The sound of prayer bells drifted softly through the marble halls, carried by the morning wind. Their calm chime echoed faintly from the sanctum tower, where the Caelvyrn family gathered every dawn to offer devotion before the day began.
Frederick knelt among them, half-awake, his eyes following the dancing candlelight more than the words of the Sanctar, the spiritual guide who led the household in their daily rites. Incense curled lazily toward the vaulted ceiling, mingling with the pale morning glow that filtered through tall, narrow windows of clear glass.
The Marchioness sat a few rows ahead, her posture serene but her face pale beneath the veil. Her hands rested over a small silver locket, lips moving in silent prayer.
Beside her seat, the space meant for the Marquess remained empty. His absence felt more than seen. He was at the training grounds, as always, where duty came before devotion.
Frederick's gaze lingered on that empty place for a moment before drifting back to his mother.
Perfect devotion, perfect grace. How tiring that must be.
When the Sanctar's voice faded and the final bell tolled, the Marchioness rose first. "May the light watch Light watch over the house of Caelvyrn," she said, her tone soft yet steady. The servants bowed and hushed their steps against the marble floor. One by one, they slipped from the sanctum, leaving behind the faint echo of prayer and the lingering scent of incense.
Frederick waited until the last of them had gone before standing. A gentle hand brushed his shoulder. "You looked bored again," said the Marchioness softly. Her voice, though faint, carried a certain warmth that always disarmed him.
"I wasn't bored," Frederick replied, though the half-smile that followed betrayed him. "Just...listening differently."
His mother gave a small laugh, weak but genuine. "Is that so?"
She adjusted his collar and looked at him with eyes of fading blue. "You're growing, Frederick. But promise me you'll take your father's teachings seriously. A noble's life is not his own."
Frederick hesitated, then nodded. "I'll try, Mother."
"That's all I ask." Her veil fluttered, and beneath it bloomed a smile both noble and tender, like a benediction.
"Your father is expecting you at the training grounds," she said gently. "You shouldn't keep him waiting."
Frederick exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes drifting toward the sanctum doors. "I'll go," he said, "if I feel like it."
Her brow arched beneath the thin veil. "If you feel like it?"
The softness in her voice didn't hide the faint edge of disapproval. "You just told me you'd take his teachings seriously, Frederick."
He grinned faintly. "I said I'd try, Mother. I never said I'd manage it."
The Marchioness pressed a hand over her lips, torn between amusement and exasperation. "You sound more like your father than you think."
Frederick tilted his head, pretending to think. "That's strange. Father doesn't seem to enjoy being himself either."
"Frederick—" she began, but the boy was already half-turned toward the door, steps light and unhurried.
He looked back once, offering her a crooked smile. "A noble's life is not his own, you said."
Then, quieter, almost to himself, he added, "But I think it should be."
Before she could answer, he darted away, the echo of his footsteps fading down the marble corridor.
The Marchioness sighed, though a smile crept faintly across her lips. "That boy…" she murmured, shaking her head.
The veil trembled as a soft draft swept through the sanctum, stirring the last traces of incense.
Frederick slipped through the side halls of the manor, moving as lightly as if he were sneaking through enemy lines. Servants passed by with their arms full of linens and trays, too busy to notice him ducking behind pillars or sliding past half-open doors.
He grinneed to himself. "Training grounds can wait," he muttered. "I've survived sixty lectures from father already. One more missed session won't kill me."
The scent of polished wood and faint incense trailed through the air as he turned into the servants' wing. It didn't take long to find who he was looking for — Ayla, carefully folding linens near the laundry hearth, her sleeves rolled up and her hair tied back with a ribbon.
"Busy as always," Frederick said, leaning against the doorway.
She started slightly before recognising him. "Frederick! You shouldn't be here. Your father's—"
"Will be furious? Likely. But that's tomorrow's problem." He straightened and gave a mischievous half-smile. "Come with me."
Ayla frowned. "Come with you where?"
"Out."
"Out?" she repeated, incredulous. "As in outside? The Marquess will have me dismissed if he finds out!"
Frederick lowered his voice, stepping closer. "Then he won't find out, not if we're quick. I just want to see the market for a bit. Fresh air, colour, something normal. You said yourself I should start taking things seriously, right? Consider this... cultural education."
She crossed her arms, unimpressed. "That's not what I meant."
"Please, Ayla," he said, his grin softening into something more genuine. "Just for a while. You're the only one who wouldn't rat me out to Rowan."
At the mention of Rowan, she sighed. "You know he'll come looking the moment you disappear."
"Then we'll just have to make it worth the chase." Frederick winked and grabbed her hand before she could protest further. "Come on, before he or Father notice I'm gone."
"Frederick—wait!" she hissed, glancing around in panic as he tugged her toward the side courtyard. "At least let me get my cloak!"
"You've got ten seconds!"
"Ten—?"
But he was already halfway through the door, laughing under his breath as sunlight spilt across the marble floors.
By the time Ayla caught up, breathless and flustered, he was standing at the manor's side gate, the morning breeze tugging at his pale hair. Beyond the iron bars stretched the winding road that led toward the town.
Ayla stopped beside him, cloak hastily thrown on, cheeks pink from the rush. "If we get caught, I'll blame you."
"Good," Frederick said with a grin. "Because it is my fault."
The gate loomed ahead, its iron bars cold and tall against the pale morning light.
Frederick glanced over his shoulder. No footsteps, no voices. Good.
"Locked," Ayla whispered nervously. "We can't—"
Before she could finish, Frederick grabbed one of the bars and started climbing. His boots scraped against the iron, the hem of his cloak catching on the edge as he swung himself over with practised ease.
"Frederick!" she hissed, eyes wide. "You'll fall!"
He reached the top and balanced himself on the narrow beam, turning back with a grin. "Then you'd better catch me," he said teasingly.
The wind tugged at his pale hair as he crouched, extending a hand toward her. "Come on, Ayla! Hurry before anyone notices!"
Ayla hesitated, torn between fear and laughter. "You're so reckless," she muttered under her breath, but her lips curved despite herself.
"You're really troublesome, you know that?" she said, laughing as she began to climb.
"Comes with being a Caelvyrn," Frederick replied, steadying her hand in his.
He pulled her up beside him, and for a brief moment they both perched atop the gate, the manor sprawling silent behind them and the misty road unfurling ahead.
"Ready?" he asked.
"No," she said flatly.
"Too bad."
They jumped together, landing with a soft thud on the damp earth beyond the wall and burst into laughter as they disappeared into the morning fog.