet.
Alaric's eyes landed on a face that seemed plucked straight from the bards' tales—youthful yet seasoned, as if carved by the hands of a master sculptor. His jaw was sharp and clean, his dark hair cropped short but effortlessly neat, his eyebrows strong and well-shaped over eyes of deep, storm-dark hue. A pointed nose gave way to lips that curved easily into a confident smile, the kind that seemed to hold a secret. Even in the heavy armor, there was something unshakably poised about him, like one of the ancient heroes brought to life.
"Alaric, did you hear someone screaming like a baby on your way here?" Rowenne teased.
They all laughed—except Alaric, who only rolled his eyes.
"He was lucky it was an ambush," Alaric muttered, brushing his clothes back into place. "Otherwise, today would have been his last day as a knight."
"Truly, I must be the luckiest man alive," the knight replied, grinning. The others giggled again, much to Alaric's frustration and embarrassment.
"You really scared the life out of him," Rowenne said to the knight.
"Couldn't help it. Wasn't going to pass up this opportunity," the knight replied, his smile deepening.
Rowenne turned back to Alaric. "Alaric, meet Sir Ronan, Marshal of the King's Knights—and your captor. He just arrived this morning."
Ronan placed a hand over his chest and gave a small, respectful bow. "My lord."
Alaric didn't respond. He simply stood there, staring at Sir Ronan with wide eyes, admiration radiating from his expression as if he were beholding a mythical figure from the old songs.
"Oh, wait—let me rephrase that," Rowenne said, smirking. "Young Sir Ronan, meet Sir Ronan."
While Edmund had always idolized Tyrannis Durnveil, Alaric's hero had always been Sir Ronan. Neither boy had met their legends—until yesterday for Edmund, and now… today for Alaric.
Alaric straightened his clothes, then stepped forward with unusual solemnity. He dropped down on one knee, one elbow resting on it, his other hand poised as if gripping the hilt of an imaginary sword. His head lowered, his posture proud.
"Sir Ronan," he declared, his voice deep with mock gravity, "it is an honor for a knight to meet his fellow knight."
The others blinked in surprise at the theatrics, Rowenne's lips curling into a grin.
"A knight with no sword skills? Now that is interesting," Sir Ronan replied, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. "I heard your mother is quite better than you."
Alaric's head snapped up, his eyes darting to Rowenne. She simply smiled sweetly, lifted her hands in mock surrender, and gave a slow nod of agreement.
"The honor is all mine, Sir Alaric," Ronan said with a courteous dip of his head.
Before Alaric could think of a reply, Rowenne's voice softened. "Happy birthday, son."
She and Edmund stepped aside, revealing a small wooden table behind them. Upon it sat a humble yet inviting feast—golden-brown baked pies, a roasted joint of meat still glistening from its juices, fresh bread steaming from the oven, a bowl of ripe berries, and a simple honey cake topped with a sprig of mint. The warm scents of spice and roast drifted through the air, mingling with the faint smell of morning sunlight on wood.
Alaric's eyes brightened instantly.
"Happy birthday, Sir," Ronan added warmly.
"Happy birthday, brother," Edmund said, moving in to place a hand on Alaric's shoulder and give it a playful tug.
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to still. Alaric stood there, taking it all in—the warm glow of Rowenne's smile, Ronan's calm and welcoming presence, Edmund's unrestrained joy. It was a brief, fragile moment, gone almost as soon as it arrived, but it carved itself into his heart.
If he had a birthday wish, he knew it now. For this moment to never end… and for these smiles to never fade.
_______________________________________
"Here, eat more," Rowenne said, sliding another generous slice of roast meat onto Alaric's plate halfway through the meal.
He glanced up, smiling sheepishly, before diving back in as though he were locked in some unspoken eating contest with Edmund, who was shoveling food into his mouth with determined gusto. Ronan and Rowenne, in contrast, ate slowly, their voices low as they exchanged occasional words.
By the time the plates were empty, the room was warm with the scent of roasted meat and spiced pie, and a maid moved in to clear the table.
"Well," Rowenne said, brushing her hands together, "since Sir Ronan is here with us, how about we play our little birthday game before we go?"
Alaric and Edmund instantly straightened with eager grins. Ronan only tilted his head.
"What is this game, and how is it played?" he asked.
"It's simple," Rowenne explained. "You pick a year of your life, give a topic, and tell what happened. The rest of us guess if it's truth or lie. It's less about winning and more about seeing how well we know one another."
"So… a game of truth and lies?" Ronan asked.
"Something like that," Rowenne replied, "except we decide if it's truth or fiction. For Alaric—thirteen years old—he might say: When I was ten, I was inspired to pick up a sword and train, but I cut myself on my second swing and cried like a baby. Then we guess."
"Sounds fun," Ronan said.
Rowenne leaned back. "Let's test you. True or false?"
Ronan considered. "Sounds like the truth."
"Wrong. Lie." Rowenne's grin widened as Alaric groaned.
"So he didn't cut himself?" Ronan asked.
"Oh, he did," Rowenne replied sweetly. "Just after the first swing."
The table erupted in laughter.
"I'm loving this game already," Ronan said.
"Good," Rowenne said, twirling a finger between them all before letting it fall on Edmund. "You first."
Edmund smirked. "Alright. When I was four years old, I fought an epic duel with a grown man. The clash shook the ground beneath my feet, the air ringing with each blow. I barely made it out alive, but I was unyielding—steel in the face of death. In the end, I struck the final blow, and he fell before me."
Rowenne's eyes widened. "Edmund! That's so dark. Definitely a lie. But I'm surprised you came up with that."
"It's not a lie, actually," Edmund said with a mischievous grin
Rowenne gave him a sharp look. "Edmund. What did we say about lying in the game?"
"Alright, alright, you got me." He smirked.
"You really do make this too easy," Rowenne muttered.
Edmund only leaned back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh, as though disappointed in their lack of imagination.
"I'll go next," Alaric volunteered.
"Alright—let's have it!" Rowenne encouraged.
"At thirteen years old, I was being carried from bed to a birthday surprise, and I was so scared I thought I'd been taken captive by a fierce knight."
"True," Edmund said instantly.
"That's it?" Rowenne asked
"Too easy," Ronan added with a sigh.
"That's the trick," Alaric said, smiling faintly. "The easier it sounds, the harder it is."
"Well said," Ronan murmured. "So it's a lie?"
"Yes," Alaric said. He shifted in his seat, tone softening. "I was scared, but not of the knight. I was scared of the dark. I'd never realised how deep it could be—how it feels like being trapped in a void that swallows sound. You can scream into it, but no one hears you. You can beg, but nothing changes. You just… surrender to it, not knowing what waits on the other side."
The table fell quiet for a moment.
"Did the new age come with some maturity?" Rowenne asked, faintly surprised.
"That's quite deep," Ronan remarked, as Alaric smiled faintly, a little proud of himself.
Rowenne smiled slightly. "My turn. When I was eighteen, I fought alongside my comrades in an intense battle against light. Blinding brilliance surged at us like a tidal wave, but we carved our way through it, shadows lashing like whips. Darkness swallowed the field, and we stood victorious. For it, I was awarded the necklace you're wearing now and someday, I may have to give it back." She pointed to the pendant she gave Alaric the previous night
"Definitely a lie," Alaric said.
"I second that," Ronan added.
"Third here," Edmund chimed in.
"You never can tell," Rowenne said with a cryptic smile.
"Alright, Sir Ronan—your turn," she prompted.
"Okay… let me think… When I was twenty-four—"
A knock was heard on the door, interrupting sir Ronan.
"Who is it?" Ronan asked
"I bring message from his majesty, sir" the voice said.
"Come in" Ronan instructed and a guard stepped inside. "My lord, the king requests your presence immediately."
Ronan rose with a nod. "Another time, then. Maybe if we're still here next year, we'll finish the game."
"No problem," Rowenne said, pushing her chair back. "We should be on our way too. Enough celebrating—we have plans."
"In that case, I'll see you later," Ronan said and gave short bow.
"What about Asher? Is he well?" Rowenne asked.
"Yes, he's home."
"I wish he were here so I could wish him happy birthday. When you see him, send him my regards."
Ronan inclined his head, then turned and left.
"Come on, boys. Let's hurry," Rowenne said, rising to her feet.
_____________________________________
"Your Majesty," Ronan said, bowing low as the great doors of the throne room closed behind him. His boots echoed on the polished stone floor as he approached.
Kaelion sat tall upon the obsidian throne, his gaze like steel tracking Ronan's every step. "And where have you been?" he asked, voice smooth but edged.
"I was at Alaric's birthday celebration," Ronan replied.
"Ah, yes." Kaelion's lips curved faintly. "Did you deliver my gift to Asher?"
"Yes, sire. He received it warmly and sends his thanks."
"Good." Kaelion leaned forward slightly, his fingers drumming once against the armrest before stilling. "A raven came from Dunwick not an hour ago. It speaks of a young girl and her family seeking our protection on their way to Eryndral."
He let the words hang in the air, studying Ronan's face. The knight kept silent, but the faint tightening of his jaw did not go unnoticed.
"You have something to say?" Kaelion asked, his tone sharpened.
"Only a question, sire."
"Ask it."
"Is there a particular reason this family must be aided above all others heading here?" Ronan asked, his voice measured.
"A good question," Kaelion said, his gaze never wavering. "The message claimed there is an important young girl I would want to meet. Take some of your most trusted knights and ride to Dunwick. If fortune allows, bring all survivors here. From what I hear, Dunwick is little more than a wasteland now."
"Yes, Your Majesty." Ronan bowed and turned to leave.
"Ronan," Kaelion called, stopping him mid-step.
The knight turned back.
"I know you've only just returned," the king said, his voice quieter now, carrying a weight that cut deeper. "But there is no one else I can trust with this mission."
Ronan's gaze held the king's for a breath longer than formality required. Whatever unease he felt, he buried it deep. "Your will is my command, sire."
He bowed again, then strode from the hall, his mind already shadowed by the road ahead.
As Ronan's footsteps faded in the distance, Kaelion's fingers once more drummed lightly on the armrest of his throne, his expression unreadable. The words hung in the air long after the knight was gone. An important young girl...