Eight years later, the rain still sounded the same against the windows of Rimefell.
Alekke stood beside the narrow slit of glass, watching the storm roll over the white mountains. The keep felt colder today, though maybe that was just him. It usually was, because he doesn't get cold often.
The servants said Skjoldr blood ran hot, that the old lords could ride through blizzards in just trousers and never shiver. Alekke didn't know if that was true. His father never spoke of such things, and no one ever asked him. But Alekke sometimes did feel a strange warmth under his skin.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor behind him. A pair of servants carrying firewood slowed as they passed, their eyes flicking toward him before darting away again. They didn't bow or speak.
Alekke pretended not to notice, but he could never fully ignore what he was.
A bastard.
Still… being a bastard has its benefits.
No one really expects anything from him.
He eats delicious food—even though he sits at his own table in the corner far from the family table.
And he gets raised within these walls like the Skjoldr children, taught his letters, given warm clothes, and allowed to wander the keep as he pleases—as long as Lady Elin isn't in the room.
Not quite a lord's son.
Not quite a peasant.
Something in between.
And in that narrow space, Alekke had developed skills; he learned to move quietly, listen carefully, and see things others overlooked.
Sometimes, he felt as if that was kind of like his superpower.
He brushed a strand of hair from his eyes, though it fell right back into place. His hair always did that—soft, straight, a little tangled from sleep, hanging around his neck in dark, uneven curtains. The front strands were definitely the worst, long enough to slip into his vision whenever wind blew into his face. The servants whispered it made him look girly. Others said it made him look similar to his unknown mother, because he didn't look anything like his father.
Alekke didn't mind the comments; rather, he was quite fond of them.
He'd heard all the comments—pretty boy, delicate thing, too soft-faced for a Skjoldr. His features were finer than his brothers', his jaw was less square, and his cheekbones were sharper, and some servants debated that he was prettier than his own sisters'.
His skin stayed pale no matter how long he spent in the yard, and his lashes were long enough that the kitchen girls sometimes stared before remembering who he was.
But it was really his eyes that unsettled people the most. Storm-blue, like the sky before a lightning strike.
He never thought much of his looks. They were simply there. A face that made people stare, but a name that made them look away.
He slipped away from the window and padded down the corridor, the torches hissing softly, and cold air whispered through arrow slits. The keep was ancient enough that even the walls seemed to remember things.
Alekke liked listening to the whispers and liked talking to them sometimes too, but right now they were whispering a whole lot of nonsense; they tend to do that sometimes.
From the stairwell below came the clatter of steel and the sharp bark of Eirik. Training had begun; it always began early for the trueborn sons: Haldren Skjoldr and Brynn Skjoldr. Alekke stopped at the top of the steps, fingers curling around a railing worn smooth by generations of Skjoldr hands.
Alekke didn't really care for swords or fighting, like all the boys his age did, but he did like watching; he liked learning, and sometimes he did like playing in the yard with a stick like it was a blade instead of standing in the shadows like a creep.
He leaned forward slightly, just enough to see the yard through the archway. The rain had thinned to mist, turning the training ground into a slick sheet of mud. His father, Haldren, and Brynn were all drenched and filthy with mud.
Eirik's oldest son, Haldren, swung his practice sword with the confidence of someone who had never been told a single "no" in his life. Every movement was sharp, loud, and meant to be seen, and to his credit, he had exceptional skill with the sword. He was thirteen now, five years older than Alekke, tall for his age, with the broad shoulders of a boy who'd been praised for his strength since he held the sword for the first time. His hair—auburn like his father's—was tied back in a knot.
Haldren can be quite the prancing fool and rude when he's in a bad mood, but Alekke liked Haldren because he treated him like a brother would, cared for him like an older brother would, and was really funny.
Beside him, Brynn struggled to keep up. He was only ten, smaller, slighter, with a round face and a nervous energy that made him glance toward their father after every swing. Brynn's hair always curled when it got wet. He looked nothing like Haldren; Brynn looked like his mother.
Brynn swung too wide, feet slipping in the mud.
"Again," Eirik barked.
Brynn flinched, and the boy's shoulders tightened; he watched the way he bit the inside of his cheek. Brynn wasn't bad at all; in fact, for his age, he was skilled. He just wasn't Haldren. And that demotivated him a lot.
Alekke liked Brynn as well; Brynn was older than him, yet Alekke always felt older than him.
Haldren, meanwhile, grinned as he brought his blade down in a clean arc, mud splashing around his boots. He liked the sound of steel. He liked the weight of it. He liked knowing people were watching him—especially his father.
He'd be a great gladiator.
Alekke shifted his weight, leaning a little farther over the archway. The cold stone pressed against his ribs.
Down below, Haldren paused mid-swing, eyes narrowing. He turned his head slightly, scanning the shadows along the upper corridor.
Alekke watched him.
Haldren always seemed to sense when someone was watching him.
"Focus, Haldren, your enemy is about to attack!"
Brynn swung his practice sword, landing a strike on Haldren's hip.
"Hah, I finally got ya!" Brynn celebrated. "Point for me, yay! Point for me! Yay!"
"No fair! I got distracted!"
"Quiet! There are no excuses in battle, Haldren." Eirik lectured. "The slightest distraction means death, understood?"
"Yes, father…"
Alekke exhaled in relief, his bangs falling forward, and he swiped them back.
"What are you doing?"
"Eek!"
Alekke nearly slipped on the stone as he spun around.
His sister stood behind him, arms crossed, one brow arched in that way she'd inherited from their father. Signe Skjoldr. Eleven years old. Her dark-brown hair was tied back with a strip of blue cloth she'd been wearing since she was a baby.
"D—Don't scare me like that…" Alekke muttered.
"I didn't scare you."
She stepped closer, sitting down on the steps, watching the yard below. Her eyes, hazel like her mother's, narrowed as she watched Haldren and Brynn circle each other in the mud.
"You know Father doesn't like you up here," she said, her voice softer. Not kind, exactly, but not cruel either. Signe had never been cruel to him. Like she doesn't really know what she should feel.
"Father doesn't like you up here either."
Signe's jaw tightened, just for a flicker, but Alekke noticed it. He always noticed small things.
Alekke followed her gaze.
Haldren drove forward with a heavy swing, Brynn scrambling to block when he should have dodged. Mud splashed. Steel clattered. Eirik barked corrections at Brynn.
She leaned forward unconsciously, mirroring the stance of a fighter watching for an opening. Her fingers twitched slightly, as if gripping an invisible hilt.
Alekke noticed. "Err… what are you doing…?"
She straightened immediately, cheeks flushing. "Shut up."
She huffed, but her eyes drifted back to the yard, to the swords, and her eyes turned soft and hungry.
Alekke rested his elbows on his knees. "You want to be down there?"
Signe didn't respond. She didn't need to.
"I think you'd be pretty good."
"No, I wouldn't," she said. "I'm a girl; girls are weak, and it's Skjoldr tradition for girls not to fight…"
Alekke nudged his knee with hers. "I still think you'd be good. I've seen you practice with sticks and broom handles; you're great," he giggled.
Her cheeks flushed again. But she didn't respond.
He giggled.
"Umm… Alekke? Why do you not join them…? I know Father doesn't like you up here, but I'm sure you could convince him. He has a soft spot for you, believe it or not; that I'm sure… You could be good; I'm certain."
Alekke snorted, then shrugged, bangs falling into his eyes again. "Im good… I don't really care about swords…"
"You pretend you don't," she said. "But you watch more than anyone… you spend most of your days talking to the soldiers or the guards…"
He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. She wasn't wrong.
"I just… like learning," he said.
Signe tilted her head. "Then learn down there. With them."
Alekke laughed, a small breathy sound. "No… I don't want to."
"What do you mean, 'No, I don't want to'? Is it because you're scared?" She asked. "He lets you stay in the keep. He lets you sit at our table sometime—"
"He lets me exist," Alekke said. "That's different… okay? I don't want to infringe on my already unneeded existence."
"I can't believe you…" Signe muttered.
Alekke paused. "What?"
She clenched her fists at her sides. "You have the chance to be down there. To hold a real sword. To train with Father. And you just—"
Alekke blinked.
"You never try, Alekke; you could ask, you could do something, but you just don't,"
She shook her head, looking anywhere but at him. "You don't even try… And I—" She swallowed the rest.
"...How is it that you—a bastard—get the chance to do the one thing I want most… while I never will?" she snapped.
Signe's breath hitched. "I didn't mean—"
Alekke stood up, not angry, frustrated, or even sad, just numb. "...Supper is soon."
Then he left.