The storm came like an old, ailing beast, hurling its wrath against the town with a relentless fury. Sheets of rain lashed the wooden rooftops, drumming upon them with such violence that the very timbers seemed to groan beneath the strain. The lamps and candles that dotted the streets and windows fought a losing battle against the gales, their flames flickering desperately, bowing to every cold whisper of the wind. It was a heavy night—dense with sorrow, devoid of cheer—one that pressed upon the hearts of Brennadam's folk as if the heavens themselves had turned their gaze away. Once more the storm shrieked and raged, wrapping its claws around the valley town, echoing across its streets with the lament of a world weary of light.
Brennadam, cradled in the basin of a wide and fertile valley, stood proud and weary all at once. Rows of towering structures lined its cobblestone avenues—fine stonework and sturdy timber, fashioned with care and craft—but though they gleamed faintly beneath the storm's silver rain, there was little life upon the streets. The people had long since retreated indoors, shuttering their windows against the storm's bite. Behind closed doors, whispers of prayer rose like incense into the night, carried upon lips that trembled both from cold and from hope. For though the tempest battered their walls, their thoughts lay with tomorrow. Tomorrow promised reprieve. Tomorrow promised light.
On the morrow, the town would awaken not only to the storm's passing, but to celebration. A festival unlike any other would sweep across Brennadam, for their Lord would open his coffers in honor of his son's birth. Fires would be lit, music would rise, and tables would groan beneath the weight of meat, bread, and fruits rarely seen in such abundance. For many of Brennadam's people, such a feast was no small blessing. They prayed fervently through the storm's howl—for weather kind enough to allow the festivities, for health enough to partake, and above all, for the chance to taste joy and fullness, if only for one fleeting day.
And there, at the eastern wing of the town, stood the heart of that promise: the manor of Lord Stormsong. Surrounded by sprawling gardens and a fence of wrought steel, it loomed over the valley like a sentinel untouched by mortal woes. A great gate, crowned with an insignia wrought in silver that gleamed with arcane authority, marked the threshold of the estate. Within lay a house unlike any other in Brennadam. Fashioned from rich oak and gilded in subtle threads of gold, the manor's walls shone with the dignity of noble heritage, its windows glowing faintly like watchful eyes through the storm. Though the tempest clawed at its frame, the manor stood defiant, a fortress of wealth and legacy in a town that could only marvel at its grandeur.
Within the walls of Stormsong Manor, the storm's fury was reduced to little more than a distant murmur, like the growl of some caged beast that dared not cross its threshold. The air was warm, scented faintly of burning cedar from the great hearths that lined the corridors. Flames crackled in the fireplaces, casting long, restless shadows that danced upon oak-paneled walls. Every beam, every polished surface whispered of craftsmanship and wealth, for here resided not only a family of means but one of history, whose name was woven into the very fabric of the valley's tale.
The grand foyer stretched high, its vaulted ceiling painted with murals of storm-wreathed seas and gallant figures who commanded them. Polished marble tiles, veined with threads of silver, reflected the glow of chandeliers that hung like constellations, defying the gloom beyond the windows. The storm might rage outside, but within these walls, order reigned supreme. Servants moved briskly yet soundlessly, tending to every flickering candle and every droplet of water tracked in by the wind. Their faces bore the calm efficiency of those long accustomed to duty, though now and again their eyes betrayed the quiet anticipation of tomorrow's festivities.
Beyond the foyer stretched a series of galleries adorned with portraits of ancestors—solemn men and women painted in armor and robes, their gazes stern, their postures noble. The golden frames gleamed in the firelight, as though the ancestors themselves watched vigilantly over their progeny. The storm's occasional rumble would shake the glass panes, and yet those faces did not flinch, eternal guardians of a legacy both burden and blessing.
In the eastern hall, the great dining chamber was already being prepared. Long tables of dark mahogany, carved with intricate patterns of waves and storms, gleamed under careful polish. Silverware lay arranged with meticulous precision, goblets stood like waiting sentinels, and garlands of evergreen branches adorned the walls in early tribute to celebration. Even now, kitchens roared with activity at the manor's rear, their fires rivaling the storm's own temper. Aromas of spiced meats and fresh bread drifted faintly through the halls, promising a feast worthy of song.
Yet, high above all the bustle and warmth, in chambers where few dared tread, silence reigned. Here lay the private quarters of the Stormsong family, their windows overlooking the valley and its slumbering town. Lightning briefly illuminated the glass, revealing velvet drapes and bookshelves laden with tomes whose secrets were as old as the sea itself. The storm clawed futilely at the panes, but the boy for whom tomorrow's revels would rise lay sleeping peacefully, untouched by wind or thunder. His breathing was soft, untroubled, yet his dreams were no ordinary wanderings of a child's mind. Sleep drew him beyond the veil of memory into a realm of visions—fragmented, luminous, and strange.
At first, there was Light. Not the steady glow of sun or fire, but a brilliance without source, boundless as the horizon. It unfolded around him like a living tide, pulsing with warmth and song. Within its radiance, shadowy figures moved—tall, faceless, yet crowned with halos of dawn. They raised their hands, and their gestures left trails of shimmering symbols in the air: circles unbroken, lines converging, spirals fading into nothingness. The boy did not know their meaning, yet the sight burned into him with the weight of destiny.
A sound followed—neither word nor music, but a harmony that pressed against his chest. He felt both lifted and burdened, as though the Light called him upward even as it pressed chains of duty upon his shoulders. His small hands rose of their own accord, and for a moment, he beheld them wreathed in radiance. From his palms fell drops of gold, striking the ground like water, and wherever they touched, blossoms sprang forth in impossible bloom. Yet among the flowers, black thorns coiled, reaching upward, their barbs glistening with blood.
The vision shifted. The Light wavered, dimmed, and fractured like a mirror under strain. Out of the cracks poured shadow, vast and formless, swallowing field and blossom alike. He saw wings of fire struggling against wings of ash, a sword descending into water, a sun eclipsed by its own reflection. Somewhere, through the chaos, a voice called his name—but broken, fading, as though carried on a wind too weak to reach him.
The boy's lips murmured in sleep, syllables lost to waking ears. For a brief instant, the candle by his bedside flared unnaturally bright, its flame forming a halo before shrinking back to a mere flicker. Then all was still again. The storm howled against the manor, yet within the chamber, the child slept on, untouched by the weight of what had been shown.
When morning came, he would wake to warmth, laughter, and the simple joys of youth. But in the depths of his soul, the vision lingered—an enigma of Light and shadow, seed of a fate yet unwritten.
…
"Thorwin…"
The voice drifted softly through the boy's dream, lilting and serene, like a lullaby half-remembered. Yet Thorwin did not stir. He clung to the warmth of sleep, a small grunt escaping his lips as he buried his face deeper into the pillows. The storm outside had only just loosened its grip on the valley, and the boy seemed determined to savor every last drop of comfort the morning still offered.
A patient sigh followed, gentle but laced with the weariness of habit. The sound was accompanied by the faint rustle of silk and the tender pressure of a hand against his shoulder. "Oh, dear," the voice murmured, carrying both exasperation and fondness. "Everything is already prepared, and our little treasure still dreams."
But Thorwin only grumbled, pulling the blankets higher.
"Wake up, Thorwin."
The gentle cadence broke, firm resolve replacing it. Her soft nudging gave way to a brisk shake, a mother's mercy surrendering at last to necessity. Thorwin's eyes flew open, startled wide, his face etched with the disbelief of a child robbed of precious slumber. "Mother?" he mumbled, his voice rough with drowsiness.
"Yes, dear." The reply was brisk but not unkind. "Pardon my insistence, but you must be ready."
As his vision cleared, she came into view—his mother, Adriana Stormsong. Her presence filled the chamber like sunlight spilling through a window. She was young still, yet bore herself with the quiet majesty of one born to both nobility and grace. Her eyes, a clear ocean blue, shimmered with a mixture of urgency and affection. Locks of golden hair, brushed smooth yet touched with a natural curl at their ends, framed her face. Her skin was pale, unblemished, and her lips curved into a smile that could warm even the stormiest night.
The gown she wore clung with effortless elegance, a flowing silk of silver hue that caught the light as she moved. At her neck hung a golden chain, its pendant fashioned in the shape of a roaring lion—an heirloom of her father's line, and a symbol of the blood that flowed through her veins. In her, beauty and lineage converged, and many in the valley spoke in hushed tones that no fairer lady had ever graced their land. Few, if any, would have dared disagree.
Thorwin blinked against the glow of her presence, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He sat up slowly, the blankets slipping from his small shoulders, and looked at her with the bewildered gaze of one torn too suddenly from dreams.
Thorwin rubbed his eyes, blinking away the last threads of sleep, but his mother's smile told him there would be no retreat back into dreams. The day had arrived, whether he felt ready for it or not. With a resigned sigh befitting someone far older than his years, he slid from the warmth of his bed, his bare feet meeting the polished oak floor.
"Come now," Adriana urged, her tone softening again as she reached to straighten his tousled hair. "This is not just any day, my dearest. Today you must shine."
Thorwin frowned, still half lost in the haze of morning. "Because of the feast?" he asked, his voice groggy.
His mother chuckled lightly. "Because of everything. The valley waits to see you, Thorwin—not merely as my son, but as the son of this house. Today is yours."
Servants soon appeared, their arms laden with garments carefully chosen for the occasion. A tunic of deep azure, embroidered with silver threads that shimmered like rainfall, was draped over a stand by the hearth. Fine boots of polished leather and a cloak clasped with a lion-shaped brooch awaited him. As they worked, adjusting hems and smoothing folds, Thorwin shifted uncomfortably, unused to such finery. Yet beneath his reluctance, a quiet thrill stirred—the awareness, however faint, that this day marked something greater than himself.
Adriana adjusted the fall of his cloak and smoothed a lock of golden hair from his brow. "There," she murmured with a proud smile. "My handsome son. Today, the valley will see you as I do."
The manor beyond his chamber hummed with life—footsteps echoing on polished floors, voices carrying from the banquet hall, servants scurrying with trays and garlands. Thorwin had never known the house to feel so alive, so crowded with people who were not of Brennadam.
From dawn, carriages had climbed the mist-shrouded roads, bearing banners of Boralus and the storied houses of Kul Tiras. The Stormsong feast had drawn far more than local folk; merchants whose fleets spanned the seas, admirals bedecked in green and blue, and nobles whose names weighed heavily in the courts of Lady Katherine Proudmoore had all arrived to honor the boy's birth. Their presence gave the day a grandeur that Brennadam had never seen, and whispers drifted like wildfire through its cobbled streets.
Some whispered more than titles and names. Among the valley folk it was said—half in awe, half in doubt—that the Lady Proudmoore's youngest daughter, Jaina, might grace the celebration. A child of five, gifted already with wit beyond her years, and daughter to the Lord Admiral himself. To see her in Brennadam would be a marvel, for the children of Boralus rarely left the capital, and never for so provincial a feast. Yet the rumor lingered, fed by the sight of Proudmoore carriages at the gates and the hushed, careful manner of the emissaries who had come before them.
Thorwin, of course, knew little of the weight such a visit would carry. To him, the name Jaina was just that—a name, spoken with reverence by some, wrapped in mystery. Still, when the servants whispered as they adjusted his clothes, when his mother's smile faltered just slightly at the mention, even the boy felt the tremor of possibility.
"Come, Thorwin," Adriana said at last, extending her hand with gentle insistence. "Your day awaits. The valley watches, and perhaps even the capital's eyes as well."
And so, hand in hand with his mother, Thorwin stepped out into the gleaming halls of Stormsong Manor, unaware that beyond the banners and feasts and whispers of nobles, his own name, too, was beginning to carry on the tide.
…
Thorwin's hand nestled in his mother's as they moved through the corridors, the polished floors glimmering with the reflection of chandeliers overhead. The manor had been transformed overnight into a hive of splendor: garlands of evergreen wound around carved pillars, silver candelabras cast warm light upon tapestries depicting sea and storm, and the air was alive with the mingling scents of wax, cedar, and roasted meats drifting in from the kitchens.
Servants hurried to and fro, carrying platters and pitchers, while voices—polite, measured, but brimming with excitement—echoed faintly from the banquet hall beyond. Thorwin caught fragments of speech as they passed: mentions of trade fleets returning from Lordaeron; a kingdom up north, of the Admiralty's new warships under construction in Boralus, of the rare vintages opened for this celebration. But threaded among such lofty talk was a quieter murmur, spoken in lowered tones and furtive glances.
They spoke of the Proudmoores.
Carriages bearing their colors had been seen on the coastal road at dawn, their banners heavy with salt and rain. It was said that Lady Katherine herself had sent emissaries to honor the Stormsong line, though no one could say who, precisely, had come. And then, almost as a secret too bold to speak plainly, came the hushed suggestion: perhaps even the child, Jaina, had been sent.
A daughter of five summers, but a daughter of the Lord Admiral nonetheless. To see her here, in Brennadam of all places, would mark the feast as something more than provincial celebration. It would bind the Stormsong name tighter to Boralus, and perhaps even to the Admiralty itself.
Thorwin did not fully understand the weight of such whispers. To him, Jaina Proudmoore was but a name, distant and half-mythical, spoken of in reverence by the adults. Yet as the rumors rustled around him like unseen wings, he felt the stirrings of something he could not name—an awareness that this day was larger than banners and feasts, larger than himself.
His mother squeezed his hand gently, her eyes forward, her smile composed, but Thorwin thought he caught a glimmer of unease in her expression—whether from the rumor itself or from the burden of what it might mean, he could not tell.
"Stand tall, my son," she whispered as they neared the banquet hall. "The world may look upon you today."
Thorwin hesitated at the threshold as the great doors groaned open, spilling light and music into the corridor. For a moment he clutched his mother's hand tighter, his small fingers betraying the nervousness he dared not speak. Never before had he been greeted with such splendor. His birthdays, until now, had been quiet affairs—simple gatherings within the manor's walls, marked by songs sung by servants, a modest cake brought from the kitchens, and his father's warm laughter echoing through the hall.
But this… this was different.
The banquet hall stretched vast before him, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadows where chandeliers of wrought silver swayed gently in the draft. Tables long enough to seat a hundred lined the chamber, their polished surfaces already laden with fruits, spiced meats, and glistening pastries. Tapestries depicting seas and storms hung proudly from the walls, their woven waves seeming to shift in the flicker of candlelight. And everywhere—everywhere—were people.
Nobles dressed in finery that shimmered like the sea at dawn, their cloaks embroidered with ships and anchors. Merchants with gold rings heavy on their fingers, their laughter booming over goblets of wine. Admirals whose coats bore rows of shining buttons and medals, their stern eyes softened only slightly by the festivities. These were not the familiar faces of Brennadam's folk who had toasted him in years past; these were strangers from Boralus, people of power and prestige, come not merely to wish him joy, but to judge, to weigh, to remember his name.
Thorwin's throat felt tight. He wondered if they all looked at him now—the boy in azure and silver, standing small beside his radiant mother. The thought made his stomach churn with nerves, yet also with something else: a thrill, sharp and unsteady, like the first roll of a storm at sea.
He remembered the birthdays of before—gifts carved from wood by the manor's steward, a song played on a lute, sweet bread shared with servants who clapped their hands in cheer. They had been warm, joyful, simple. Yet now, as he stood on the edge of this grand hall with its golden light and its glittering guests, Thorwin knew with a child's certainty that he could never return to such quiet days.
This was no longer a boy's birthday. This was a display, a declaration, and somehow—though he could not yet understand why—it felt like the first step into something vast, something that stretched far beyond the valley, beyond Brennadam, even beyond Kul Tiras itself.
For a heartbeat, Thorwin lingered at the threshold, caught between the familiar shadows of the corridor and the golden radiance spilling from the hall. Then his mother's hand loosened, pressing gently against his back, urging him forward. His small boots clicked softly against the polished floor, the sound swallowed by the swell of voices—until, one by one, those voices began to falter.
Heads turned.
The music wavered, a single note trembling in the air before the players found their rhythm again. A hundred eyes seemed to fall upon him at once, measuring, appraising, yet softened by the warm veil of celebration. Nobles leaned subtly toward one another, whispers darting between them like minnows in a tidepool. Thorwin could not hear their words, but he felt their weight, heavy as an anchor on his shoulders.
His steps felt both too loud and too small. The silk of his finely tailored tunic brushed against his skin, the silver thread catching the candlelight with every hesitant movement. He wondered if they noticed the unevenness of his stride, the way his fingers curled tightly at his side, or the quickened breath he struggled to steady.
Yet amidst the strangeness and the scrutiny, he felt something stir—a pull, faint but insistent, as though the air itself recognized him. It was as if the hall, with its vast banners and its glittering chandeliers, leaned closer to take measure of the boy who carried both the Stormsong and Lothar names.
Then the silence broke.
A cheer rose—not loud at first, but growing, swelling like the tide against the cliffs. Goblets were lifted, voices rang in chorus, and suddenly the hall was alive again with festivity, the tension drowned beneath a wave of laughter and applause. His name was called, once, twice, a dozen times, rolling across the chamber until it became a jubilant roar:
"Thorwin! Thorwin Stormsong!"
The boy froze for a moment beneath the hail of sound, cheeks flushed, heart racing. It was overwhelming, like standing at the center of a storm, the winds buffeting him from every side. And yet, somewhere deep within that tempest, he felt a flicker of pride. The boy of quiet birthdays was gone. In his place stood something more—a figure expected to shine, to bear the weight of two great legacies, though he was still small enough to stumble beneath them.
Thorwin drew a breath, steadying himself. His mother's smile caught his eye—gentle, reassuring, proud. It was enough. He straightened, lifted his chin, and stepped fully into the hall, no longer clinging to its edges but walking beneath the blaze of a hundred watchful eyes.
The place surged back into motion as Thorwin took his place upon the raised dais at the head of the room, beside his mother. Servants in crisp livery moved with choreographed precision, laying down platters that steamed with spiced meats, bowls of glazed fruits, and freshly baked loaves whose fragrance mingled with the heady scent of mulled wine. The long tables glittered beneath mountains of silverware and goblets, their polished surfaces reflecting candlelight in dazzling fragments.
The guests rose in respect before seating themselves once more, their voices carrying now in measured tones, laughter weaving between exchanges of polite courtesies. To Thorwin, the whole affair felt like some grand performance staged for him alone, though he knew well that much of the spectacle was not merely celebration—it was display, meant to affirm the Stormsong family's reach, their wealth, their place within the heart of Kul Tiras.
The first of the dignitaries came forward: a stout merchant-lord from Boralus, his tunic stretched tight over a belly that told of fine living. With a bow that was half-courtesy and half-calculation, he presented Thorwin with a miniature ship carved from ivory, its sails etched with delicate runes. "For the young Stormsong," the merchant boomed, "that he may always ride the winds with fortune at his back." The hall responded with a polite applause, and the man retreated, eyes glimmering with the pride of being seen.
Others followed in turn. A naval officer laid down a compass of beaten brass, its needle steady despite the murmurs in the hall. A guildmaster of jewelers unveiled a pendant of polished sapphire, so blue it seemed to hold a fragment of the sea itself. Even distant cousins from lesser lines came forth, offering tokens of modest means—candles of beeswax, jars of honey, hand-stitched garments—each presented with bows and careful words.
Thorwin accepted them all with childlike wonder, yet his heart thudded with the sense that none of these were mere gifts. They were symbols, offerings to a family whose power stretched like tidewaters across the valley, and perhaps even further.
The feast itself unfolded with equal grandeur. Platters of roasted boar were carried forth, their skins lacquered with honey glaze; whole fish, stuffed with herbs and lemons, arrived on silver trays; and cakes layered with sugared cream were unveiled to cheers from the children who gathered near the lower tables. Wine flowed freely for the elders, while honeyed milk and spiced cider were passed to the younger ones.
Thorwin ate sparingly, not from lack of appetite but from the sheer press of sensation—the sea of voices around him, the laughter rising and falling like waves, the faint whispers that darted just beneath the merriment. Whispers that seemed to follow his every glance.
He caught one fragment as it slipped past him, carried on a noblewoman's hushed tone:
"They say the Proudmoores may come. Imagine… little Lady Jaina herself, here among us."
The name Proudmoore lingered in the air like incense, heavy and inescapable. To others in the hall it was a word of majesty, a name to stir awe and reverence, but to Thorwin it brought only a strange quickening of the heart, a restless stirring he could not name. The Proudmoores had long been spoken of with hushed respect—Kul Tiras's mightiest family, masters of fleets and tides, their command of the sea second only to the ocean itself. Admirals, rulers, voices that bent the course of nations. It was said that to speak their name was to summon the weight of history.
Yet for all the greatness carried on that single word, Thorwin's gaze wandered elsewhere, drawn again and again to the tall chair at the center of the table. A place of honor, carved of oak and inlaid with silver, but empty. Always empty. His stomach tightened with a familiar ache, and suddenly all the clamor of the feast dulled, as though the room itself had retreated from him.
Father. The thought came unbidden, sharp as a pang of hunger.
His voice broke the silence between himself and his mother, though he spoke softly, as though afraid the question might shame him.
"Is Father still at the Sagehold?"
He already knew the answer. His father was always at the Sagehold. Always among the heavy tomes and ink-stained maps, buried in whispers of old spells and currents of unseen power. To Thorwin, the Sagehold was more rival than fortress, stealing away what he desired most. The valley, the rituals, the duties of their House—those things claimed his father's devotion. But a son? A son had only the hollow memory of fleeting visits, a presence given in fragments: a stern nod, a word of praise, then gone again like a dream dissolving in daylight.
Thorwin swallowed, but the bitterness lingered on his tongue. He loathed the feelings that rose within him—the sharpness of resentment, the quiet sting of envy for the arcane tomes that seemed to deserve his father's attention more than he ever did. He hated himself for such thoughts. Had he not been taught to be grateful? To remember how blessed he was, born of such lineage, surrounded by every luxury? And yet… in moments like these, when the seat stood empty and the shadows whispered louder than the revelry, gratitude could not smother the child's yearning for the simple weight of his father's hand upon his shoulder.
A gentle touch broke through the ache. His mother's hand, warm and reassuring, slipped over his own. Adriana's eyes, clear as the sea after storm, searched his face with a sorrow she tried to hide beneath her smile.
"Do not trouble yourself, my love," she said softly, though there was a weariness in her tone. "Your father has sent word of his imminent arrival. He would not miss this special day."
Thorwin's chest tightened, a flicker of hope sparking despite the doubts coiled within him. His lips trembled as he whispered, "Truly?"
She held his gaze, and though her smile deepened, there was something fragile behind it, something she shielded with grace. She squeezed his hand once, firmly, as though to seal a promise only she could keep.
"I will make sure of it, dear heart."
Thorwin wanted to believe her. He wanted to let that promise sink into his bones and still the storm inside him. But even as he tried, a part of him remained braced for disappointment—an emptiness that no feast, no guests, no whispered name of power could ever truly fill.
The hall was at its loudest when the sound of the great doors thundered open once more. A rush of cold air swept in, carrying the smell of rain and salt from the coast. The laughter faltered, voices stilled, and in the hush that followed, every gaze turned to the entryway.
There he was.
Lord Caspian Stormsong, Master of the Sagehold, keeper of ancient rites and steward of the valley's tides. He entered not as a reveler, but as one burdened by gravity itself. His robes of deep sea-green, lined with silver threads that shimmered faintly like moonlight on water, trailed across the polished floor. The staff in his hand, carved from driftwood darkened with age, pulsed faintly with runes etched by hands long gone. His face, stern and weathered, seemed carved from the very cliffs of the coast, eyes as deep and unreadable as the ocean itself.
The hall rose to its feet in a wave of reverence. A bow of heads rippled through the gathering as though the tide itself had bent them low. Nobles, merchants, and captains alike offered words of greeting, but none dared speak above a murmur. The man carried silence with him, silence that demanded respect.
Thorwin's heart leapt.
For a moment, the boy forgot the empty chair, forgot the ache of longing. His father was here. Truly here. His pulse raced as if his chest could barely contain it. He half rose from his seat, small hands pressing against the table as he leaned forward, eyes wide, bright, searching.
Would his father smile at him? Would he kneel and call him son, lift him high before the crowd, as he had once done when Thorwin was but a toddler? Would he finally feel the warmth he so often dreamed of?
But Caspian Stormsong did not rush forward. He did not smile.
He gave a single nod to the assembly, then another to Adriana, his wife. The gesture was not unkind, but neither was it tender. It was the nod of a lord to his lady, acknowledging her stewardship in his absence. Then his gaze swept across the hall, a long, measuring sweep that carried the weight of storms upon it. When his eyes found Thorwin, the boy straightened at once, his breath catching in his throat.
Their gazes met.
For an instant—just an instant—Thorwin thought he saw it: pride, quiet and fierce, glimmering in the depths of his father's eyes. But it vanished as swiftly as a wave breaking against the shore.
"Forgive my lateness," Caspian said, his voice low yet carrying easily across the chamber. "The Sagehold required my attention. But I would not miss this day. For my son…" His eyes lingered on Thorwin again, heavy with meaning, "has come of age in a way that binds us all."
The hall erupted in applause and cheers, the guests lifting their cups in thunderous toast. "To Thorwin!" echoed from every side.
Thorwin's cheeks burned with heat, his heart twisting in confusion. He wanted to beam with pride, to leap into his father's arms and hold fast. And yet… and yet the distance remained, a gulf as wide as the sea itself. His father had come, yes. He had spoken. He had honored him before all. But the warmth Thorwin craved—the closeness he longed for—still eluded him, like sunlight caught beyond a stormcloud.
He lowered himself back into his chair, his small hands curling around his goblet. The hall thundered in joy, but within Thorwin's chest a quiet ache lingered, sharp and unshaken.
…
The feast that had opened with such splendor was, in truth, only the beginning. Days unfurled in a steady rhythm, each one bringing with it fresh arrivals—envoys from different regions whose very presence made the manor hum more with significance. The great halls of Stormsong Manor swelled with laughter, music, and the measured tones of negotiation, for no Kul Tiran celebration was ever without its share of bargains whispered between goblets of wine.
Caspian remained within the manor's walls throughout, though rarely for the boy himself. His presence was demanded at every turn—welcoming esteemed guests, sharing counsel with ship captains and emissaries, his words weaving threads of alliances as deftly as any sailor working rope. Still, there were moments, brief as candle flickers, when his stern gaze would soften upon Thorwin. A word here, a hand upon the shoulder there—it was not the time the boy longed for, yet he convinced himself it was enough. His father was an important man; to wish for more would be selfish, childish. Such desires, he told himself, could only burden those already weighed down by duty.
And so Thorwin played his role. He smiled when prompted, bowed when expected, and offered polite words to the noble children paraded before him. Some were tolerable, even friendly, though most struck him as slow-witted or dull, more concerned with flaunting their family crests than speaking anything of worth. He endured it all, as his mother had instructed, her gentle reminders echoing in his ears: "Every word you speak, every smile you offer, weaves a thread that strengthens our house."
Yet as the third day dawned, with the town of Brennadam still alive in revelry and the manor choked with laughter and clinking glasses, Thorwin found the weight of it unbearable. The pleasantries had soured, their repetition dulling his spirit, and the hollow politeness felt more a prison than a celebration. The world of men—their dealings, their alliances, their ceaseless chatter—seemed lifeless compared to the fire that stirred within him.
So, slipping free of the suffocating halls, he turned to the courtyard where a wooden training dummy stood waiting. There, beneath the gray skies that lingered after the storm, Thorwin seized a simple wooden sword and let loose his restlessness. Blow after blow struck the dummy's battered frame, each crack of wood against wood ringing out like a private rebellion. His arms ached, his breath came sharp, but still he swung, as though each strike could cut through the layers of expectation binding him.
Unbeknownst to him, at the edge of the courtyard, half-hidden by the great oak that leaned over the stone wall, a small figure lingered. A girl—no more than five—watched with wide, curious eyes. She stood quietly, hands clasped before her as if uncertain whether to approach or to vanish back into the manor's shadows.
Her hair was the color of pale gold, falling in soft waves down to her shoulders, though a few stubborn strands curled into her face. Her eyes, however, were what held the light—bright, glimmering blue, too sharp for a child's, as though they carried the weight of storms yet to come. She wore a simple dress of soft sea-green fabric, trimmed with white lace, and though it was fine enough to mark her as a child of status, she seemed entirely unbothered by the dirt beneath her shoes.
Thorwin drove his wooden blade forward one last time, panting, before leaning against the dummy to catch his breath. It was then that he felt it—the odd sensation of being watched. He turned, brows furrowing, and spotted her small form by the tree.
She did not flinch beneath his gaze. Instead, she tilted her head ever so slightly, eyes shining with the unfiltered curiosity only children possessed.
"Why do you keep hitting it?" she asked, her voice clear and unhesitating, carrying across the quiet courtyard like the ringing of a silver bell.
Thorwin blinked, startled. He hadn't expected anyone—least of all another child. The manor was filled with noble sons and daughters, all paraded around like prized horses; yet this one was different. She didn't look at him with the haughtiness of lineage, nor the boredom of obligation. Her gaze was… searching. Interested.
"It's training," Thorwin replied, shifting his grip, trying not to sound flustered. "So that when the time comes, I'll be ready."
"Ready for what?" she asked, almost instantly, her voice carrying an earnestness that surprised him.
He hesitated, feeling suddenly foolish. He didn't know what to say—how could he? What exactly was he training for? For honor, for duty, for the expectations he barely understood? The question gnawed at him more than the dull ache in his arms. At last, he muttered, "For… whatever comes."
For the first time, her lips curved in the faintest smile. Not mocking, not dismissive—merely thoughtful, as though she found his answer sufficient in its honesty. She did not press further. She only stood there, golden hair stirring in the faint breeze, her presence quiet but strangely commanding.
Thorwin turned back to his wooden dummy, pretending not to notice the girl's quiet, unflinching gaze. Yet every swing felt heavier, less certain, as though her eyes were unraveling his resolve with each passing moment. He tightened his grip, jaw set, striking harder and faster until the dummy shuddered under the blows. Still, he could not ignore the strange weight in the air—the feeling of being watched, judged, perhaps even understood.
It was then that a voice, warm and lilting, carried across the courtyard.
"Thorwin?"
He lowered his sword, panting slightly, and turned. His mother, Adriana Stormsong, stood framed in the archway of the manor, her gown of deep blue silk flowing like water in the breeze. A smile curved her lips, though her ocean-bright eyes darted beyond her son to the little figure standing in the shade.
For a fleeting moment, something unreadable crossed her face—surprise, perhaps, followed swiftly by recognition.
"My dear," she said softly, her tone carrying both amusement and gentle reproach, "did you wander off while the halls are still so lively?"
The girl blinked, as though caught in some secret she had not meant to reveal, and glanced at Adriana with an innocence that was too polished to be entirely natural. Behind her, a pair of attendants stepped into view—older women dressed in the understated finery of Boralus, their eyes sharp and watchful. They offered the faintest bow toward Adriana, a subtle courtesy that acknowledged her standing without declaring aloud what needed no words.
Thorwin noticed the exchange but could not decipher it. His mother, ever poised, merely inclined her head in return, as though all was perfectly ordinary. Yet when her gaze shifted back to her son, there was a glimmer of thought behind her smile, a calculation she did not share.
"Come, Thorwin," Adriana said at last, her voice carrying the gentle authority he could never refuse. "Guests from Boralus wait for you. You cannot keep them wondering where the young Stormsong heir has vanished."
Thorwin hesitated, glancing once more at the girl. She met his eyes without fear, her lips curving into the faintest of smiles, as though the two of them now shared a secret neither of the watching adults could touch.
He gave a small nod before setting aside his wooden sword. The girl said nothing, but her gaze followed him as he crossed the courtyard to his mother's side. Adriana rested a hand on her son's shoulder, guiding him toward the great hall.
As they turned away, Thorwin cast one last look behind him. The girl was still there, golden hair catching the light, blue eyes gleaming like the sea at dawn. He didn't know who she was, not yet—but something deep within told him their meeting was no accident.
Adriana, noticing his lingering glance, only tightened her hand on his shoulder. She did not explain. Not yet.