Winter had closed its jaws around the castle, and the snows showed no sign of relenting. The winds howled down from the high mountains like wolves on the hunt, and even the oldest stones of Castle Thornecrest. groaned beneath the cold. The snow fell in such tremendous flurries that not even the bravest footman dared venture beyond the keep unless paid handsomely or threatened sternly.
At first, Arion had greeted the season with enthusiasm—a romantic fancy one might say—wrapped in warm coats and full of notions about snowy adventures and merry games.
But now! Oh, now that same winter seemed less a charming guest and more an overbearing aunt who had overstayed her welcome. The storm howled without end, and the snow, which once seemed innocent and pure, had turned into a bitter tyrant, imprisoning him within the thick, unyielding walls of Castle Thornecrest. And thus, poor Arion—our small hero—was condemned to spend his days locked away like a prince in a tale, confined to his chambers where the hearth fire blazed like a caged lion, holding the frost at bay but never banishing it entirely.
Yet even the walls of a castle cannot contain a curious soul forever, especially not one as vigorous and insatiably inquisitive as Arion. No corner was left unexamined, no servant spared his questions, no curious object untouched by his ever-restless hands. He prowled the tapestried halls with the hungry eyes of a scholar and the nimble fingers of a thief, as though some secret lay just beneath the surface of every stone.
Yet, even this tireless exploration could not soothe the dull ache of confinement. Days passed, and a kind of madness crept in—an affliction particular to bright minds locked in silent rooms.
It was then that Arion discovered the training yard.
From the high windows of his father's study, he observed with wide, enchanted eyes as Lord Sued, his father, sparred with the knights in the snow-covered courtyard below. What a strange and splendid scene it was! Bursts of uncanny light—like the shimmer of steel on moonlight—crackled in the air. Blows were traded with such force that the very earth seemed to quake in submission. And yet it was not war, but instruction. Lord Sued moved like a storm among them—calm, controlled, devastating—and at the end of each match, he would speak, either to one or to all, correcting form or temper with a teacher's tongue.
Arion watched—and yearned.
A fire lit behind his ribs, one not kindled by hearth or flame, but by longing. He could bear it no longer. One morning, with the steely resolve of a boy certain he is older than he is, he evaded the watchful eyes of the castle maids, slipped down the servants' stairs, and crept toward the training yard like a squire in a tale of old.
But alas! No sooner had he crossed the threshold than a great hand, calloused and heavy as the bark of an ancient tree, lifted him bodily into the air by the scruff of his tunic.
"Well, what curious creature have we here?" grumbled the old knight who held him, peering with one brow raised and a grin twitching at the corner of his weathered mouth.
This was Commander Marius, a man known in taverns and courts alike as the iron hand of Thornecrest. Few dared cross him; fewer still escaped unscathed.
Arion wriggled like a hooked fish, indignant under the knight's amused gaze. He did not like the look in the old man's eyes—those twinkling, patronising eyes that saw a mischievous child get caught. He was placed gently on the ground.
"Master Arion," said Marius, setting him down as one might a misplaced cat, "this is no place for play. Back to your warm fire, little lord."
But Arion, whose pride was of a particularly durable breed, shook his head fiercely. He tried to speak, though his words came garbled by both cold and lack of grammar: "Tai—I wish to—" He paused, realizing the failure of language, and instead struck a pose—arms flexed, feet planted—an imitation of the castle's stone warriors.
Commander Marius blinked. Then he laughed—a great booming laugh, like thunder tumbling down a staircase. He had heard rumours of the boy's strangeness. Tales told in whispers by kitchen girls and stable-hands. And now, faced with the very child himself, he saw the truth in every word.