He looked nothing like them. Like any of them. Erandon glared at the figure in the mirror. He did not have the dark hair notable of Northmen, but hair the color of wet hay. Not the strong features of the North but the high cheekbones and features more familiar in the south. The only piece of him that seemed tied to the north were his eyes. He had his mother’s eyes. Eyes as deep and dark as a swamp. He stood out in a crowd, and not in a good way. His bastard blood was as visible as his eyes, as his skin. His shame was a brand. Erandon wasn’t sure it would ever heal over, ever scar. The brand would be red and fresh and bleeding until the day he died. Stanwen would be here soon, and Erandon knew that there would be thunder behind him. Corwyn was the eldest son of Keld Stanwen and Heir to The Eye, and he’d slashed him. Why did he have to do this so often? His anger was like a devil in his ear, and he was happy to oblige it. Cutting Corwyn like that, he could have died. Luckily the Apothecaries said he’d be fine. Erandon’s stomach still churned though, as cruel as Corwyn was, the sight of the blood and the tears had shaken something in him. Erandon felt a sapling in a snowstorm. His brother, and he’d done that to him.

  He’d never call you brother. Something spat, deep in his head.

  I’m not Corwyn. Erandon shook his head. The stone seemed to suck in the cold, to hold it. His windows were shut and he could still see his breath in the air. There was a booming of footsteps somewhere down the hall. The thunder heralding the arrival of Keld Stanwen Todd of the Eye.

  And I’ve cut his firstborn son. That scar will not vanish. Erandon knew.

  The door flew open with the force of a furious father. It boomed off the wall with an explosive rattle.

  “You dare to strike my son!?” Stanwen thundered, stepping into the room with the presence of a King. Stanwen had killed men in battle, and the bastard fox knew it. Erandon shrank into himself, as if he could somehow vanish from the room if he tried hard enough not to exist. Erandon withered under his step father’s gaze.

  “I wasn’t-”

  “Silence, Wart!” Logar boomed from his position next to Stanwen.

  “I name you his squire, give you the chance to serve under my firstborn son, and this is the repayment you serve me?”

  “He-” Erandon started, but he was struck across the jaw. A burning flare of pain shot up his head. He spat a little blood from his mouth, the iron taste overwhelming.

  He shouldn’t have done it, he knew. But that bow, Corwyn had been so cocky. Anger had boiled within him like Balefire and he felt he had no choice but to strike. But how could Stanwen understand that? A bastard could not fight for honor he did not have.

  But I do have Honor. He may not say it, but I am a Todd. I have lived in the snow, the same as him! I have fished the eye, the same as anyone else, I am a Northman!

  But was he? He didn’t look like one. Perhaps he wasn’t. A cow born in a stable was no horse. Perhaps that’s what he was. An ox in a stable, never meant to ride.

  The room had been drenched in silence as Stanwen searched for his next words. He stared into Erandon’s soul, his eyes a swirling cauldron of rage and disgust.

  He cannot possibly hate me more than I do. Erandon decided. The blanket of silence stayed heavy, and Erandon wondered if Stanwen was waiting for another excuse to strike him.

  “You are lucky I love your mother.” Stanwen finally said. “Had any other man done this, I’d have killed him- do you hear me bastard?” He asked.

  Erandon finally spoke up.

  “I am not your enemy.” He said, hating the crack in his voice.

  Even now, you cannot be strong. Something whispered at the back of his head.

  Logar scoffed, and Erandon flinched as the giant of a man rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. Stanwen waved him off, stepping into the room.

  “I will be simple, and clear, so that you can understand me.” Stanwen spoke as if to a child, and Erandon felt his anger boil like a cauldron.

  “You are not my son. Do not expect to be treated as anything more than what you are. If it hadn’t been for your mother, you would have not lived a single breath under my roof.” He finished. Erandon did not speak, the words resting on him like a weight.

  “Yes, sir.” He said, careful not to address Stanwen as father. He’d been struck the first time that happened. Erandon shifted uncomfortably in his spot.

  “If I’d had it my way, you would have died the day you were born. It is only out of love for you mother I allow you to stand here.”

  “The rules were first blood-”

  “You struck him in the face with your sword! Had you pressed too hard you’d have killed him. In any case, you are a bastard! You should have given him victory. Instead, you chose to undermine him, embarrass him in front of his soldiers.” Stanwen’s voice was ice and iron. Erandon wasn’t sure what to say. His stomach was a boiling, bubbling cauldron and part of him screamed to strike Stanwen. But it would solve nothing. Stanwen would hate him more. His lot in life would become only worse.

  “I’m sorry, my Lord.” Erandon said through clenched teeth.

  “It is not I to whom you owe the apology.” Stanwen replied. Logar said nothing, a statue next to his Lord. Stanwen paused, as if to add something. He said nothing else. In a billow of his cape, he vanished from the room. Logar waited a moment behind him, watching Erandon.

  “What?” He finally managed to choke out, watching the towering Thegn.

  “You fought well.” He said. Erandon couldn’t speak, he almost had to double take. The Thegn had left the room before he could say another word. Despite himself, he could not help but smile. It was not for long though, as he recalled what he needed to do.

  Apologize for victory? Is that the way of the North? Erandon asked himself.

  In the chilly stillness of his room, Erandon considered what he’d do, what he’d say. He stood and approached his window, pushing it open. The north stretched out beneath him, and he closed his eyes. Erandon imagined himself as a raven, wings stretched wide and flying over the North. South, towards Harlan’s Reach, where the snow and pines and ironoak gave way to the rolling hills and warm forests of maple and oak and birch. When he opened his eyes, he found himself looking at the stables of the Eyefort. He thought about sneaking through the silent halls of the castle, taking a horse and vanishing into the darkness of the night.

  Everyone would be happier that way.

  But Erandon’s thoughts were interrupted by a distant dark shape on the horizon. A bird was closing in on the Eyefort, towards the Tower. At the top of that tower, the ravens were kept- alongside many ancient records. His mother slept somewhere in that tower too. Corwyn and the others slept in rooms where the tower connected to the rest of the fortress. The bird flew with a grave importance, as if it knew the world would ensure its safe passage to its goal.

  A message? He wondered who might be writing to the Todds, and what for.

  Erandon slipped out of his room and began to make his way in the direction of the base of the tower.

  Corwyn was already in the hall when Erandon was halfway to his room. They were silent while a patrol of guards passed, offering Corwyn a salute as they did.

  “What are you doing out here?” Erandon asked, eyes drawn to the thin cloth tracing from just under his eye down to the edge of his lip, freshly applied.

  “I should ask you the same. Come to finish the job?” He pointed to his bandage.

  “I’m-” Erandon began, but Corwyn grinned.

  “Wounded in a duel, and I’m yet to reach my thirteenth Wakeday!” He enthused. Erandon was still unsure of what to say. If Corwyn wasn’t mad, then he wouldn’t draw any attention to it.

  “It was a good cut.” Corwyn said. “You’re still a halfwit bastard, but you can swing a sword. Maybe I can make a Yeoman of you.” He clapped Erandon on the shoulder.

  “There’s a raven bringing a message.” Erandon said, motioning towards the ceiling.

  Luckily for the both of them, Erandon knew of one of the servants' passages down the hall from Corwyn’s room. Two servants frequently made use of them, both of which Erandon had met on a number of occasions. Even as a Bastard they seemed worried to speak to him. He idled somewhere between rungs on the social strata. Not quite Highborn, not exactly Lowborn. Something else. Different. A burden.

  The two of them stopped outside the door.

  “Are you sure this will work?” Corwyn asked, some disdain audible beneath his words.

  “It’s too late to argue about that, we’ll miss the raven.” Erandon dismissed his concerns as he knocked in the pattern they had established. Three knocks, then two, then three.

  “What if they aren’t there?” Corwyn asked, and Erandon was dumbstruck by the fact he hadn’t even considered that. Before he could be carried away by his worry, the door swung inwards, and he was face to face with one of the servants. Veylyn. Her hair was so dark it almost seemed absorbed by the shadow behind her, blue eyes as icy as the lake outside the Eyefort tracking him.

  “There’s a raven.” Erandon said dumbly. He wasn’t quite sure what else to say. Corwyn led.

  “Take us to the bird, girl.” He said, motioning to the stairs behind her. Veylyn narrowed her eyes and did not initially move. Footsteps in the corridor behind her alerted the trio to the arrival of her brother, Manden.

  “Come on.” He said, waving for them to follow.

  Their ascension through the walls of the castle was, for the most part, silent. Echoes carried far down the servants passages, and Erandon wondered if they were designed that way intentionally. To carry the sound further so that spies could more easily listen in. In any case, they did not wish for anyone who happened to be listening to know they were there. Part way up the wall they intercepted the messenger. A scrawny and hunched man named Portyn hobbled down the hall, cradling the raven in one arm and holding a letter of some form in his other hand. Grinning like a madman, Erandon guessed by his trajectory he could be heading for Keld Stanwen’s room, or perhaps the Great Hall. Their group pushed through the darkness, stopping at cracks and holes, spying as Portwyn reached Logar in the hallway.

  “It’s happened!” Portwyn creaked, his old voice as dry as sand. But there was glee there. Even Logar smiled, motioning for Portwyn to follow him. The unlikely duo took off, faster than Erandon thought Portwyn could even move.

  “What do you think the letter says?” Corwyn asked, earning a glare from the siblings.

  “It must be good news.” Erandon replied. “Did you see his face?”

  They stayed close.

  “You know what this means.” Portwyn’s voice was sharp, rigid. Filled with purpose.

  “Yes.” Logar replied, but there was something hesitant under his voice. “We are not ready.”

  “We can only buy so much time.” Portwyn replied dismissively. Logar did not reply. Both men stayed silent as a group of Todd House Guards passed them in the stone hall. Corwyn thrummed with excitement, practically bouncing as they moved down the wide stone passage.

  Veylyn led the way into the passage that moved between Stanwen Todd’s room and one of the servant’s staircases. Manden watched the stairs, raising a single finger to his lips to shush them.

  Erandon gave a quiet prayer to Adunta, hoping that the god of inbetweens would give him good luck. Kelda Raslyn and Keld Stanwen were both in the room already. The Herald of Signs, head of the Triune Faith in the Eyefort was here too- strange, Erandon hadn’t seen him in some time. Logar’s heavy knock came at the door, and Portwyn and his giant follower joined the trio already in the room.

  What have we stumbled across? Erandon asked himself. He did not have an answer. Corwyn pressed his ear to one of the cracks in the wall, Veylyn falling in next to Erandon to watch. The three of them were nearly shoulder to shoulder within the wall, and Erandon feared at any moment accusatory eyes would lock onto him. The room seemed to hold its breath. Portwyn’s old face slit with a wide and sinister grin.

  Logar shut the door behind them, placing himself in front of it like a fleshy barricade.

  “King Lucen the IVth Azalus is dead.” He said gleefully.

  Veylyn’s hand slapped over Erandon’s mouth as he sucked in a breath to gasp. Corwyn was frozen solid. Manden kept his silent vigil at the staircase. Luckily for their quartet, nobody in the room seemed to have heard the noise.

  Keld Stanwen nodded thoughtfully as Erandon watched his Lady Mother smile sadly. Tears, though Erandon could not tell if they were of joy or sadness, streamed down her cheeks and ruined her makeup. Herald of Signs Sebast Seawatch stood up from his cushioned chair and placed his hands behind his back.

  “The waters spoke of months, not days.” Keld Stanewen said.

  “The Triune serves on its own time.” Sebast replied, running a hand through his graying, black hair.

  Keld Stanwen embraced Kelda Raslyn. “Our work is not yet finished, my love. The blood still flows.”

  “Yes.” Kelda Raslyn replied as her husband wiped her tears. She gave a determined smile.

  “They will call us to swear fealty to the new Azalus.” Keld Stanwen turned towards the room.

  “We still have time yet, she’s merely a girl.” Portwyn shrugged Princess Meriwyn’s name off.

  “The Highfather of their Nine will seek to anoint her, and quickly. They will try to legitimize her before the people.” The Herald of Signs spoke with grave clarity.

  Keld Stanwen shook his head. “After all we have suffered….no.”

  Erandon couldn’t believe what he was hearing. They were speaking of treason! But could he entirely blame them? King Lucen’s only child was a ten year old girl. Sure, the Kingdom was in a time of peace- but with all the schemers? Erandon’s stomach flipped. The Princess would become a tool. The ruler of the Durendane would be whoever could sway the girl.

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  Kelda Raslyn looked to Logar.

  “We have long prepared for this. Erandon’s wakeday is in a scant few hours. We should wait for his return to make our next decision.”

  My return? But why? Erandon wasn’t sure what to make of it. Corwyn gave him a curious glance in the darkness. Disgust? Anger? Confusion? Erandon wasn’t sure.

  “I shall take him to the Ratwood.” Logar nodded.

  Keld Stanwen’s face was a whirlpool of emotions.

  “Are we certain there are no other options?” He asked his wife.

  “The houses will not be united under another.” Kelda Raslyn insisted.

  Erandon wasn’t sure all that was being implied here. He didn’t like what he did. The room became silent.

  “For now…” Portwyn began, “We have won a victory. Celebrations are in order!” He cackled.

  From outside, they could hear some music within the Eyefort. The news of the King’s death had not yet been spread among the staff of the castle, though many of the castle’s servants had been given the rest of the day for themselves.

  The four of them were in the frosted grass of the courtyard, seemingly alone.

  “What are…what are we doing?” Erandon asked. “What should we do?”

  “You won’t say a word.” Corwyn pointed accusingly at Erandon. “Your loyalty is to your house, isn’t it, bastard?” Corwyn asked, the camaraderie from earlier lost.

  “He’s your brother-” Veylyn began, but Corwryn cut her off.

  “He’s not my brother.” The Keldling insisted. “He’s…a mark of shame. A wart!”

  Erandon said nothing.

  Manden glanced towards the castle doors nervously.

  “But why are they waiting for him? They said uni-”

  “Silence!” Corwyn hissed. “I’ll…I’ll figure that out myself. But we do not speak of this. If House Todd…has ambitions….” The boy said, picking his words carefully, “then we owe it to the house, we owe our blood to it!” He pointed accusingly at each of them in turn.

  “Who has housed, fed, clothed you? It was not the king! It was my Father!”

  Manden nodded, head bowed. He looked like a monk, bald and in his simple brown robes. Veylyn was boiling, but did not speak. Corwyn was the son of Keld Stanwen, and any outburst could mean the end of her stay in the castle. Her family had served the Todds as servants for generations.

  How many lived and died dusting shelves? Erandon thought, and his disgust must have become visible on his face. Corwyn thundered towards the taller boy, tapping him in the chest.

  “Remember where your loyalties lie! If it weren’t for my family, you’d be dead!”

  “Our family, she’s my mother too! I was here first!” Erandon shot back.

  “Shut up!” Corwyn shouted, and Manden became even more fearful,

  “We should be quiet!” He whimpered, but Erandon was lost to his anger already.

  “I was born first. I should be the heir to the Eyefort, not you.” He said.

  “Bastard blood will never sit the Seat of Bone.” Corwyn replied defiantly. “Northman have fought and died before to ensure it.”

  Feeling bold, Erandon took a step forward.

  “Do you want to join them?” He asked, and was instantly taken aback by his own words. Corwyn stepped back, away from him, his lower lip quivering.

  “I didn’t…” Erandon began, but his younger brother was already leaving. Veylyn eyed Erandon warily.

  “You either control your emotions, or your emotions control you.” She said, and a nearby set of doors opening sent all three of them scrambling in different directions.

  He was back before that mirror again, staring at himself. The King had been lingering in the back of his mind, like a specter. The Azalus’ were known for their blonde hair, for their paler eyes. They were the Southlander Kings who led the Landfall, who eradicated the monsters that threatened the land and brought the Church of the Nine to Durendane. House Todd, of course, worshipped the Northern Triune gods. Verord, the spirit of the wind and air and sea,Dagona, the land and animals, and Adunta, in between spaces and secrets. According to the rumors and stories told by Corwyn, his mother had been unfaithful to his father in the past and cheated on him with a Southlander. This was the basis for Stanwen’s hatred, Erandon guessed. He must look like his father. Erandon had his mother’s eyes, but not her hair. Nothing else about him seemed Northern. Part of him was secretly happy Stanwen wasn’t his father, that it hurt him so badly- but he chased that away, guilt weighing his heart.

  He did not sleep. Laying atop his covers in the darkness, Erandon stared at the ceiling. He’d left his window open, allowing the chill of the evening air to press into the room. Out of the corner of his eye he could see one of the brightest stars.

  King Gallan’s Star. Erandon identified. King Gallan the Ist Azalus had been ruler just after The Landfall. His sword was flaming, the legends said it was because he plunged it into the heart of a dragon. As it screamed and died, the fire bursting from its heart lit his blade ever aflame. However, his flaming sword was lost in the sea when King Gallan led his fleet against the last Kraken, Ahyb.

  I face my own Kraken tomorrow. If I am not careful, it will swallow me whole.

  Erandon sat up in the darkness of his room. He could no longer stand it to lay there. He crossed the stone of the floor, and slipped into the hallway. It was as dark and silent as the void between dreams. Erandon waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness as he fumbled his way through it, moving towards the end of the hall.

  He could not see, but he knew at once he was not alone in the gloom.

  “You couldn’t sleep either?” Veylyn asked. He nodded, though he wasn’t sure she could see him. They were both silent for a time, until she spoke again.

  “I know a place. If you want to see it.” She said. Her voice was soft, almost melodic.

  “Lead the way.” Erandon said. He followed the sound of her footsteps on the cold stone as he finally began to see. He could make out the dark shapes of doorways and armor stands. He could see the shade of Veylyn moving through the center of the corridor. She moved swiftly through the darkness, gliding across the castle floors like a ghost.

  “Where’s Manden?” Erandon asked.

  “He never has trouble sleeping.” She whispered.

  Veylyn suddenly stopped, drawing aside a tapestry and pressed a brick into the wall. With a sound that was far too loud in the stillness of the night, a doorway wide enough for one person to squeeze through opened in the wall. A grinding, growling sound that he worried would wake the castle.Veylyn entered first.

  Erandon idled near the entrance of the tunnel.

  “Who goes there?” A voice echoed down the hall. There was no time for thinking.

  He hurled himself through the crevice, then after the sound of Veylyn as he felt himself step atop a pressure plate of some kind.

  The passage led to a secret room of some sort. It was not large, and seemed only home to crumbling bookshelves and rotten scrolls so mildewed they could not be read. There was a window that dominated the farthest wall of the room.

  “What is this place?” Erandon asked Veylyn.

  “It’s your family.” She teased, as if he should know. “Well it’s clearly a room. The Eyefort is large, I imagine the family simply forgot about it over the years. Manden and I found it.” She scratched the back of her neck.

  “You’re the only one who knows besides us.” She said.

  Erandon approached the window, looking out over the view. The moon granted enough light to cast the mountains to the north in a beautiful pale glow. The snowy dunes that cut the north apart rolled like the waves of a great white ocean.

  “Why did you tell me?” He asked, unable to tear his eyes away from the landscape.

  Veylyn swept across the floor in graceful silence, coming to stand by his side at the window. The two of them watched the rolling milky hills that dominated the lands nearby, the distant pinpricks of light marking villages, the Town of the Eye that spilled out around the edges of the fortress, outside of its walls. Far off were the great forests, and even further away the highest crags of the Peak of Dead Kings. Veylyn finally broke the silence.

  “We’ve never spoken much.” She started. “But you’re more like us than you are them. Highborn don’t treat their own like that. You’ve never treated us like that.” He could feel her watching him, but for some reason he could not return her gaze.

  “It’s beautiful up here.” Erandon said. “I could stay forever.”

  “You’d starve.” Veylyn replied.

  The first claws of the sun reached the horizon as the great flaming beast began to pull itself into the sky.

  “It’s my Wakeday.” Erandon said, watching the sun begin its work.

  “Are you scared?” Veylyn asked. Women did not undergo the Rite of Wood, they had their own ways of proving themselves.

  “Yes.” Erandon said, unable to lie. He was afraid. Not of dying. Of living, and being forced to return home. To live with the shame of failure. A man who failed the Rite of Wood was no man at all. He could be disinherited by his family. Some Houses would bar you from land ownership within their territory. But the worst part of it all would be Stanwen being right.

  I must not fail. I will not fail. Erandon vowed. “Thank you.” He said to Veylyn.

  “Of course.” She smiled so warmly Erandon could forget the cold.

  The Rite of Wood was one of the tasks a Trueborn son of a Northern House must undergo. It marked the passage of boy to man. A Northman who could not survive the wild was not fit to rule in it. It would be one week in the wild, during which Erandon could not seek help. Given that some did not survive this transition, or were forced to return home and may be exiled, the family of the boy undergoing the rite would often give to him a gift. It was for this reason that Erandon was kneeling in the great hall of the Fort of the Eye. Nearly every occupant of the fort was crowded into the hall, save the guards.

  Why am I here? I am a bastard. He thought. He could see Corwyn, Noen, and Delysia lined up to the right of Stanwen. His half-siblings wore a range of emotions. Noen was still young, a mere 8 years old. He was still tired, and his shaggy hair covered his eyes. But he seemed happy enough. Delysia, his youngest half-sister, was practically bouncing in place, she was so excited. Erandon could see she clutched her gift behind her back. Corwyn looked almost suspicious of the entire situation. He eyed Erandon with the vigilance of a Thegn. The stone of the floor was ice cold as it dug into his knees.

  “Erandon Foxx.” Stanwen’s voice was like the rumble of an avalanche as it echoed through the Great Hall. Raslyn sat on her Ironoak throne next to his Step Father, beaming. Erandon couldn’t help but frown at the sound of his bastard name.

  “Are you prepared for this holy tradition, to follow in the steps of thousands who came before you?”

  “I am.” Erandon managed to creak out, barely audible even with the acoustics of the room. Off to his side, he could see Manden and Veylyn. The little bald boy struggled to peer through the crowd.

  “Do you understand that your failure marks you as unfit for rule in the eyes of the gods, and will render you an exile from the Eyefort for the rest of your days?” He asked. Erandon could swear there was a hint of excitement under his voice.

  “I understand.” Erandon managed, sounding a bit stronger this time.

  Corwyn approached first, and lowered him something bound in cloth. Erandon gingerly unwrapped it. A rusty carving knife sat within the piece of ragged fabric.

  “Thank you.” He said, but the boy was already gone. Next was Noen, who ran up with a hand behind his back. He smiled widely. The boy presented his gift in grubby hands, and Erandon’s eyes widened- a piece of flint.

  “I found this neat rock. I’d like you to have it!”

  Erandon grinned, taking the piece of flint.

  “Thank you, little brother.” Erandon said the last half quietly, but he could see Keld Stanwen’s jaw tighten with anger. Lastly, Delysia approached. She had her father’s hair and her mother’s eyes. Delysia passed Erandon a carved symbol of a raven’s skull adorned with antlers- the Holy symbol of Dagona, the god of the wild and forests.

  Erandon accepted her gift gingerly. Delysia hugged him, and whispered in his ear.

  “You’d better come back, I bet Corwyn my slice of the cake!”

  Erandon grinned as his younger sister stepped back and away from him, returning to Noen and Corwyn.

  “Rise.” Stanwen commanded.

  Erandon obeyed.

  Logar approached Erandon, handing him a thin spear, with a spearhead carved of bone. Erandon took the spear in his hand, clutching it tightly, trying to hide the shaking in his hand.

  “Then depart this hall a boy, and return a man.” Kelda Raslyn commanded. As she spoke, every grown man in the hall stomped.

  Logar led the way.