The warmth of the castle barely touched me.
I sat at the long oak table in the war room—half-burnt candles flickering in their sconces, a map of the continent spread across the table's center, markers showing battle lines I didn't recognize. My mother sat to my right, her hands folded neatly in her lap, though the tightness in her shoulders betrayed the worry she was masking. Across from us stood Captain Vosk, his arms crossed, his eyes sharp as ever beneath his graying brows.
For a long moment, none of us spoke.
Then Vosk broke the silence.
"You vanished on the mountain," he said. "Not a single scout found a trace. We sent teams up twice—months apart. Not even a bloodstain."
"I fell," I said simply.
My mother flinched at that, but I kept my gaze level.
"I fought a creature I wasn't ready for. Something that shouldn't have been there."
Vosk tilted his head. "A creature?"
I nodded. "A giant. Not a Haugrmann. Something else."
He didn't scoff or laugh. Just stared, calculating.
"You think I'm mad?"
"I've known your father too long to dismiss the impossible," he muttered.
My mother reached across the table and gently touched my arm. "What happened after that?"
I hesitated.
Images flashed in my head—the pale-eyed giant, the flash of a blow that should've killed me, the sound of my body hitting rock, the Sisters' voices. The cold embrace of that otherworldly water. And then… the silence of the well.
"I don't remember everything," I said . "Just that I survived. Barely. I healed. I climbed again."
"And the markings?" Vosk asked, eyes narrowing slightly.
I froze for a heartbeat.
I hadn't bothered putting on a shirt when they called me to this room. I didn't think much of it, honestly—but now that I was sitting under torchlight, my skin was on full display. Black runes etched across my collarbone, down my arms, wrapping around my ribs and spine like a second skin.
My mother blinked. "Kyjell," she said softly. "What in the gods' names happened to you?"
"…A bath," I said flatly.
She swatted my arm with a hiss. "Don't joke. Are they cursed? Are they burning you? You're not turning into a tree, are you?"
"Do I look like I'm sprouting branches?"
"You look like a fever dream from one of the old stories."
"I feel fine," I said with a shrug. "Better than fine."
She reached toward one of the marks on my shoulder, hesitating just before touching it.
"They don't hurt," I added.
Vosk leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing at the way the runes shimmered faintly beneath the firelight.
"That's not ink," he said.
"No."
"They seem carved from Æther?"
"I don't know what they are." I sighed
But I did know one thing—I wasn't the same. The Æther that ran through me now didn't just surge in my veins. It spoke through the markings. It had its own rhythm.
I wouldn't burden my mother with that. Not yet.
She gave me a long, silent look, then sighed.
"Well," she said, voice lighter now. "At least they're symmetrical."
I smirked. "You were always more worried about style than scars."
"You are a prince," she huffed. "You represent our bloodline. You can't go walking into camp looking like a madman."
"Why not? Sounds like I'd fit right in."
Vosk snorted.
My mother shook her head with a small laugh, but her expression grew serious again.
"Kyjell," she said gently, "you know what's coming next."
"I do."
"I won't stop you," she said, voice quieter now. "But… promise me you'll be careful."
I met her eyes and nodded.
"I always am."
She raised an eyebrow.
"…Starting now," I amended.
—
Later that evening, I stood alone in my chamber, wrapping my gear with practiced motions. My clothes felt tighter now—not from size, but because my body was different. More aware. Stronger. I felt… balanced.
The daggers—Fenrir's Fangs—lay side by side on the table, their dark metal shimmering faintly under moonlight. I slid them into the holsters across my lower back and pulled on my cloak.
My satchel was lighter than before. Most of my supplies had been lost on the mountain. All I carried now was food, a canteen, and the instinct that I had no time left to waste.
I glanced around my room one last time.
It felt smaller than I remembered.
—
The castle was quiet. Night had cast long shadows over its halls, the torchlight now soft and golden along the stone walls. I moved with purpose, careful not to draw attention. I knew these corridors better than I knew my own thoughts.
I passed by a few maids in the west wing—they didn't look twice.
Only when I reached the lower stables did I slow.
The stablemaster, a gaunt older man with crooked teeth and a sharp tongue, looked up as I approached. His eyes widened.
"Prince Kyjell?"
"Keep your voice down," I muttered, tossing him a pouch of coin. "You never saw me."
His eyes flicked to the leather pouch, then to my cloak.
"Taking one of the fast ones, I hope."
"Already saddled?"
"I'll see to it."
Ten minutes later, I stood beside a tall gray warhorse with keen eyes and a restless energy in its step. I brushed a hand down its neck, whispering softly.
"I don't care what you've seen, just get me there as fast as you can."
The horse snorted.
I led him out of the city through the eastern gate, the guards posted on the wall only half-paying attention in the late hours. One of them glanced down and squinted.
"Who's there?" he called.
"Courier," I lied.
"Where to?"
"Eastern front."
He muttered something under his breath and waved me on.
The gates creaked open just wide enough for one rider.
I mounted, turned toward the dark horizon, and set off at a steady pace.
—
The wind rushed past me as I rode, the stars clear above and the road ahead empty. Trees flanked the trail on either side, whispering in the breeze.
Eight months had passed.
War had begun.
And my little brother was on the front lines.
I wasn't a boy anymore.
Not after the mountain.
Not after everything I'd seen.
Whatever lay ahead—monsters, armies, gods—I would face it.
Because I was Kyjell Erikson.
And no one touches my family.
Not while I still draw breath.