Chapter 2: Shadows of the Past

Alaric's boots clanged on the stone floor as he crossed the hallway toward the solar. Every step felt like grinding iron against bone. The corridor was lined with narrow windows; dawn light cut in sharp stripes across faded tapestries. He passed portraits of grim-faced ancestors—noblemen in gilded armor, their eyes cold and unwelcoming.

He rounded a corner and nearly collided with a burly page carrying a tray of plates. The boy stumbled, sending a swirl of steam and the scent of honeyed bread into the air.

"Sorry, milord!" the page stammered, dropping a loaf. Crust shattered on the flagstones.

Alaric's throat tightened. He closed his eyes and inhaled. The tang of broken memories flickered at the edge of his mind—his mother's bottle, splintered glass, bitter wine. He forced his feet to move past the page without a word.

The solar doors loomed ahead: carved oak, iron-bound. Two guards in battered breastplates nodded as he entered.

Inside, long tables were set with steaming porridge, fresh fruit, and thick slices of meat. Lady Brienne sat at the head in a high-backed chair, her gray hair pinned severe, eyes sharp as flint. She regarded Alaric with a thin smile that didn't reach her cold blue eyes.

"Good morning, nephew." Her voice was soft but carried the weight of authority.

He bowed his head. "Good morning, Aunt."

"Your appearance is… improved." She gestured to the seat beside her. "Sit."

He slid onto the bench, heart hammering. A pitcher of cider awaited him. He poured a goblet, the sweet tang chasing away the last embers of panic.

"Your mother's death," she began, studying the goblet, "cast a long shadow over this house."

Alaric tensed. He remembered her funeral: the slipshod eulogy, the villagers' pitying glances. His mother had been haggard, red-eyed, muttering curses in her final hours. Death had come as a mercy.

"I know," he said quietly. "I was there."

Her lips thinned. "You were a child then. You shouldn't have witnessed—"

"I saw everything." His voice cracked. "She… she hit me that night. I was eight. I pulled her arm, but she fell and cut her throat on broken glass."

Silence filled the hall. A knight at the far table paused mid-meal, eyes flicking toward him. Lady Brienne's face softened for the barest moment.

"That was an accident," she said, though her tone wavered. "Your father—I—I did what I could to shield you. He… he labored day and night to keep you fed."

Alaric's fingers curled around his goblet. "He worked me, too. At dawn, he sent me to the mill. At dusk, the fields. I never saw him but in the dark."

Brienne's gaze dropped. "Your father loved you. But the world… it spares no one."

A distant clang echoed from the training yard. Alaric flinched, memories of the forge's roar and the metal hammer's sting. He raised his eyes.

"I'm here to learn," he said. "To become worthy of Eboncrest."

Brienne studied him another moment, then nodded. "Good. Tomorrow, your first lesson with Master Arden. Today, rest and eat your fill."

She rose, pale skirts whispering. "Take Lord Harlan with you." She pointed to a lanky knight at the next table. "He will escort you."

Lord Harlan looked up—pale skin, reddish hair, a tangled mess of freckles. He gave a curt nod and stood, offering Alaric a silent arm.

Outside, the courtyard bustled: pages scattered buckets of water across stone, hounds barked in the kennels, and cadets sparred with wooden swords under Master Arden's watchful eye. The air smelled of dew, sweat, and sweat again.

Harlan led him to a bench. "First breakfast in weeks?" he asked, eyeing Alaric's untouched porridge.

Alaric sank onto the bench. "I barely remember breakfast." He scooped a spoonful. The porridge was bland but warm—comforting in its simplicity.

Harlan chuckled. "We train hard here. Don't waste your strength." He leaned forward, voice low. "Word is, the new lord is… unusual."

Alaric met his gaze. "I intend to prove myself."

Harlan's lips curved. "Good. Arden respects resolve."

Nearby, Master Arden—broad-shouldered, hair flecked with gray—shouted instructions. Alaric watched the cadets shift their weight, eyes narrowed. One stumble, one misstep, and they paid in bruises.

A flash of steel caught Alaric's eye. A cadet lunged at a moving target—an apprentice—blades ringing. The apprentice ducked, stab, parry: a violent dance. Alaric's stomach twisted. He remembered standing in a ring of onlookers, his mother's voice roaring in his ears: "Fight back, damn you!" He had curled into himself instead.

He set his spoon down. "Show me."

Harlan raised an eyebrow. "You can't just—"

But Alaric was already on his feet. He strode toward the melee, ignoring the ache in his thighs. A nearby cadet swung at a straw dummy. Alaric seized his chance: he plucked a dagger from a belt, hollowed from cheap iron, and grasped it with both hands.

The cadet whirled. Alaric lunged. The dagger caught the dummy's side, dull metal screeching against straw. The cadet cursed, swinging at him. Alaric twisted, blood pounding in his ears. He barely dodged, heart hammering.

Harlan's voice cut through the chaos: "Kid, back off!"

Alaric froze. The other cadet dropped his wooden sword and stared at him. Master Arden stomped over, face thunderous.

"What in the Seven Realms—?" Arden demanded.

Alaric dropped the dagger. "I wanted to train." His gaze didn't waver.

Arden's nostrils flared. "Training with dummies is one thing. You nearly killed him." He pointed to the other cadet, who rubbed his side, eyes wide.

Alaric swallowed. "He was in my way."

Arden studied him—a simmering rage in his gray eyes. Then, with a slow breath, he nodded. "Tomorrow. We begin properly."

Alaric exhaled, tension bleeding out. He looked at Harlan. The knight clapped him on the shoulder—hard enough to hurt. "Good twist, Lord Eboncrest. Showed steel."

Pain flared at his shoulder, and Alaric let himself smile. A small thing, but real.

Sunlight warmed his face. Somewhere beyond the yard, a hawk cried. Alaric closed his eyes.

He was dead once. He would not fail in this life.