A few days passed, each one heralded by the arrival of a new guest, all eager to offer their congratulations to the young heir of House Aren—though the child in question had not yet seen his fourth year.
One after another, they came—noblemen, ladies, merchants, knights—each adorned in their most resplendent attire, voices dripping with flattery, as though the child had already achieved some great and notable feat.
They spoke to him with such gravity, such respect, that even the servants exchanged glances, as if to say, Is he not but a boy?
To some, the young Lord of House Aren was a marvel—a bud of promise destined to bloom with uncommon fragrance. There was something in Arion's manner that set him apart—something that caused his visitors to pause, if only for a moment, and wonder if perhaps they had misjudged the simplicity of childhood.
For though the boy was but a child in form, his actions, his eyes, his words—when he chose to speak—suggested a mind far older. His movements were deliberate, his expressions too knowing for one so small.
The adults around him marveled at his composure, at the unnatural calm he carried with him like a mantle too heavy for his small shoulders. Yet behind their praise, there was the unmistakable flicker of envy, masked carefully beneath smiles that were all too sweet to be true.
Arion, though newly ushered into this world, was no stranger to such counterfeit courtesies. In another life—one whose details he dared not share—he had seen them often, wielded like dulled daggers by the fawning and the self-seeking. In those former days, it had been his bosses whom such flatterers courted; now, it was he who was their victim.
It was with this knowledge that Arion, in an effort to avoid ruffling the feathers of these opportunistic guests, endeavoured to behave as any child should.
He laughed when they laughed, he played at their games, and he pretended—oh, how he pretended—that he was nothing more than the innocent babe they expected him to be.
But within him, the conflict of his adult mind—the mind of one who had lived many a years—struggled against the will to behave as they desired. It shamed him, yet he wore the mask nonetheless.
And then at last, the day of celebration arrived.
That very morning, the castle was stirred by the arrival of none other than Arion's grandfather, the Duke of the White Plains, Lord Siegfried. He arrived with such fanfare that even the royal family themselves must have felt a little smaller in comparison.
The Duke was a towering figure, both in stature and in reputation, his entourage a procession of carriages, servants, and gilded displays that made the castle itself seem but a humble abode by contrast. His entrance was such that even the sun seemed to shine a little brighter upon him, and the very air carried a subtle sense of awe.
"Where is our little star?" bellowed the Duke, dismounting with theatrical flair.
Lady Ariana and Lord Sued exchanged a brief, knowing glance, their faces flushing with some strange, guilty expression, as though caught in some small deception.
"He is... still abed, I'm afraid," said Lady Ariana with an embarrassed smile. "You know how he dotes upon his sleep."
"That incorrigible imp!" thundered the old man. His tone was a curious mix of affectionate reprimand and barely-veiled frustration. "How often have I spoken to him of rising with the dawn, as every proper man must? And yet he slumbers on while his grandfather crosses half the realm to see him!"
Arion's parents offered nervous laughter, brushing aside the Duke's words with an attempt at casualness, but Lord Siegfried, having heard enough, disappeared from their sight with remarkable swiftness and reappeared at the castle doors striding in with the purposeful fury of a general storming a fortress.
Meanwhile, within the child's chamber, Arion slept as peacefully as any young one, his tiny form tucked warmly beneath the covers.
The curtains in his room were drawn with the careful precision of a doting hand, permitting but a timid shaft of morning light to sneak into the chamber, where it crept across the floor like a cautious intruder and came to rest upon the slumbering child's face—so delicately, so reverently—that it stirred the edges of his dreams without rousing him from their embrace.
He was wholly unaware of the tempest fast approaching. Until, with neither knock nor herald, the air stirred. A gust—strong, unnatural, and tinged with mischief—burst through the room, tearing the blankets from the boy and leaving him exposed to the chill.
"You wicked imp!" came the booming voice of the Duke. "You dare sleep in my presence?"
"Let me be!" Arion cried out, still half-dreaming, confused and unwilling to leave the warmth of his bed.
"Shall I toss your impudent self into the sea?" came the voice again, its tone now tinged with both anger and amusement.
"I said, let me sleep!" Arion replied, irritated, his hands fumbling to draw the covers back over him.
A surprised "Ho!" escaped the Duke, now both irked and intrigued. Then, without further preamble, with a suddenness that defied all reason, the windows burst wide, and the child was lifted—bodily and utterly—into the morning air.
Out he flew, a tousled bundle of surprise and protest, until he hovered mere inches from the cold stone below. And then—up! Up again, higher than any child ought to be, so high that he thought perhaps he might touch the very clouds themselves.
"Grandfather, have mercy!" he screamed, the full terror of consciousness now upon him. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
His cries rang through the castle halls like the bells of some distant church tower. Servants stopped and gasped; nobles raised their brows. His parents, receiving yet another group of noble visitors at the gate, cast a glance skyward and continued smiling.
Down he fell—though not to his end. His descent stopped abruptly at the second floor, where his body paused as though to reflect on its fate, before tumbling once more until he landed with a thud upon the earth. There, dazed and disheveled, he lay, stars swhirling above his head—not the real ones, but those conjured by indignity and bruised pride.
And as he lay upon the ground, limbs askew and hair windswept, he thought grimly that for one named after a star, it was a cruel jest indeed that they now danced mockingly above his head.