It was but a few short days before the third anniversary of Arion's birth—a date which, in the eyes of many, marked the occasion for grand festivity and noble display—when the lords and ladies of the realm began to arrive in solemn procession. From the mist-veiled hills of the north to the sun-baked terraces of the south, they came in gilded carriages and atop weary horses, cloaked in silks and pride, bearing names heavy with ancestral honour and intentions more burdensome still.
Some came with hearts warm toward Lord Sued, their voices ready with praise and toasts; others came grudgingly, with cordial smiles drawn upon their lips like poorly-fitted masks. Yet come they did, all the same—for in the grand theatre of politics, one plays their part not out of love, but duty. Such is the fate of the highborn, bound with invisible chains stronger than iron: the chains of expectation, of strategy, of power concealed behind politeness.
Lady Ariana, resplendent in grace and poise, received each guest with measured courtesy, while Lord Sued, ever the tactician, offered handshakes with the warmth of a seasoned diplomat. Together, they guided their visitors through echoing halls and into lavish chambers prepared for the days to come, their faces never betraying the weariness that such hospitality demands.
As for Arion, the child in question and the cause of all this sudden pageantry, he cared not one whit. In truth, he found the entire business of birthdays to be a most hollow affair. In his previous life, the one whose memories still clung to him like a second shadow, he had never marked his birthday with joy or longing.
To him, it had seemed a foolish tradition: to assign happiness to a single day when the other three hundred and sixty-four offered no such solace. What reason, then, had anyone to smile? Was a moment's merriment not but a veil draped over a year of suffering?
He believed such celebrations were falsehoods—grand illusions stitched together from ribbons and hollow laughter, lies men told themselves to feign significance in a world largely indifferent to their being. Love, he had once concluded, could not be summoned by song or sweetmeats. Appreciation, however loudly declared, could not be conjured in a single day if absent the rest.
In his previous life, he had seen others partake in such celebrations—cakes aglow with candles, laughter echoing through cramped rooms, gifts wrapped in love and cheap paper—and he had felt neither envy nor pleasure.
The joy seemed manufactured, the mirth rehearsed. Even when surrounded by friends and family, he had stood apart, a quiet observer in his own tale, offering smiles as counterfeit as coin in a crooked market. If happiness could be conjured at will, he mused, then it could never have been real to begin with.
There were moments—yes, there were—when he wondered if his disquiet was not the symptom of something wrong within him. Was he broken? Had his parents' meagre means stifled his spirit before it had a chance to stretch its wings? But he had seen joy flourish in leaner homes than his own. It was not poverty that bound him, but something more elusive: a quiet void that no candle or song could fill.
Yet for all this, he harboured no resentment for those who raised him. He bore them no blame, for he knew well—then as now—that the circumstance of one's birth does not dictate the heights one might climb. What does is the world itself: cruel, capricious, and largely indifferent. It is not the beginning that determines a man's fate, but the will to rise despite it.
He believed that greatness was not the inheritance of birth, but the reward of ambition, sharpened by intellect. In that other life, he had possessed a clever mind but no fire to fuel it. Ambition had eluded him, drifting always out of reach like smoke through open fingers. And what is a clever man without purpose, if not a prisoner of his own thoughts? He lived then as many do now, knowing death waits at the road's end, and wondering whether the journey was ever worth taking.
But in this world, this strange and wondrous world, something had changed. Here, he had seen magic ripple through the air like heat from a flame. He had heard whispers of ancient bloodlines and noble families whose lifespans defied reason. Immortality, or something near enough, was not the stuff of fables, but of inheritance and will. And with that knowledge came a stirring—a fire where once there was ash. He wanted to live, and not merely exist. He wished to endure.
Of all the guests soon to arrive, there was but one who roused true anticipation in the boy's breast: his grandfather, the man known far and wide as Sigfried the Bold. In this land without wheels, where the journey of a hundred miles required ten days and a dozen horses, the old man's approach was slow, but the hope of his presence burned bright.
They had met before, on rare occasions, and each time the meeting had left a mark. Sigfried came not with baubles or playthings, but with treasures of the mind—books whose pages crackled with time, scrolls inked in forgotten tongues, and curious objects humming softly with strange enchantments.
They would speak, these two—grandfather and child—not as age might dictate, but as kindred minds separated only by miles and experience. Their conversations stretched long into the night, filled with musings on the world and its workings, not unlike two friends reunited after long absence.
And so, while the halls bustled with silks and small talk, and servants scurried with trays of wine and welcome, young Arion waited—not for cake, not for cheer, but for the arrival of a man who had shown him that there was more to life than its length.
There was depth.
And there was purpose.