The day began like any other for Alaric—alone in his dim chamber, curtains drawn tight against the world, books scattered like fallen leaves across the wooden floor. Books were his lifeline; through their pages, he traveled far beyond the cold stone walls and quiet halls. Solitude was his refuge. Company—an often unwelcome intrusion.

A soft, hesitant knock pulled him from the depths of his thoughts.

“Who is it?” he called, voice barely above a whisper. A second knock echoed. Slowly, he rose and moved toward the heavy cedar door. His fingers brushed the ornate brass knob—then stopped. Heavy footsteps receded quickly down the hall, accompanied by a faint jingle, like a pendant striking wood.

By the time he opened the door, the corridor lay empty and silent.

With a quiet sigh, he returned to the sanctuary of scattered stories, letting the familiar words swallow him whole.

As the sun slipped beneath the horizon, Alaric pushed aside the thick curtains and stepped onto the balcony. The night sky stretched endlessly above, stars flickering like distant promises—worlds he longed to explore, if only in dreams. The cool breeze brushed against his skin, whispering secrets of faraway places and untold lives.

Another knock stirred him back.

Carefully stepping over his scattered books, Alaric knew who waited outside.

“Young Master, I’ve brought your supper. Shall I leave it here?” The familiar voice of Caellon, the steward who had been a steady presence since childhood.

“The same as always, Caellon. Please leave it by the door,” Alaric answered softly.

He listened to the soft clatter of plates and footsteps fading away before sliding the tray inside. The roasted vegetables and seasoned chicken smelled warm and comforting in the cool air.

After eating, he pressed an ear to the door, waiting for the hallway’s emptiness before quietly replacing the tray outside.

On his bed, Alaric stared up at the dark ceiling, thoughts drifting to his father. The man was always distant—governing the town, managing the manor, perpetually elsewhere. In dreams, Alaric imagined himself boldly knocking on the great doors of his father’s study, welcomed inside for talks about books, politics, and the things that mattered. Caellon would serve tea and biscuits. His father would join them for dinner, laughter filling the room at last.

But reality refused such warmth.

His mother had died when he was young, leaving a hollow silence between father and son. The staff whispered that Alaric’s green eyes were like hers—perhaps the reason his father could hardly meet his gaze. It was a quiet ache, a weight he carried always.

With a heavy sigh, he lay down, surrendering to sleep’s fragile embrace.

—

The shattering crash tore him from rest.

Heart pounding, Alaric sprang upright just as a voice thundered down the hall: “Find him!”

Panic clawed at his chest. He darted back, slipping beneath the bed, trembling. Sharp, heavy footsteps approached, growing louder—closer.

The door burst open. Four strangers stormed in, ransacking his sanctuary. Books were torn from shelves and flung to the floor, pages shredded without mercy.

“He’s not here, Kirt,” barked a short man with a crooked nose.

Kirt, their leader, sneered. He was a man carved by experience, neither young nor old, with piercing blue eyes and a thick red beard marked by a jagged scar down his left cheek. Around his neck hung a pendant carved in the shape of a hawk clutching a sword—a symbol unknown to Alaric, yet chilling all the same.

“Search every room,” Kirt ordered. “If you don’t find him—burn them. He’ll come to us.”

The men scattered; Kirt lingered.

Alaric held his breath, eyes wide as Kirt hurled a torch into the pile of torn books. Flames licked greedily, swallowing his sanctuary.

Tears pricked his eyes. This was the end. He would never tell his father how he felt… never ask why the man kept his distance… never hear words of care.

But survival burned brighter than despair.

Stifling a sob, Alaric crawled from his hiding place, smoke stinging his lungs. His gaze caught a single book untouched by flame—The Dragons of Camelot. Clutching it, he stumbled to the balcony and flung open the doors.

The night air offered no comfort. Fear rooted him in place as behind him, flames roared, devouring the past. Clenching the book, he climbed onto the ledge and edged toward the next balcony.

His room’s curtains erupted in fire. Smoke billowed, heat seared his skin. Shards of glass littered the floor, blocking his path. He leapt, landing hard on a jagged shard, a cry escaping his lips as pain flared in his foot. The book slipped from his grasp, sliding toward the edge. Gritting his teeth, he tore a strip from his shirt to bind the wound.

Limping, he retrieved the book and hoisted himself over the railing onto the second balcony.

The room he entered was untouched. Silent. Forgotten.

He froze.

He knew this room.

The one always locked. The one he was forbidden to enter.

His mother’s room.

Dust cloaked the bed and vanity. A faint scent lingered—old firewood and lilacs. Memories flooded in: two years past, scraped knee, tearful search for comfort, the scent of lilacs until the door slammed shut.

His father’s voice, dark and pained: “You are not to enter this room again. Do you understand?”

Alaric had nodded, stunned—the first time his father had spoken since the funeral.

Since then—only silence.

Now, smoke thickened the air, dragging him back.

One last look at his mother’s room.

Then, with pain in every step, he turned and stepped into the unknown.