Chapter Two

  The King’s Favor

  The village square was louder than usual, despite the terrible weather. The hum of daily life was disrupted by the arrival of heavily armored men on horseback. The clatter of hooves against the muddy ground, the jingling of bridles, and the murmur of curious onlookers filled the air. The king’s colors flew high above the men’s heads, a banner of deep blue and gold snapping in the wind.

  Ollie, crouched near the side of a stall, wiped his dirt-streaked hands on his tunic and craned his neck to see over the gathered crowd. Soldiers rarely came to the village, and when they did, it was either to recruit, deliver orders, or enforce the king’s will. Today, the villagers whispered of a rallying call—rumors that the king sought more men to work within the castle walls or bolster the city’s defenses against some distant uncertainty.

  But Ollie barely registered the talk. His gaze locked onto a familiar figure astride a black warhorse near the front of the formation.

  His father.

  Sir Garrick stood tall, clad in the polished steel of the king’s guard, his sword strapped to his hip, his broad shoulders squared with the disciplined ease of a seasoned knight. He had the same dark hair as Ollie, streaked now with threads of silver, and the same sharp eyes—though his were shadowed by years of service, of duty that pulled him away from the son he had once sworn to return for.

  A jolt of something fierce and unexpected struck Ollie in the chest. It had been so long. For years, he had imagined this moment—wondering if his father had forgotten him, if his promises had been empty after all.

  But the way Sir Garrick’s eyes searched the crowd, scanning every face, told him otherwise.

  And then, their gazes met.

  Ollie’s eyes widened. For the first time in years, he saw something in his father’s expression that wasn’t duty or discipline.

  It was relief.

  Sir Garrick dismounted in one swift motion, boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. He pushed past murmuring villagers until he was standing right before Ollie. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

  Ollie’s heart pounded. He wanted to say something—to tell him he’d waited, to ask if he was finally coming to take him home—but all he could manage was, “You’re here,”

  Sir Garrick’s jaw tightened. Then, in a rare display of affection, he placed a firm hand on Ollie’s shoulder. “I promised, didn’t I?”

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  The warmth of the touch sent something aching through Ollie’s chest. But the moment was short-lived.

  “Where’s your mother?” his father asked, his tone calm, but with an edge of concern.

  Ollie hesitated. His fingers instinctively curled around the worn ring on his hand. He swallowed hard and looked down with shame before answering. “She’s gone. She left months ago.”

  Something in his father’s expression cracked. It was barely noticeable—just the slightest shift in his eyes, a tightening around his mouth. To anyone else, he was the same stoic knight, unreadable and firm. But Ollie saw it.

  A silence stretched between them. A muscle ticked in Sir Garrick’s jaw, but he didn’t let his voice waver when he finally spoke. “I see.”

  No anger. No outburst. Just quiet devastation.

  Then, just as quickly as the moment had come, it was gone. His father straightened, his grip on Ollie’s shoulder tightening briefly before he turned back toward his men.

  “He’s coming with us,” he said simply.

  Ollie blinked. He looked up in confusion. “But–”

  “You’re not staying here,” his father stated, already moving toward his horse. “I won’t leave you behind again.”

  Before he could process what was said, Ollie was being lifted onto the back of his father’s horse. The damp chill of his clothes clung to his skin, the wind biting at his face. His fingers gripped the leather of the saddle, his stomach twisting with uncertainty.

  By the time they reached the castle, the rain had begun to fall. Cold droplets pattered against the stone courtyard as his father dismounted and helped Ollie down. The boy shivered, his clothes damp, his hair clinging to his forehead.

  The castle was larger than he had ever imagined, its towering walls stretching toward the storm-darkened sky. He had spent his childhood staring up at its battlements from the village, wondering what lay beyond the gates. But instead of awe, unease settled deep in his chest. Mud clung to his clothes, his damp footprints marking the pristine floors.

  He barely had time to take in the grandeur before his father led him through the vast corridors, straight to the throne room. He didn’t know why he was here or what his father intended to say to the king, but the longer he stood in the echoing chamber, the more he felt like an intruder.

  His father knelt before the throne, his voice firm as he addressed the ruler. But Ollie hardly heard the words. The stone beneath his feet was cold, and he shifted uncomfortably. His stomach twisted—not just from nerves, but from hunger. The scent of something warm drifted in from the halls beyond, making his mouth water.

  He glanced at the grand windows, watching the rain streak down the glass. His fingers found the cross necklace at his chest, tracing its familiar grooves. He wished he understood what was happening. Was he in trouble?

  He forced himself to listen, catching only fragments of his father’s conversation.

  “…deserves a chance to prove himself…capable, resilient, my lord…trained alongside the squires, if you allow it.”

  Ollie frowned slightly. What did any of that mean for him?

  All he knew was that something had shifted in his life today.