The forest outside the Veylan estate was still and quiet. Only the faint whisper of the wind through the pines broke the silence, carrying the smell of damp earth and river moss.
Through the misty morning, he could just barely make out his prey, a stag picking its way through the brush, antlers like jagged branches, fur filled with dirt and scars. It was a proud beast, a kingly beast, a worthy prey.
Alaric waited, every muscle coiled. His heartbeat slowed to match the rhythm of the forest.
"Hold, young master," a voice whispered behind him.
Alric didn't turn; his eyes locked on the beast. "You're stepping on leaves, Harun. I can hear you wheezing."
A faint grunt of disapproval. "I am not wheezing. This armor is heavy. And you should let the hunters do their job instead of sneaking out here to play at it."
Harun shifted, muttering something about foolish heirs and premature grey hair. He was a retainer of House Veylan, his scarred face as weathered as old stone, his loyalty absolute. He'd been Alaric's shadow since he could walk, alternately bodyguard, tutor, and—when Alaric pushed his luck—a reluctant accomplice.
The stag raised its head, ears twitching. Alaric froze. Time seemed to stretch thin. Then, with a steadying breath, he drew and loosed.
The arrow whistled and struck—not the heart, but the hind leg. The stag bellowed and bolted, limping through the trees.
"Damn it," Alaric swore, breaking cover and sprinting after it. His boots pounded over roots and soft earth, branches clawing at his hair and cloak.
"Alaric!" Harun's deep voice thundered after him, mingled with his muttered curses.
The chase tore through the fog-draped forest, past trickling streams and the black trunks of old pines. Every time the stag would slow down, it would be struck by another arrow. Finally, the forest opened into a sunlit glade where the stag had collapsed by the stream, chest heaving, leg trembling.
Alaric slowed, breath ragged.
The stag's dark eyes locked with his. There was fear there—but also a wild defiance, the unspoken law of hunter and hunted that no courtly lecture could ever capture.
For a moment, the world shrank to just the two of them: predator and prey, bound by something and nothing.
Alaric hesitated.
Harun stood behind him, silently observing.
Eventually, he knelt, and with one quick, shaky motion, he did it.
When it was over, he stared at the blood on his hands and stood. "It's getting late, it's time to return."
"Well done, Young Master," Harun said. He knelt beside the stag, already tying the legs for transport. "However, you got impatient and missed the heart, and your slice was unstable."
Alaric glanced out at the forest; from here, he could make out the distant towers of Veylan City, their silver spires piercing through the clouds.
"What's the city like today?" Alaric asked as he watched lift the stag.
"Loud. Smells of fish and oil. Merchants screaming at each other in ten dialects. And the family banners flapping in the wind." Harun spat into the dirt. "And the commoners are always running… like if they stop moving, the city will eat them."
Alaric smiled faintly. "And are we any better?"
"You are a Veylan," Harun said firmly. "Your family has its own myth. Your father sits on the Council. You will never need to crawl in the streets like the commoners do."
Alaric didn't answer. He was thinking about his family's myth, the myth his family worshipped more than the gods. The source of their power, their influence, their entire identity.
The power that had let House Veylan rise from soldiers to nobility in merely three generations. The same power that every main heir was tested against.
And what if he wasn't compatible?
He pushed the thought away as they trudged through the forest. Sunlight pierced the canopy in golden threads.
The forest thinned, and the Veylan estate rose on the hillside ahead. Pale stone walls veined with silver caught the morning sun. Towers speared upward, banners fluttering in the air. Even from a distance, Alaric felt it: the soft pressure in the air, the pulse of his family's Myth.
Home.
The outer gate opened as they approached. Servants glanced at the blood on his coat and the stag over Harun's shoulders. One of the gardeners grinned.
"Successful hunt, young master?"
"Eventually," Alaric said,
Harun chuckled. "It took him 4 arrows and a jog across half the forest."
"Progress," Alaric said.
They entered the lower courtyard, where the sounds of the estate washed over him: clashing practice swords from the training yard, the ring of a blacksmith's hammer, and soft music drifting from the upper hall. The air smelled of rain on stone and tilled earth.
Beyond the walls, the city of Veylan shimmered on the horizon, all spires and smoke. But inside these walls, everything was ordered, calm, and heavy with expectation.
Harun cleared his throat. "It's time for your training, young master."
Alaric groaned. "That old coot is too ruthless."
"Ruthless is good." Harun said, his tone measured.
Alaric didn't answer.
For now, he just wanted to wash away the forest off his skin.