Arion, or Gabriel as he'd once been called, lived the next year in quiet misery.
In the cradle of golden halls and solemn silence, the child once called Gabriel continued to exist—not live, not grow, only endure. Time did not pass for him in days or moons, but in the changing weight of his heart. If he had a name, it was now Arion. If he had a home, it was a gilded cage. And if he had a destiny, it watched him from the shadows, breathing.
The halls of Castle Ortenia were tall and gilded, draped in banners of sapphire and white, but all the gold in the world could not mask the coldness that lingered in the stone. Especially in the nursery.
Each day fell like dust upon the last. Meals, robes finer than his nature could tolerate, and the gaze of a mother who smiled but never slept. Lady Ariana. Noble. Beautiful, her face carved from frost and fire. But her eyes were tired. She cradled him with the tenderness of a mother and the calculation of a regent preparing her heir for war.
She fed him, clothed him, held him in arms softer than snow—but there was something beneath her skin, a storm that never passed.
He could not protest. Not because he was forbidden, but because protest belonged to those with freedom.
But freedom came sooner than expected. At long last, Arion's legs—those slender, untried limbs that had once trembled beneath the weight of his own ambition had grown strong enough to bear him, though they still trembled a little with the effort.
He did not wait for a hand to guide him, nor arms to carry him through familiar halls. He walked. The stone floors of the keep were cold beneath his feet, the air heavy with the mingled scents of hearth smoke, steel, and old dust. He knew these corridors well—or thought he did, either way, he was determined to acquaint himself with the grand castle that had thus far been more prison than playground.
It wasn't truly a castle, though everyone called it one. It had no great hall with soaring ceilings, no banners rustling in the draughts. No throne sat waiting in judgment. But it wasn't quite a manor either. The stone walls were too thick, the towers too high, the gates too heavy.
It stood three stories high and shaped itself into a mighty 'U', as though embracing all who entered its fold.. Some said it had once been a fortress. Others claimed it had been built by merchants fat on spice gold. Arion did not know, and no one seemed eager to tell him.
The left wing belonged to the servants and guards. Arion spent more time there than anyone guessed. It was where the fires burned hottest, where food bubbled in iron pots and meat sizzled on spits. The cooks had long since stopped chasing him from the kitchens. He was no longer the mewling babe they'd once passed from arm to arm.
He had endured nearly a full year nourished by the singular sustenance of milk—sweet, yes, but repetitive to the point of madness.. So it was that the arrival of teeth marked the beginning of a splendid romance with solid food, and with it, a budding obsession. Arion was, in truth, a gourmand in miniature..
Since then, he had devoured everything with a hunger that frightened even the fat cook with the missing finger. He still remembered the bite of roasted pork in his mouth, and how it had made his eyes water and his soul sing.
The right wing held a different kind of order—a place of steel and discipline. The knights resided here, their chambers stern and sparse; they trained in the mornings and bled in the afternoons, muttering curses as they stitched up their own wounds. And it was here, too, that honoured guests were quartered when occasion called for hospitality. With tired eyes, lords and ladies slept well, under wool blankets and rooms that smelled of old steel and damp stone.
Beyond it all, high stone walls circled the castle-manor, thick enough to hold off a siege, though none had come in living memory. Guards stood stiff and silent, their forms etched against the sky like statues wrought from granite. Arion had always watched them from below, wondering what they could see from up there—what lay beyond the walls.
Today, at last, he would find out.
It was along these halls that Arion now walked, accompanied by the ever-watchful maid charged with overseeing his daily habits and proper development. She gestured this way and that, naming places, recounting purposes, weaving for him a tapestry of meaning from every corridor and courtyard. Her words were informative, her tone patient—but Arion's heart beat for something else entirely.
At last, the moment had arrived when he would be permitted to ascend the castle walls and cast his gaze beyond their age-old stone. Until now, the world beyond had been but a hazy promise glimpsed from the narrow confines of his chamber window. He had seen, in the far-off distance, hints of a city—a collection of roofs, a shimmer of spires—but they were always obscured, veiled by the very walls that kept him safe and separate.
But not today.
Today he would see what lay beyond.