Supper in Rimefell always smelled of smoke, roasted meat, bread, and wine. The rain had died down, and the sun had already set.
Alekke slipped through the doorway quietly, the way he usually does; luckily no one had arrived to the great hall, not even the servants who usually came and sat early.
The hall felt different when it was quiet. He quite liked it; it made his thoughts louder and clearer, but a part of him didn't like quiet.
Alekke could hear the faint groans of the rafters overhead, the distant drip of water, and the soft, quiet flutters of the banners.
He stepped farther inside.
The great hall was vast, and the long tables stretched out like dark rivers of oak, marked by generations of spilled wines and elbows. The torches along the walls hadn't been lit yet, leaving the room in bluish dusk.
Alekke started humming a tune. He liked to play a melody when he was alone; it helped.
He sighed. "No, it's not a real song."
Alekke paused.
"...Well?" he said, gazing at the walls. "Do you like it or not? I believe I'd make a fantastic minstrel." He chuckled.
Alekke's shoulders loosened a little.
"I knew you'd like it," he said, smiling faintly. "You always do."
He wandered between the long tables, fingertips brushing the carved edges. People have touched this table; they're dead. What were their names?
He sighed again. "Realistically I'd be an awful minstrel; I'm awful at everything. You just enjoy flattering me."
He sat down on the bench where the lords, trueborns, knights, squires, guards, and servants, and everybody else but him sit. He twirled his finger on the oak, noticing the knife marks and scratches. The ghost of celebrations, arguments, and feasts long past.
"They're dead now. All of them." He whispered. "I wonder what their reaction would be if they knew a bastard was sitting here… I've read that previous Skjoldr patriarchs like Jorund the Black-Wolf were brutal and cruel…" He continued, tracing the table with one finger. "He beheaded a man for sneezing while he was giving a speech. That's crazy."
Alekke huffed a quiet laugh, "He'd probably feast on my head…"
"Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you." He stopped twirling his fingers around the table. "I read the tale of Ser Aldric the Bold last night."
Alekke brightened a little. "He wasn't like the ordinary boring knight in every other tale I've read! He didn't slay dragons or charm princesses or any of that nonsense."
Alekke continued. "He was just… stubborn—extremely stubborn and very brave. He almost died five times in the story; that's insane!"
Alekke nodded eagerly. "Right? That's what I thought, just a man who refused to fall over."
He traced the table again.
"The book said he got his ribs broken in his first skirmish." Alekke went on. "He was coughing blood every other heartbeat, but he kept fighting anyway. Then he nearly froze crossing the Frostgate Pass. Then a bandit stabbed him in the thigh, stole everything he owned, and a boar shoved him into a river where he almost drowned. The river practically delivered him to his commander's boots! They told him to rest, but he just drank a health tonic and demanded to fight in the next battle.
Alekke laughed. "How he wasn't dead was all I could think; I don't even think the gods know."
"The weird thing I realized about Ser Aldric is he wasn't skilled at all; he was often made fun of for how lackluster he was with the sword. Yet he has songs and tales about him."
He leaned forward. "He wasn't even a lord's son either. Just a farmer's boy."
Alekke's smile faded slightly. "I'd like that… a lot. To be remembered. Even though I'm not perfect or anything special. Ser Aldric was remembered because he was stupid and stubborn."
He sighed again. "Do you think someone like me—a bastard—could be remembered like Ser Aldric?"
The whispers didn't respond to him.
Alekke exhaled from his nose. "Why am I not surprised…"
Footsteps echoed faintly from the corridor outside.
Alekke quickly got up and silently went to his own table in the corner.
The chair there wobbled as always, but he was used to it; it was kind of fun to wobble around.
Alekke folded his hands in his lap, eyes fixed on the archway.
The footsteps were soft, not like Haldren's heavy stride or Brynn's careless skipping.
It was the worst person imaginable that could have appeared, Lady Elin.
She paused beneath the carved wolf-head lintel.
Her gaze swept the room till her eyes found Alekke, sitting quietly in the corner.
She frowned.
Elin stepped farther inside, her boots padding over the flagstones.
"You're here early," she said, her voice steady but always with a sharp edge to it when talking to Alekke. "Supper isn't for another fifteen minutes."
Alekke nodded without looking up. "I… wanted to be early."
For a heartbeat, she said nothing.
Then, quietly, "These halls carry sound farther than you think."
Alekke's stomach tightened, and sweat formed on his forehead. "I wasn't… I wasn't talking to anyone."
Elin didn't challenge him. She simply walked to the nearest table, brushing her fingers along the carved edges.
"My father, Stenrik Stormrake," she said.
Stormrake. House Stormrake was old coastal nobility, famous for their longships—they practically built every ship on the western sea. Nothing matched their craftsmanship. Elin was married into House Skjoldr because Stormrake needed northern timber, and they offered her hand in exchange for access to the forests. She'd been against it at first… but she grew to love him soon enough.
"He used to say that the old Skjoldrs used to speak to the walls of Rimefell before every battle because the whispers, they claimed, held wisdom—the wisdom of the old lords? Fallen soldiers? Who can say? Perhaps it's just superstition."
She paused, her hand still on the wood.
"But what I do know is that the stones of Rimefell remember every victory." Her eyes lifted to Alekke. "...And every mistake."
Alekke couldn't look at her; he just swallowed hard. He wanted to leave. Shrink away into nothing.
Alekke lowered his gaze further. "Yes, my lady, I'm sorry..."
Elin's expression didn't soften. Stormrake daughters weren't raised to soften. They were raised like sons bred to command ships and men.
Alekke stayed perfectly still, hands folded in his lap, his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened.
"Good," she said, her voice still unchanged.
She turned away and left.
Alekke finally exhaled; it had felt like he had been holding his breath in since she entered.
He stayed silent; he didn't feel like talking to the whispers anymore. It didn't matter anyway; they were back to nonsense.
He just put his head down and stayed silent, waiting for supper.
Fifteen minutes slipped by like a slow tide.
Then the great bronze bell above the kitchens rang once, signaling the start of supper.
Alekke straightened, as the people would be coming in now.
The first to enter were the servants, slipping in. They moved efficiently, carrying steaming platters and pitchers of watered ale, setting them along the long tables. None of them looked at him, or they just didn't notice him in the dark corner.
More footsteps arrived.
Guards came in shortly after, off-duty men shaking the cold off themselves, laughing under their breaths. They took their places along the benches without hesitation, shoulders brushing, elbows knocking, already reaching for bread.
Then came the stablehands, the smith's apprentices, the washerwomen; the whole workfield of Rimefell filled the hall with low chatter. They sat where they pleased, where they always sat, where they belonged
He kept his gaze fixed on the table in front of him till a servant quietly settled his food in front of him. Once the servant was finished, she walked away and sat down.
Last but not least, the Skjoldrs arrived one by one.
First came Haldren, the eldest son.
Then Brynn, younger but louder, walked in laughing at something one of the guards said as he entered. His voice carried easily across the hall: bright, careless, and quite bratty.
They both washed up after the training with Father.
Signe slipped in next; she was quieter but, like Alekke, was an observer. Taking in the servants, the food, and then Alekke, but she quickly looked away.
The last child to come, Karia, the oldest child, eight years older than Alekke, stepped through the archway with her long, curly auburn hair that framed her face like a lion's mane. She was a head-turner even without meaning to. Karia was much more ladylike compared to Signe and was often mostly with her mother.
Karia was Alekke's least favorite sibling; she was too much like her mother in the way she talked and the way she walked. When Karia looked at him, she always looked indifferent toward him, but when it came to the other siblings, she was as affectionate as her mother, but when it came to Alekke, she was rude and uncaring.
Tonight was no different.
Her eyes passed over him with that same indifference, a brief flicker of acknowledgement that felt more like dismissal than recognition; however, just like her mother, she frowned when she saw Alekke.
She moved on, gliding toward the high table, her posture straight, her chin lifted just enough without arrogance.
Alekke lowered his gaze again.
Eirik Skjoldr and Lady Elin, were the last to step in.
They entered together, as they always did, not arm in arm, but close. Eirik's presence filled the doorway first, broad-shouldered and steady; Elin followed close behind, her expression composed.
As they entered the hall, the hall seemed to shift around them. Servants straightened, and the guards lowered their voices.
Eirik's gaze swept the room; it first landed on Alekke sitting isolated in his corner with his small table, meal, and wobbly chair.
Alekke shivered a little from his gaze till Eirik gave his acknowledging nod.
Alekke bowed his head in return because it felt right to do so, though he doubted Eirik saw it. The lord's attention had already moved on to his children.
Elin didn't even look at Alekke.
Her attention was already on her children, her steps moving towards the high table. Karia rose slightly as her mother approached, smoothing her skirts; Signe shifted to make room; Brynn grinned up at them both, his mouth full of bread and meat. Haldren rose slightly.
They gathered around Eirik like a hearthfire draws warmth.
Alekke loved the food, but supper always felt ruined. It was the time he felt most alone.
Haldren stepped forward first. "Father."
Eirik clasped his shoulder, firm and approving. "Your stance was stronger today."
Haldren tried his hardest not to beam. "Thank you, I've been practicing."
Brynn swallowed his mouthful of bread. "He's been showing off!" he said, crumbs spraying. "He's not even that good; all he does is riposte!"
Haldren shot him a prideful look. "But it works; maybe you're the one that sucks."
Brynn blew air to the side of Haldren's head. A sign of disrespect in the north.
Haldren recoiled and then snapped towards Brynn, "...You little shit!"
Brynn yelped, scooting back on the bench. "It was a joke!"
"Boys," Elin said, sighing.
Both froze.
Eirik put down his cup with an infuriatingly calm expression. "If you two have enough energy to quarrel, you have enough for drills early morning."
"But Father, he blew at me!"
Eirik didn't blink. "And you chose to escalate."
Brynn smirked victoriously.
"Quiet," Eirik said.
Brynn's smirk faded instantly.
Eirik let out an exhale through his nose, taking a sip of his drink.
Then he turned to Alekke, who was just staring at his stew. "Alekke? Would you like to join us?"
"Eirik?!" Elin said, her voice loud with disbelief.
"Father...?!" Karia echoed.
Signe, who was unusually quiet, straightened. Brynn's ears perked up. Haldren's face turned slightly anxious.
Alekke's spoon froze halfway to his mouth.
For a heartbeat, he wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. Eirik sometimes addressed him at supper but rarely.
Alekke lifted his head slowly.
Eirik was looking at him.
Alekke looked at Elin and Karia, and his throat tightened.
"I… I'm fine here, father…"
Elin's jaw clenched. "He is fine where he is, Eirik."
Karia nodded sharply.
Brynn frowned. "But why, Mother? Can't he sit with us?"
Elin's eyes snapped to Brynn. "Because it is not proper."
Alekke hated this spotlight his father put him in. It just makes everything awkward and not right.
"Well then, Alekke? Are you coming?" Eirik repeated.
"Father, this is unnecessary…" Karia said, voice thin and sharp.
"She's right, this is unnecessary." Elin reinforced.
"Quiet, the two of you."
Eirik didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to.
Elin's and Karia's mouths snapped shut. Elin's eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.
Eirik's gaze returned to him, steady and unreadable. "Alekke."
It wasn't an order from his father, but it had the weight of one.
He picked up his plates quietly.
Alekke rose from his wobbling chair, the legs scraping softly against the stone. His hands trembled slightly.
Brynn leaned forward, eyes bright with curiosity. Haldren shifted, unsure whether to smile or look away, but a slight smile came out.
Signe watched him with a smile, her fingers curled around her cup.
Elin's lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line.
Karia looked slightly scared and anxious.
Brynn scooted over eagerly. "Here, Alekke! Sit next to me!"
He sat down next to Brynn.
The chair didn't wobble at all.
"Very well, Alekke," his father said, faintly smiling, satisfied with his decision.
Alekke felt it like a jolt in his chest.
He lowered his gaze quickly and returned to eating his stew.
It tasted awkward but better somehow.
Eirik cleared his throat, which drew the children's attention without effort.
"There is something you all should know."
Eirik set down his spoon. "In the coming months, Rimefell will receive a visitor. Master Aric Vaelor, head of Steelford Academy."
The name landed like a heavy stone in deep water.