Before the Crows

Morning always reached Castle de Guise slowly.

The fortress stood nestled amongst rolling hills where forests of pine surrendered to vast fields of lavender and lilac before climbing toward distant mountains whose snow-kissed peaks shimmered like polished silver beneath the dawn. It was an old keep—older than nearly every kingdom surrounding it—and age showed itself proudly upon every weathered stone. Ivy embraced cracked walls without shame. Moss softened forgotten staircases. Marble statues, their faces worn smooth by centuries of rain, watched over gardens that had outlived kings.

The castle had once belonged to a family whose name demanded reverence. Now it inspired remembrance.

Its halls remained beautiful, though quieter than they ought to have been. Entire wings stood empty and servants spoke in softer voices. Candles were extinguished earlier to preserve wax, portraits of proud ancestors lined corridors whose carpets had long since begun to fade.

Castle de Guise possessed history in abundance. Coin, however, had become considerably scarcer. Rhys understood none of this at ten years of age. He believed castles simply grew quieter as they grew older. He rather liked the silence, it made reading easier.

Curled beneath the broad roots of an ancient willow in the eastern gardens, the young omega held a weathered volume nearly half the size of his chest. The leather binding had cracked with age, and several pages had loosened from their stitching, yet he handled it with such extraordinary care one might have mistaken it for sacred scripture.

His lips moved silently as his blue eyes danced across faded ink.

"Lilacs are heaven's scent that are heaven sent." He smiled.

"What a lovely sentence."

"You have said that six times."

Rhys looked up to see his elder brother leaned lazily against the willow's trunk, arms folded across a broad chest already beginning to resemble their father's. At seventeen, Aris de Guise possessed the easy confidence of every alpha born knowing he would inherit both title and sword. Dark hair fell untidily into amber eyes bright with perpetual amusement.

"You know," Aris continued, "most boys your age climb trees."

Rhys lowered his book, "I climbed one yesterday."

"You climbed halfway."

"I became frightened."

"You were three feet above the ground."

"There was every possibility of injury."

Aris barked a laugh that sent several birds fluttering from nearby branches. His brother ruffled his impossibly long black hair until it became an unruly curtain around his face. Rhys let out a wounded gasp. "Aris!"

"There. Now you resemble the scholars in your books."

"You resemble a horse."

"A handsome horse."

"A horse nonetheless."

Aris laughed again. Gods, Rhys adored that laugh. It filled empty places.

"You spend too much time reading."

"And you spend too much time pretending wooden swords are real."

"They become real eventually."

"They are still sticks."

"They become steel."

Their laughter mingled beneath the willow until another voice carried gently across the gardens.

"My boys."

Fern de Guise approached along the stone pathway, a woven basket resting upon one arm. He moved with quiet grace, every gesture touched by gentleness rather than grandeur. Though years had begun threading silver through his midnight hair, there remained an almost ethereal beauty about him. His smile alone seemed capable of calming storms.

Lilacs seemed to  bloom behind his every step. Fern paused before the flowering bushes, brushing lavender petals lovingly between elegant fingers.

"They've blossomed early this year."

"They're your favorite," Rhys said, closing his book.

"They are."

"Why?"

His mother smiled toward the flowers instead of answering immediately.

"They bloom despite difficult winters."

Rhys frowned.

"I don't understand."

"You will."

Something wistful lingered in Fern's expression before it vanished beneath warmth once more.

"I have been looking everywhere for you."

"I was reading."

"I know."

"You always know."

"A mother usually does."

Fern reached out, gently tucking strands of Rhys's long hair behind one ear. It had grown nearly to his waist now, many had suggested cutting it, yet Fern never allowed it.

"It suits him," he would always insist. "Like the midnight sky."

Rhys secretly treasured those words. Even Father had eventually stopped arguing.

"Come," Fern said softly. "I promised to braid your hair before supper."

Their chambers overlooked the eastern gardens and sunlight spilled across polished oak floors while embroidered curtains danced lazily beneath the afternoon breeze.

Rhys sat upon a cushioned stool before a mirror as Fern carefully brushed through endless lengths of black silk, the brush guiding slowly through Rhys's hair.

"There."

"So smooth."

"You've always cared for it."

"Because you wished me to."

"I wished only that you choose for yourself."

Rhys met his mother's reflection.

"I choose this."

Fern's eyes shimmered.

"Good."

He reached toward a small carved box resting upon the vanity. Opening it revealed velvet darker than midnight.

Nestled within lay a pendant. A sapphire unlike any Rhys had ever seen. It held impossible depth—as though an entire twilight sky had somehow become imprisoned within polished stone, silver filigree embraced it in delicate vines. Fern lifted it reverently.

"This belonged to my mother."

Rhys watched in silence.

"And before her?"

"Her mother."

"And before that?"

Fern smiled faintly.

"Long before either of us were born."

He fastened the chain around Rhys's neck, the gemstone rested just above his heart.

"It is heavy."

"It should be."

Rhys reached up, fingertips brushing cool stone.

"Is it special?"

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Fern was quiet, as his gaze drifted toward the open window where distant crows circled lazily against an endless blue sky.

"When you are older..."

He rested a hand over the pendant.

"...I shall tell you."

Rhys accepted the answer without complaint. Some stories required waiting. Books had taught him that much.

Evening gathered slowly around Castle de Guise.

Candles illuminated the great dining hall where portraits of forgotten lords watched over four remaining members of an ancient bloodline.

Callum de Guise sat at the head of the table—Lord of Castle de Guise. A formidable alpha whose broad shoulders and stern countenance had intimidated ambassadors twice his size. He loved with restraint. His affection was measured not in embraces but expectations.

"You were absent from training."

Rhys lowered his spoon.

"I finished my lessons."

"I did not ask about lessons."

"I know."

"You are still expected to learn to defend yourself."

"I shall never wield a sword like Aris."

"No."

Callum cut another piece of roasted venison.

"But every noble should know how to draw one."

Rhys nodded.

"Yes, Father."

The silence that followed was comfortable, and naturally, Aris eventually broke it.

Callum sighed the sigh of a man long resigned to loving children he did not entirely understand.

"You spend too much time in the library."

"I know. I like it there."

"I am aware."

Callum's voice softened almost imperceptibly.

"There are worse places for a son to lose himself."

It was as close to praise as the old lord ever came. Rhys treasured it all the same.

Outside, somewhere beyond thick stone walls, a crow landed upon the highest tower, it watched the castle below with unblinking eyes. Another joined it, then another. Dark feathers gathered against the evening sky. No one inside the warmth of the great hall noticed. The candles burned brightly and Aris laughed again.

Fern reached across the table to straighten the sapphire where it had twisted upon Rhys's collar. Callum spoke of repairing the western wall before winter. And Rhys listened, believing, as only children can, that days such as these would continue forever.

He could not know that one day those halls would fall silent. That laughter would be replaced by mourning. That the lilacs would become a place of farewell. Or that the crows, waiting patiently upon ancient stone, had not come to rest.

They had come to remember.