“Who are you calling boy?!” The protest broke the peaceful air in the training grounds, rising defiantly among the humble clatter of wooden swords meeting shields. “I’ll be lord soon enough, uncle!” The trainee was no older than fourteen, but he held himself with the confidence of a man twice his age.

A low, amused chuckle rumbled from the figure towering before him: a giant of a man swathed in full plate with a gentle, aged face marred with wrinkles and scars.

“Eran, let him speak!” Came a meek plea from the benches.

“Yeah, Eran! He’s going to teach us a new move!” Another voice rang, bubbling with a contagious excitement. Eran, the troublemaker, tightened his grip on his waster and pouted, grumbling to himself as he sat back among his two companions.

“Thank you, Wyll. And you too, Bayle.” The knight offered the boys a soft smile as he pulled his sword from the dirt, wiping it clean with the back of his gauntlet. Then, before any of them could blink, the sword found itself hovering a hair’s length from Eran’s nose. The ruffian squeaked in surprise, flinching backward while his fellow trainees couldn’t help but stare in wide-eyed awe at how the swift, measured strike was demonstrated so effortlessly.

“Come now, Ser Wolfe. That’s no way to treat your nephew.” Muttered a velvety, saccharine voice from the other side of the courtyard. “Much less the heir to the throne.” Heads turned toward the call, landing upon a slender, doe-eyed woman with a defined air of nobility, completed by her practiced smile.

“Ah, yes. My apologies, Lady Roslyn.” Ser Wolfe sarcastically retorted, lowering his blade and bowing his head as he flashed his sister-in-law a playful, knowing grin. Bayle and Wyll leapt from their seats, nearly tripping over themselves as they excitedly rushed to their aunt’s side. Eran, however, had yet to recover from being utterly humiliated in front of his mother, remaining glued to his seat.

“My dear husband is looking for you, Ser Wolfe.” Roslyn began. “His tone seemed rather… urgent. I trust you won’t keep him waiting?” She stared at the knight expectantly, her expression having grown grim.

The knight straightened, nodding in solemn understanding. “Very well. We’ll resume our lesson tomorrow, then.” Turning back to his trainees, he quickly sheathed his blade and resumed his warm demeanor. “Until then, why don’t you boys spar? That’s much more fun than listening to this old man prattle.” This time, all three boys offered disappointed pouts in return, but none dared argue as the knight nodded curtly, briskly marching off toward the throne room.

“You’ll have to tell me all about your battles over dinner, my little soldiers.” The lady of the house cooed, ruffling Wyll’s hair as she arose from her perch. Eran stood to bid his mother a respectful farewell, but when he met her eyes, instead of the homely, warm gaze she offered his cousins, he found a cold, distant glare. “I expect you’ll show these two how it’s done. Won’t you, my son?”

A shiver ran down Eran’s spine. He bowed his head in a stiff nod as the woman made haste to follow the knight, leaving the three boys alone in their secluded corner of the training ground.

As Eran turned to face the brothers, he felt a poke between the straps of his breastplate. “Agh, you scoundrels!” He cried, whipping around and holding his waster at the ready.

“Well, the good ser told us to spar, didn’t he?” Bayle murmured with a grin as Wyll giggled, peeking out from behind his older brother. Despite having been taken off guard by the sneak attack, Eran felt a smile crack his previously sour expression. With an enthusiastic battle cry, Eran charged at his fellow trainees, meeting their swings with strikes of his own.

The sky bled from deep sapphire into molten amber as the sun dipped below the horizon, a spectator to the joyfully youthful shouts and cries of the clash below. For a time, the boys were lost in their mock war. That peaceful moment could only last so long.

Boots thundered. Armor clanked. Guards began to line up at the edge of the yard, their movements hurried and sharp. Even at a distance, the boys could feel the growing tension and unease among the men.

“Hey, Eran?” Wyll called from the benches, squinting at the gathering of steel and leather. “Is it time for the evening patrol already?”

“What?” Eran faltered mid-swing, absentmindedly deflecting Bayle’s strike before turning toward the rows of armored men. “No, it can’t be.” He called to the younger boy, brows knotted in genuine confusion. “At least, I don’t think so.”

“How come they look so… scared?” Wyll murmured, holding back a nervous stutter.

“You’re such a worry wart, Wyll.” Bayle snickered, lowering his blade and trotting over to his brother. “If you’re so concerned, why don’t you go ask ‘em?”

“Maybe I will!” Huffed the younger boy in response, puffing his chest out in an act of borrowed bravery. Wyll quickly hopped from the bench and strode toward the formation with as much confidence as he could muster. The other trainees watched intently as Wyll craned his neck up to speak, only for the acting commander to bark a harsh reply, shooing the boy off with a flick from the man’s gauntleted hand.

Wyll hastefully made his way back to his onlookers, lip quivering in shame as he offered his report. “T-They said it’s nothing to worry about…” He mumbled, folding his hands nervously. “But… They also said we should return to our rooms. Immediately.”

Bayle’s brows furrowed, his earlier smirk fading. “Doesn’t that sound strange to you, Eran?” He grumbled thoughtfully, glancing again to the neat rows of men. He noted how quickly they were moving, how tightly they were clutching their spears. “We should follow them.”

“Follow them?!” Wyll cried. “Are you mad, Bayle? If we get caught, f-father will-”

“No, I think it’s a good idea.” Eran cut in, his voice firm, almost eager. “We’re trained soldiers too. And, if I’m to be lord, I should know when and why my vassals are summoned.”

Bayle rolled his eyes at his cousin’s bravado, sighing. “Well, it’s settled then.” Bayle paused for a moment before regarding his brother. “If you want to go back, Wyll, you can.”

Though clearly shaken, the younger boy gathered his courage and gripped the hilt of his waster until his knuckles grew white. “N-No… I’ll come with you.”

For a heartbeat, the three boys traded glances, their expressions caught between fear and a hunger for adventure. In unison, they quietly maneuvered to the edge of the yard as the clang of plate and thud of disciplined boots grew fainter. Their curiosity urged them forward as the last light of day dipped beneath the horizon.

The tense march ended at the door of the throne room, with the captain at the helm of the small force. The boys couldn’t see exactly what he was doing as they remained several paces away, backs pressed flatly against the cold stone wall of the hall.

Even from their distance, they felt the shift in the air as the captain’s hand grasped the door’s heavy metal handles. The creak of the hinges shattered the thick silence as the door was slowly, cautiously inched open. A wedge of dim light spilled across the floor.

“Oh, gods…” Someone nervously whispered within earshot. Startled murmurs and gasps rippled through the ranks as the throne room was fully unveiled.

Wyll’s face drained of color, clutching his brother’s wrist as if to anchor himself. Bayle craned his neck, trying his best to peek over the mass of men. Eran, however, had a different idea.

“Vassals!” The boy impulsively proclaimed, stepping into the light. “What is the meaning of this gathering?”

Heads quickly turned. The nearest soldier flinched, shifting uncomfortably. “Y-Young lord! What are you doing here? You’re meant to-”

“My son is here?!” A sharp, strained voice cried. Eran recognized it instantly: his mother. The boy froze, realizing just how much trouble he was about to be in. Or… so he thought.

“Don’t look!” As Lady Roslyn tore through the crowd, Eran noticed she was not the composed figure he had seen earlier. Her face was stained with tears, eyes raw with grief. And on her dress… Was that…?

It was too late. The soldiers parted, and the sight beyond branded itself into Eran’s mind forever. He saw the blood pooling like spilled ink. He saw his father, slumped forward in his ornate throne. He saw his uncle’s sword, coated in crimson.

The world grew dark around him. He felt dizzy. His stomach lurched as his knees buckled. He fell to the floor as if the earth had fallen out from beneath him, leaving him staring helplessly at the vaulted ceiling.

Eran’s accomplices raced to his side, but they couldn’t keep their eyes away from the commotion.

“B-Brother…” Wyll stammered, eyes wide and glassy with realization. “That’s… That’s…”

“Father!” Bayle cried.

As Wyll crumpled beside Eran, Bayle sprung into action, bursting through the crowd in a desperate frenzy. The clatter of his footsteps across the marbled tile of the throne room was the only audible sound other than the boy’s breathlessness. “Father…”

There lie Ser Wolfe, knelt before the throne. His sword was buried deep into the lord of Ashlar’s chest, with the lord’s own sword pierced through the knight’s side. Both men were a mess of blood, crimson seeping into their armor and staining the steps. The lord’s stare was empty, having already passed on.

“B… Bayle…” The voice was faint and weak, but absolutely unmistakable.

The boy’s gaze instantly fell upon the face of his father. Despite the pain from his mortal wound, the knight offered his child a gentle, warm smile.

“Father! Please don’t speak! We’ll summon a healer… We-”

“My son.” The knight’s whisper cut through Bayle’s panic, heavy with urgency. “Protect… Wyll. He needs you.” Tears streamed down the boy’s cheeks, clutching his father’s arm in desperation.

“You will grow strong.” Ser Wolfe murmured, a tremor rattling his chest. “You are my sons… after all.” As the words passed his lips, the knight feverously hacked and coughed, trickles of scarlet rolling down his chin.

Bayle opened his mouth to cry out for help, but all sound escaped him.

“You must…” The knight attempted to draw breath, his body shaking violently. “Do not… trust…”

With a thud, Ser Wolfe collapsed. He was gone. Bayle stayed kneeling beside his father, hands slick with blood. The boy wept, frozen in utter disbelief.

Time stretched into a suffocating eternity before Bayle registered the sound of approaching footsteps. He recognized the sharp, deliberate clicking of heels on marble.

“Traitor…” The word cut through the heavy atmosphere like a knife. “House Wolfe… are traitors!”

Bayle’s heart thudded, his gaze rising to meet that of Lady Roslyn. Her face was set in a fury unlike anything he had ever seen. She was clutching Eran by the wrist, dragging the boy forward.

“Eran…” Roslyn hissed, tightening her grip until the boy yelped. “Or rather… Lord Greystone.” His cousin appeared just as terrified as he was, having now seen the horrible sight up close. Bayle couldn’t stop his knees from quaking or his breathing from running ragged, but he managed to stand and face the pair.

“Sentence them… to death.”

Bayle’s mind ran wild, barely grasping the situation at hand. His mind clawed for reason, but only found panic. Death…?

“B-But… Mother…” Eran Greystone’s voice cracked and trembled with emotion.

Thundering footsteps marched closer as the captain appeared before them. The armored man approached the throne, dutifully removing the sword from the deceased lord’s hand. The captain turned to Greystone, knelt, and bowed his head, offering the sword.

“My lord.”

Greystone stared at the weapon as if it were a serpent, utterly frightened and overwhelmed by the weight of the captain’s act.

“They murdered your father in cold blood!” Lady Roslyn's words rang harsh, shocking Greystone back to reality. His gaze swept between his furious mother, his fallen father, his frightened cousin, and the gleaming blade. His heartbeat pounded in his ears as he reached for the sword, time standing still as his fingertips connected with the cool leather of its hilt.

“Eran!” Wyll burst through the doorway, but was quickly restrained by the guards presiding over the entrance. The child desperately struggled against the firm grip of the soldiers, forced to helplessly watch as the scene unfolded.

Greystone’s head whipped toward the commotion, his heart panged with grief seeing his young cousin treated in such a manner. As much as he yearned to help, the only thing he could convince himself to do at that moment was to stare at the sword in his hand. He had seen his father wield it countless times. It never seemed so intimidating in his hands…

The polished steel caught Bayle’s horrified reflection. As the boys’ eyes met, Lady Roslyn’s accusations rang relentlessly in Greystone’s mind. Had his beloved uncle betrayed his father? Could House Wolfe truly have planned something so vile?

He glanced once more at his father’s lifeless corpse. A deep, burning rage welled up within him. House Wolfe had taken his beloved father. They had ruined everything.

Greystone raised the sword coldly. He was lord now. Judgement was his to enact.

Yet… when he glanced over the frightened, grief-stricken boy in front of him, he knew he could not do it. Instead of a scheming, conniving murderer, he could only see the laughing, cheerful trainee he had spent his childhood alongside. They have to be innocent. They must be!

“Go on, do it already!” Lady Roslyn demanded, her voice sharper than the well-honed edge in Greystone’s hand. “Protect your people!”

“I shall.” Greystone spoke, his tone somber. Bayle recoiled in primal fear as the blade moved.

Greystone had never seen such a look in the boy’s eyes. At that moment, he knew with unshakable certainty that House Wolfe was not guilty… but he couldn’t escape his mother’s ire so easily.

“House Wolfe…” The new lord murmured, lowering his blade. “... is hereby exiled.”

Words by Echo Seeker Lermy