The Eyrie was vast—cold stone, narrow corridors, steep stairwells carved into the heart of a mountain. Servants moved in hushed tones, their eyes casting glances at Rodrik that were equal parts pity and reverence. To them, he was a boy who had survived death and fever, who carried the blood of an old and noble house.
To himself, he was a stranger with stolen skin.
Lord Royce had left soon after delivering the truth—or at least a truth. Rodrik hadn't moved from his seat near the hearth since. The fire had long died down to embers. The silence was a welcome reprieve… until the door creaked again.
A girl stood in the threshold.
She was small like him, just as young, with thick chestnut hair braided down her back and sharp gray eyes that mirrored his. There was defiance in her posture, but hesitation in her step.
She didn't wait to be invited.
"You don't remember me?" she asked, voice tight.
Rodrik's throat went dry. So this is Jeyne. His twin.
He shook his head slowly. "No. I… I'm sorry."
She walked up to him, chin raised, eyes narrowed like she was trying to spot the lie behind his words.
"They said you had a fever," she muttered. "That you forgot everything. Even me." The last word cracked with pain she clearly didn't want him to see.
"I didn't choose to forget," Rodrik said softly. "I wish I hadn't."
Jeyne looked away, jaw clenched. "Father used to say we were two halves of the same blade. Now you look at me like I'm a stranger."
He studied her — her strength, her guarded grief, her small fists clenched at her sides. She didn't cry, not even once. Just stood there, like a soldier made of porcelain and iron.
"I don't remember," Rodrik said again, "but I want to."
That seemed to soften her. She sat beside him, carefully, and stared into the dying fire.
"They buried Father and Myles near Runestone," she whispered. "The mountain clans left nothing but armor and ash. I saw Mother cry for the first time."
Rodrik turned to her. "Where is she?"
She was quiet for a moment. Then, almost inaudibly: "Gone. The fever took her not long after yours began."
So they were alone now.
Rodrik Aryan, a soul reborn into a shattered house. And Jeyne Aryan, a child forced to grow up too fast.
He reached out, unsure, and placed his small hand on hers. She looked at it like it was a ghost.
"We'll figure this out," he said. "Together."
She gave him a long, hard look… then nodded once.
"You better," she whispered. "You're the Lord of the Vale."
And Rodrik knew, in that moment, that the life he had known was gone. But something new had taken root in its place — something fragile and powerful.
And he would not waste it.