The morning sun crept through the curtains, brushing Aric's face with pale gold. He blinked awake, the weight of the night's dream still lingering but softened by the quiet hum of the household coming to life.
A soft knock came at the door before it opened just a crack. Serina's familiar voice drifted in."You're up already? That's rare."
Aric stretched and yawned. "Couldn't sleep much after… you know."
Serina stepped in, carrying a folded set of clothes. She didn't press him about the dream again—she'd already worried enough last night—but her eyes lingered on him, sharp as always."Then breakfast first," she said. "You'll need the energy for today's lessons."
The dining hall smelled of fresh bread and spiced porridge. Aric ate quickly, Serina hovering close by. She nudged a plate of cheese his way when he slowed down."You'll faint in the courtyard if you keep eating like a bird," she muttered.
Aric gave her a sideways look. "Since when did you turn into Mother?"
"Since someone started looking half-dead every morning," she shot back, but her faint smile betrayed her concern.
She handed him a bowl of porridge. "Eat up. History first. Master Corrin hates distracted pupils."
Aric chewed slowly. He hated showing weakness. He'd learned early that people noticed cracks and pounced. Still, Serina's eyes held concern. He gave her a small, honest smile. "I'll be fine today. I've got to be."
Out in the courtyard, the morning air was crisp and cool. Aric stretched, feeling the stiffness in his arms and legs, then began his warm-up—push-ups, stretches, and simple sword drills with a wooden blade. Serina watched from the steps, keeping count, occasionally calling out when he slowed down.
"Your form is slipping," she said at one point.
"It's just warm-up," he shot back, grinning despite the burn in his arms.
When he was finished, sweat beading on his brow.
Master Corrin's study smelled of ink and old leather. Scrolls lay in tidy stacks and a single candle guttered on the table. The master droned at first—dates and treaties and the names of generals long gone—but Aric pushed himself into the lines, ready for the questions.
"House Frost played what role in the Southern Accord?" Corrin asked, peering over his spectacles.
Aric set his jaw. "We supplied scouts and negotiated a grain passage in exchange for mining rights near the northern ridge."
"House Frost's loyalty to the crown began when?" Corrin quizzed, his eyes sharp as a hawk's.
Aric scribbled down the date. "During the reign of King Alden III, after the Western Rebellion."
Corrin's lips twitched. "Good. Precise. That will do." He turned to the class. "Remember, noble strength is not only sword-arm but mind."
Next came politics with Steward Maren—how to read a petition, how to parse a noble's complaint and what to say without giving away strength. Mistress Helaine took the hour after that for etiquette.
Later, Mistress Helaine corrected his bow for the fourth time in an hour."Your back is too stiff, young lord. You must show respect without looking like you swallowed a stick."
Aric muttered under his breath, "Maybe I did."
Serina, waiting by the door, covered a laugh with her hand.
She corrected his bow until his back felt like wood.
Serina sat outside the study door with a folded scrap of cloth. Every so often she slipped in a cup of water or a scrap of bread when Master Corrin let them stand. She mouthed a joke at him during etiquette and he pretended not to laugh.
By noon his head was heavy. He had absorbed laws and lineage and the polite lies nobles must tell. It was useful, necessary. It wore at him.