There were ravens at the window. He could feel their eyes on him as he awoke. The inky birds were silent as Erandon rose to a sitting position, staring back. There were four of them, all standing as still and silent as dead trees. They watched him, but as they did he noticed an almost bristling anger amongst them. As if any moment the flock could burst into violence. He did not care to clean their blood from his window, and so Erandon rose, coughing loudly to shoo the birds. But they did not leave, not until he crossed the cold stone floor of his room, leaving the silky comfort of his bed, to fling the thin window open. The birds scattered to the four corners of the skies, cawing in anger as they left. Erandon shivered in the early morning chill, and allowed himself a moment to gaze over The Eye. The lake was shimmering in the early morning, the waves calm and as blue as the skies above them. The ice had melted, summer was coming.

  And my Wakeday. Erandon thought, the weight of responsibility threatening to drag him out the window. He stepped back, and turned towards the door, wondering if he might be able to grab another hour or so of sleep. Alas, his plotting was interrupted by the thundering of a fist on the Ironoak door. A heavy knocking that seemed to bounce off the walls and shove Erandon towards the entryway. He thought of ignoring it, but decided better, blearily striding across the floor to open the heavy door to his room. He knew who would be there before he opened the entrance.

  Thegn Logar of Westhall was a man that was nearly too tall to enter Erandon’s room. In his armor even now, the man towered above Erandon. The sword on his side was nearly as tall as the boy.

  “Good morn.” Erandon managed to eke out before Logar’s heavy hand fell onto his shoulder.

  “You’ve been summoned by Keld Stanwen Todd,Wart.” He spat the last word at Erandon. The boy frowned. The Thegn did not like him by any means, but he typically only called Erandon by his brother’s nickname for him when he was in a foul mood. Logar of Westhall was chosen as Thegn for a reason, and he seemed to view Erandon’s existence as an insult to the house. He leaned in, narrowing his beady black eyes. His thick blanket of a beard swayed as he did so. Erandon’s shoulders slumped. He could already feel he was in for a long day. “Yes sir.” Erandon answered, deciding it wasn’t worth the argument.

  As they walked, Erandon spent a moment to look at the Crest of Westhall that adorned the knight’s back. A purple castle with a blue rooftop, on a white field. The rest of the Ser Lorgar was adorned in the greens and golds of House Todd that were everywhere else in The Castle of The Eye. The halls of Eyefort were mostly bare, the Todds did not often waste resources on the arts. There was always work to be done.

  They finally reached Keld Stanwen’s hall just a few minutes later. A Keld, or Kelda, was a spring. When used in the North, it most often referred to the head of a family. The “spring” from which the family flows.

  Ser Logar glared down at him, the towering northmen took a position to the right of the heavy double doors. Erandon paused outside the chamber for a moment.

  “What are you waiting for?” Logar growled. “We haven’t all day.”

  We? Erandon wondered, glancing between the angry steel tower and the door. He sighed as he pressed into the room, shouldering the heavy door open.

  A day with Logar. Lucky me. He almost scoffed as he entered the wide open great hall of the Eyefort.

  Erandon had to fight to keep the smile off of his face. Keld Stanwen hated his smile. “What’s a bastard got to be smiling about?” He’d ask. But the great hall of the Castle of the Eye had a way of doing that to him. Beautiful Ironoak pillars, as dark as the night sky, held up the arched stone ceiling. Mounted along the walls to his left and right were the greatest trophies hunted by House Todd, beasts of prodigious size and violence. The White Moose that had killed Noen the Elder, the bear that had once ravaged northern trade caravans, among many other dozens of them. And upon the wall behind Keld Todd, the greatest of the few pieces of art that House Todd considered worth anything. The tapestry was utterly massive, stretching from wall to wall. It was the tale of every Todd from the building of the Eye, all the way down to the Birth of Keld Stanwen’s children. With bitterness, Erandon remembered that he was not on that wall. He never would be.

  It's no place for a bastard. He thought, Ser Logar’s words on his tenth Wakeday echoing in his mind.

  Erandon approached Keld Stanwen, shivering in the expansive room. As he reached his step-father, he knelt before him. Erandon bowed his head.

  Stanwen seemed a king on the throne, a stark white thing carved of bone and antler. He wore a crown of the same build, wolf and fox teeth and claws adorning the thing. All of the fiercest beasts who sought to stop the Foxes of House Todd had been felled. A fox was too clever, too crafty.

  For a long time, Stanwen said nothing. Erandon’s mother, Raslyn, sat on the Ironoak throne next to him, just as quiet, but a warm smile graced her face. Erandon wondered if Stanwen was just allowing him to worry.

  “Bastards are not expected to undergo the Rite of Wood.” Stanwen spoke, his voice echoing off the walls of the Eyefort’s Great Hall. He allowed the words to hang in the air. They were entirely alone in the hall.

  “But your mother has come up with a use for you.” He growled. Erandon allowed himself to raise his eyes. Keld Stanwen Todd had hair as red as the fox that gave him his name, beard sprinkled with salt. His eyes were like jungles, deep and green, tangled with secrets. His mother, as pale as the snow with dirt brown hair, smiled a little wider. A little bead of hope built up in his chest. Would he be made a Todd? He imagined a little village of his own, a house for himself. The illusion was destroyed as quickly as it was built.

  “Corwyn needs a Squire.” Stanwen finally finished. Erandon felt the energy sap from him. To follow a 12 year old, and obey his commands as if he were Keld of the Eyefort. Erandon finally found his voice.

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  Keld Stanwen stared through him.

  “You shall leave for the Rite of Wood by the end of the week. You are to practice with the blade for at least an hour a day from here henceforth. I’ll not have my son die because you cannot swing a blade.” He left no room for discussion.

  Erandon nodded his head. “Yes, my Lord.” He said again. Another heavy silence settled over the hall.

  “Go.” Keld Todd waved him off, and Erandon backed out of the room, careful not to meet his Step Father’s eyes.

  He stopped outside Corwyn’s room, idling in the silent hall. He could not hear anything from within the room, which was not atypical. Corwyn was certainly his father’s son, strong and broad, with the same keen mind his father had, and it was not uncommon that he’d vanish into books for hours at a time. He’d certainly be a fine Lord of the Eyefort someday. But for now, he was a child with the powers of a Keld- and he knew that. He knocked once, then twice more. Receiving no answer, Erandon pushed the door open.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “The Brave Ser Wart!” Corwyn laughed as Erandon trudged into the room. It was like an entirely different castle compared to his own room. Lush carpets covered the floors and the far wall held a massive family portrait.

  “I’m not your squire.” Erandon frowned, but Corwyn shook his head.

  “Not yet.” He said singsong as he kicked his blankets off and stood on his bed. He wore a green nightgown with the sigil of House Todd. A white and gold fox head on a black and green quartered background.

  “Get yourself ready. Your father wants us to train together.”

  “Yes, yes…though I expect you won’t be doing much fighting.” Corwyn said as he hopped off the bed and strode over to a desk near the window. Erandon rolled his eyes in silence. Corwyn retrieved a dagger, iron with an ironoak hilt. The pommel of it was carved to look like the head of a fox. Erandon remembered when Corwyn received the blade, for his 10th Wakeday. He’d been forced to eat outside, as Keld Stanwen would not entertain a bastard in the company of lords- it was unseemly, he had said.

  By the time he and Corwyn reached the courtyard, Erandon’s fingers were so cold he had trouble wrapping them around the sword. They looked tomato red, wrapped around the simple arming sword he clutched in his hands. An old blade, used by gods knows how many people before it wound up in his hands. Erandon hoped he’d do the past wielders well. Logar, who acted as both Thegn and Armorer of The Eye, had equipped Corwyn with a named sword. ‘Sheepslayer’ It was named, used when House Todd fought House Rickar. The blade was bone-iron, forged with the bones of foxes, which, according to legend, made the blade swing faster. Erandon supposed he’d put the legends to the test. Logar did not give Erandon any instruction. Erandon had sparred with other guards before, but Corwyn did not spar- Corwyn trained and there was a difference. The boy made a big show of a flourish as he unclipped his sheath and drew his sword, tossing it aside dramatically.

  “First Blood.” Logar rumbled, setting the rules.

  “In the name of House Todd, I shall defeat you, Lord of Bastards.” Corwyn put on a gruff voice as he said it, gripping his sword in both hands with a smirk. Erandon scowled as he gripped his own blade in both hands. If Corwyn wished to play knight so be it, he wouldn’t give in. His words wouldn’t win his duel. The Young Lord Todd cleared the steps between them in a flash. Erandon knocked it away, Corwyn’s grip barely holding as the blade shook in his hands. The younger boy stumbled back, regaining his composure quickly. Corwyn had trained, but Erandon was still bigger and stronger than him. He grinned as the two of them circled each other, like dueling sharks. Lorgar grunted in disapproval as Erandon dashed forward, missing his target by miles. Corwyn danced out and away from him. He was as light on his feet as the house namesake, he had the red hair and green eyes of his father, and something angry bubbled in Erandon. The Little Lord Stanwen would not win this duel.

  Corwyn struck with a feint, but Erandon saw through his trap and returned with a sweep at the legs. His blade skimmed across the stone ground harmlessly.

  I’m slower than him. Erandon though, and he watched as Corwyn laughed.

  “You oaf.” He said. “Maybe I’ll let you carry my sword, but watch my back in battle? I wouldn’t trust you to watch my horse.”

  “Are you sure you could climb atop it alone, Little Lord?” Erandon asked. Corwyn furrowed his brow, and Erandon wondered if he saw the slightest glimpse of a smile under the tangle of Logar’s beard. While he was distracted, his brother struck across the frosted snow and slapped him across the mouth with the flat of his blade.

  Logar laughed now, full bellied and strong, rumbling across the courtyard like beating drums. By now, several others had gathered to watch the fighting.

  As Corwyn gave a mock bow, the anger rose once again in Erandon. So he punched him.

  The uppercut sent his younger half brother splaying out of the bow with a delicious look of shock on his face, but before Erandon could really enjoy it, the boy was slashing at him with a flurry of furious strikes. Erandon deflected the first two, barely managing to block the third, each strike threatening to draw first blood, to end the duel.

  No! Not in front of Logar, not in front of everyone! What honor did a bastard have? He wasn’t going to lose it here.

  Bone-Iron was known for its strength. It was said that forging the bone into the metal imbued some of the beast’s spirit. Erandon gasped in fear as the legend proved itself.

  Corwyn slashed at him high, and only barely deflecting the blow, his blade cracked. Now, it was his turn to look shocked. Corwyn grinned devilishly, pressing his advantage across the field.

  “Yield, Bastard, and I won’t make you kneel.” Corwyn taunted as he darted forward, Erandon barely having time to roll out of the way. Erandon said nothing, focused on the fight as he blocked the next strike, acutely aware of the growing crack in the arming sword.

  With a flourish of his blade, Corwyn struck once more, splintering the old, thin arming sword with a cocky grin. Logar clapped, and he heard several other Todd guards cheer out for their little Lord. The blade flew high up into the air, and the handle was sent flying from Erandon’s hand with the force of the blow.

  “It seems I win.” Corwyn sneered. Erandon shook his head.

  “You’ve yet to draw blood.” He replied, scooping up the blade from the stone, gripping it in his cold hands. Corwyn raised an eyebrow, his face writ with something between disgust and confusion. Erandon closed the gap, throwing a wild punch with his left hand. While Corwyn flinched away from the blow, he brought the blade up a little too quickly. Corwyn gasped in pain, hand flying to his face. Erandon felt himself go as pale as the snow as Corwyn lowered his hand, crimson with sanguine blood.

  From just above the corner of his lip, to just under his eye, Erandon had delivered a cut. Shallow to be certain, but he’d struck him in the head with a blade! The sound of Logar’s sword leaving it’s sheath sent goosebumps rippling across Erandon, he turned just in time for his mother to exit the building as Logar took a single step forward.

  “What in the name of..” She began, twitching with rage, traveling down the steps in a blur.

  “Get him to the Apothecary!” She shrieked, pointing at Erandon as he dropped the broken sword, unsure what to say. He obeyed, ushering a weeping Corwyn up the stairs by the shoulder as the guards scattered, pretending they had not been watching this.

  “I said train them, not throw them into a death match!” Erandon heard his mother roar as the heavy Ironoak doors shut behind him, the cold and the wind, and the blood stained cobble gone.