Chapter 4: Shadows Beyond the Manor
The yard was still buzzing with murmurs long after the spar had ended. Servants who had witnessed it hurried to their stations, whispering to one another as they went. The tale would spread through the manor before nightfall—how the young master, once thought frail and clumsy, had stood toe-to-toe with his sister.
Aric lingered a moment longer on the flagstones. The broken practice blade rested in his hand, the wood rough against his palm. He squeezed it until splinters dug into his skin, not out of pain, but to ground himself in the reality of what had just happened.
He had won respect today. Not victory, not yet—but recognition.
"Brother!"
Kael bounded across the yard, his enthusiasm as boundless as ever. His hair was damp with sweat from mimicking every strike, his cheeks flushed. "That was amazing! I thought Lyra would crush you, but you—"
"Kael." Lyra's voice cut in, sharp but steady. She approached with her weapon tucked under her arm, her expression cool. "Don't speak as if he defeated me."
Kael blinked, looking between them. "But he—"
"I held back," Lyra said simply, though her smirk didn't quite reach her eyes. "Next time, I won't."
Aric met her gaze. There was no anger in it, only resolve. She wasn't denying his strength; she was promising to sharpen her own.
"Good," he said quietly. "I'd expect nothing less."
For a brief instant, silence hung between them, taut as a drawn bow. Then Lyra turned and strode away, her posture still regal, her pride intact.
Kael tugged at Aric's sleeve, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "She's just mad you surprised her. But I know the truth—you're going to be the strongest in the whole family."
Aric ruffled his younger brother's hair, hiding the strange warmth that welled in his chest.
---
That evening, the family gathered in the great hall for supper. Candles flickered in tall holders, casting golden light across the long table set with roasted meats, fresh bread, and bowls of stewed vegetables. The banners of House Delsar hung proudly above, their silver hawk gleaming in the firelight.
At the head of the table sat Lord Arion, his presence heavy even in silence. Beside him sat Lady Serenya Delsar.
She was a striking woman, her beauty touched with a maturity that years had not dulled. Dark hair framed a face marked by calm grace, though her eyes carried the sharpness of a woman who had seen the games of power too many times to be fooled by appearances.
"Aric," she said softly, her gaze falling upon him as the meal began. "I heard of your spar with Lyra."
Whispers died down instantly. Even the servants stiffened.
Aric lowered his head politely. "Yes, Mother."
Her eyes lingered on him. Not with suspicion, not yet, but with an intuition only a mother could carry. "The boy I remember stumbled often. He avoided the training yard. Today, they say you stood as if born for it."
Lyra's fork clinked against her plate. "He was lucky."
Kael nearly leapt from his chair. "It wasn't luck! He was amazing! Father even said—"
Lord Arion raised a hand, silencing the table. "Enough."
The hall quieted. Even the crackle of fire seemed subdued.
"Strength is not proven in a single bout," Arion said, his voice measured. "But it is undeniable that Aric has changed. From this day, he will train as my heir should, alongside Lyra. I will tolerate no weakness in my house."
Lyra inclined her head stiffly, accepting the decree. Kael grinned, kicking his legs under the table in excitement.
Lady Serenya's gaze, however, never wavered from Aric. She smiled faintly, but there was something behind it—a question unspoken, a warning unvoiced.
"Then let us hope," she said, "that this strength does not draw shadows upon us."
---
After the meal, Aric walked the corridor alone, the stone walls lined with old portraits of Delsar ancestors. Their stern eyes seemed to follow him, measuring him against the weight of their legacy.
He paused before one painting—a hawk descending upon prey, talons outstretched. The family crest made flesh.
He knew enough of stories to recognize the truth: those who rose too quickly drew envy, suspicion, even fear.
A soft voice broke his thoughts.
"You carry yourself differently, Aric."
He turned. Lady Serenya stood a few steps behind, her gown trailing across the floor, her expression calm.
"Mother," he said, bowing slightly.
She stepped closer, her eyes searching his. "I know my children. I know their hearts, their habits, their flaws. And I know when one of them is no longer the same."
Aric's pulse quickened, though outwardly he kept still.
"I will not demand your secrets," she continued softly. "But listen well: strength draws both allies and enemies. If you rise, others will wish to pull you down. Even within this house."
Her gaze flicked briefly down the corridor—toward Lyra's chambers.
Aric bowed his head. "I understand."
"Good." Her smile was faint, almost sad. "Then prove to me, in time, that this change is not a curse upon us, but a blessing."
With that, she turned and left him among the silent portraits.
---
The next morning, the air outside the manor buzzed with something different—not gossip, but urgency. A rider had arrived in the dead of night, mud splattered across his cloak, his horse lathered with sweat.
By dawn, the news had spread through the halls like wildfire.
Aric overheard it as he crossed the courtyard: servants whispering, guards murmuring.
"House Delsar may be called to arms."
"A border skirmish?"
"No… something more. They say House Veylan has begun mustering troops."
The name struck like a hammer. House Veylan was no minor noble family; they were rivals, ambitious and proud. And if they moved openly, it meant storms were gathering.
Aric's steps slowed.
Lord Arion appeared at the far end of the courtyard, his cloak snapping in the wind. At his side walked the mud-streaked rider, his face grim. The lord's voice carried, steady as iron.
"Summon the captains. The Hawk must spread its wings."
The yard stilled. Every servant, every guard, even the birds above seemed to hold their breath.
Aric clenched his fists. His strength was growing, his future still a tangled web of questions. But now, before he could master himself, the world was already shifting around him.
And as the rider's words reached his ears, the weight of it settled upon him like stone.
"Lord Arion," the messenger said, voice hoarse, "House Veylan demands tribute—or they will march."