Five years folded into themselves like pages in a book.
Alaric was seven years old now, with knobby knees, scraped elbows, and a mop of black hair that refused to stay combed. He walked without thought, spoke without hesitation, and had mastered the art of being both present and invisible. In the village, he was "that quiet Drake boy, a bit slow, but polite." In the manor, he was the family's fragile hope.
Only in the dead of night, when he stood alone in the practice yard, did he let himself be what he truly was: a warrior trapped in a child's body, wielding a wooden sword with a precision that could have disarmed grown men.
"You hesitate," Theo said, his voice gruff but not unkind. "Again."
They trained every dawn. It was Theo's way of coping—of turning their exile into something productive. Alaric suspected his father needed the routine as much as he did. The sword didn't care about crowns or bloodlines. It only cared about form, focus, and intent.
Alaric adjusted his stance, feet sliding into the third form: Sparrow's Perch. He lunged, wooden blade aimed at Theo's heart. The strike was perfect. Too perfect. At the last instant, he let his wrist dip, making the blow glance off his father's guard.
Theo deflected it easily and tapped Alaric's shoulder in reprimand. "Sloppy. You're stronger than that. I've seen you."
No, you haven't, Alaric thought. You've seen what I let you see.
"Sorry, Papa," he mumbled, dropping his eyes in mock shame. "I'll try harder."
Theo sighed, lowering his own wooden blade. "You're seven, Alaric. Most boys your age are still throwing rocks at birds. You've got the form, but you lack the will. The sword is just a tool. Your intent must drive it."
Intent. The word echoed. It was the same word Isolde used when teaching him to suppress his Mark. Intent was everything. Intent to hide. Intent to deceive. Intent to survive.
"Can we stop for today?" Alaric asked, letting his voice crack with fake exhaustion. "My arm hurts."
It didn't. He could have gone for hours. But if he showed his true endurance, Theo would start asking questions. Questions like: How can a seven-year-old have that kind of stamina? Why does he never slip?
Theo ruffled his hair, his stern face softening. "Alright. Go see if your grandmother needs help with the bread."
Alaric scampered off, wooden sword tucked under his arm, playing the tired child. Once he was out of sight, his posture straightened. The exhaustion melted away. He moved like a cat through the manor's halls, silent and aware.
He passed the library, where Isolde was indeed kneading dough. She glanced up, her brown eyes sharp. "Fetch me the salt, boy."
He did, moving with deliberate clumsiness so she wouldn't notice how he navigated the kitchen without looking. He knew where everything was. He'd mapped this house a thousand times in his mind, memorizing creaking floorboards and loose stones.
"You're quiet today," Isolde observed, shaping the dough into loaves.
"Thinking about swords," Alaric said, which was true enough.
"Mmm." She didn't look up. "Your father means well. But a sword won't save you from what you're hiding."
Nothing will, he thought, except hiding better.
The front door banged open.
Alaric's hand instinctively moved to his side, where a real sword would hang. But he caught himself mid-motion and turned it into a flinch, as if startled. He was still a child. Children flinched.
A man strode into the kitchen, and the atmosphere changed instantly.
He was built like a siege tower: broad shoulders, scarred knuckles, a face that looked like it had been carved from old leather. His hair was silver-streaked black, pulled back in a warrior's braid, and his eyes were the color of storm clouds. He wore chainmail under a travel-stained tunic, and a longsword hung at his hip—not practice wood, but real steel.
"Kaelen," Theo said from behind him, his voice light with a rare smile. "You old bastard. I thought you were dead."
"Almost was," the man—Kaelen—replied with a grin that showed missing teeth. "Baron in the north tried to have me assassinated. I returned the favor. Politely."
Theo clapped him on the shoulder, and the two men shared a look that spoke of decades. "This is my son," Theo said, pride evident. "Alaric."
Alaric looked up, meeting Kaelen's gaze with the perfect amount of shy curiosity. "Hello, sir."
Kaelen studied him, those storm-gray eyes seeing through the act. For a heartbeat, Alaric feared he'd been found out. But then the man grinned again. "He's got your eyes, Theo. All darkness and secrets."
"Gets it from his mother," Theo said.
"Speaking of—where is the Lady Seraphine?"
"Resting," Isolde cut in sharply. "The journey here was long. You were not expected."
"I don't send word," Kaelen said. "Safer that way." He turned back to Alaric. "You like swords, boy?"
"Yes, sir."
"Show me what your papa taught you."
Damn. This was dangerous. Kaelen was a professional killer. He'd see through faked clumsiness in a heartbeat. But refusing would be suspicious.
Alaric nodded and retrieved his wooden sword. He moved to the center of the kitchen, feet sliding into the opening stance: Sparrow's Perch. He lunged, fast and sharp. Kaelen's eyes narrowed. Alaric saw the recognition there—the same look Theo got when Alaric was too good.
So Alaric stumbled. He let his back foot slip, his arms wobble, and the strike went wide. He "caught" himself at the last second, looking embarrassed.
Kaelen exchanged a glance with Theo. "He's got the form. But no follow-through. You coddle him."
Theo's jaw tightened. "He's seven."
"I was killing wolves at seven."
"You're a Bladebound. Heir to no name, sworn to no king. My son is a Drake. We survive by not drawing attention."
The word Bladebound hung in the air. Alaric had heard it before, in whispers. They were mercenaries, master swordsmen who sold their loyalty to the highest bidder—except Kaelen, who'd sold his to Theo decades ago. They were childhood friends. Brothers in all but blood.
Kaelen grunted, conceding the point. "Still. The boy needs to learn how to mean it. How to put his intent behind the steel."
I know, Alaric thought. But if I do, you'll all die.
That evening, Kaelen stayed for dinner. He regaled them with stories of the north: of ice wyrms that drank mana from the air, of villages where children were born with silver hair and could see the future, of the king's Inquisitors growing bolder, pressing into territories they'd once ignored.
"The Prince Varyan," Kaelen said, his voice lowering, "is being paraded through the capital. They're calling him the True Sovereign. The king wants the world to forget there are other lines."
He looked at Alaric then, and for a moment, Alaric saw the truth in those storm-gray eyes: Kaelen knew. Not the whole truth, but he suspected. He knew Alaric was hiding something.
But he said nothing. Just raised his mug in a silent toast.
Later, after the man had retired to the guest room, Alaric stood in the practice yard alone. He picked up his wooden sword and moved through the forms—Sparrow's Perch, Raven's Dive, Hawk's Talon—each one perfect, each one lethal. He moved until he was breathless, until the Mark on his palm throbbed with suppressed power.
He could feel Kaelen's eyes on him from the darkened window of the manor.
Alaric made a choice. He let the sword slip from his hand. He let himself fall, sprawling in the dirt like a clumsy child.
From the window, he heard a soft, disappointed sigh.
When he looked up, Kaelen had pulled the curtain shut.
Good, Alaric thought, retrieving his sword. Let him think I'm weak. Let them all think it.
The weaker they believe I am, the longer I have to become strong enough to protect them.
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