It was early still, the sun casting its golden rays across the earth with all the warmth it could muster—though even then, a certain wintry sharpness clung to the air like a stubborn guest who would not be dismissed. The snow had come early this year—or so the older folk with red cheeks and cracking joints had taken to saying. Arion, however, knew only that the world had turned white and cold, and that he was wrapped in so many layers of wool and fur that his limbs moved with the grace of a stuffed doll.
And yet he did not mind. The weight of his clothes—layer upon layer bundled tight by fretful hands—slowed his steps, but not his will. He waddled through the snow like a small bear cub, determined, focused.
He walked at the side of his ever-watchful maid, his mittened hands swinging clumsily at his sides, his breath rising in little clouds of mist that delighted him beyond measure. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled with purpose, again and again, giggling each time the white smoke curled from his lips. Snowflakes clung to his lashes and caught in his dark hair, and though his feet sank into the powdery drifts, he found the sensation exhilarating.
Before he had come to this strange and wondrous world, snow had existed only in the flickering light of a television screen or the glowing images of films. The land he once called home had known rain, yes, and summer storms, but not this. Not the silence of snowfall.
Now, with his small fingers curled into snowballs, his cheeks reddened by the frost, and his laughter echoing through the courtyard, Arion could have been mistaken for any ordinary child. That, in itself, was something of a marvel.
From the gallery above, Lady Ariana stood watching—her figure cloaked in silks lined with fur, but her eyes—those cold blue eyes—never left her son. She observed him with no small measure of wonder, particularly when he tumbled backwards into a snowbank and waved his arms like an overturned tortoise. There was a pause, a moment of struggle, and then his limbs flailed in protest as he tried—and failed—to regain his footing. She smiled.
"At last, he plays like a proper child," she thought.
And yet, beneath that smile, there lay a mother's doubt—a creeping, persistent unease that she dared not speak of in drawing rooms or parlours. Arion was her firstborn, and there was love in that bond, as any mother might know. But there was also mystery.
The children of other highborn ladies cried and giggled, simple as lambs. Her boy? He watched. He schemed. She had seen it in the sharpness of his gaze, the too-still quiet when others entered the room. In the night, he would cry with cunning precision—just long enough to rouse them, just long enough to leave her and her lord bleary-eyed with exhaustion. He seemed to sleep only in the daylight,
Things had changed, somewhat, when the kitchen opened its doors to him. The smells—roasting meat, baked bread, and simmering stews—it tamed him, just a little.
The maid walked beside him now, half-guiding, half-chasing. Arion pressed forward, drawn not to the games of snow and child's play, but to the wall—the old wall, cold and weather-worn, its surface pitted and pale with lichen and frost. Shadows gathered at its base, long and dark. When he neared, his face disappeared into them.
The girl didn't understand. She never did. She was used to children who cried for sweets or ran from chores. Not this one. Not Arion. He studied the wall like a general might study a battlefield.
The maid accompanying him had served in the household long enough to know strange things when she saw them, and this child was no ordinary charge.
She remembered a morning not long past. She had been late in her duties, delayed by a mishap below stairs, and came upon the nursery from the far end of the hall. A sound reached her first—not weeping, not laughter, but a melody, strange and halting. Like someone singing and forgetting the words halfway through. Her blood ran cold. She ran, fearing some stranger had found their way to the boy. Yet when she entered, there was no one—only Arion, standing unsteadily, watching her with eyes too sharp, too knowing.
Others had heard it too. Always the same: the song, the silence, the stare.
"Arion, mind the steps, dearest," Lady Ariana called, descending toward him with all the grace of her station. "You'll take a tumble if you're not careful."
He understood half the words, perhaps less. But the tone, the caution, he grasped well enough. He nodded solemnly, as if to make a show of obedience, and then, with all the determination a child can muster, he approached the stone staircase.
He tried it—once, twice—but his limbs failed him. It was too much for him—too tall, too steep. He made an effort, he truly did, pushing aside his mother's hand again and again with a stubborn pride that made her chuckle. But in the end, he yielded. Their fingers entwined—hers elegant and gloved, his small and mittened—and together they ascended.
With every step, the view expanded. The rooftops of the castle dipped behind them, and the sky opened above, silver and wide. The snow-swept city below came slowly into view, as if unveiled by some divine hand. A gust of wind stirred the air, sending a flurry of flakes dancing against Arion's cheeks, where they met their quiet end upon the warmth of his skin.
At the parapet he stood, straining to see beyond—and failing. He leapt, once, then again, to no avail. But then his mother's arms wrapped around him, lifting him high. He did not protest. For once, he allowed himself to be carried.
The sight that met him stole the words from his mind.
The castle stood upon the crown of a mountain, its base cloaked in ice and snow, its proud face overlooking a city nestled in the valley below. A waterfall, now frozen into jagged crystal, spilled from the cliffs and reached all the way to the town's edge. The city itself was modest in size but rich in spirit—timbered homes and stone buildings, chimneys puffing cheerily, people scurrying about with purpose, unaware of the child who watched them with such longing.
Arion gazed upon it all, and something within him stirred. A yearning, pure and whole, unlike any he had felt before. A hunger not of the body, but of the spirit. Not ambition. Not yet. But wonder. Wonder, and longing.
He would go there. Someday. Beyond these walls. Into the city. Into the world.
He would learn it. He would master it.