The night was quiet as the snow fell silent across the estate ground, cloaking the night in a gentle, white stillness. Beneath the full moon, shining silver moonlight, a lone figure stood in a circle drawn in the snow, wooden sword in hand, its grain dark with wear. His breath coiled into the air like smoke, as he settled into an unfamiliar stance—one of his own invention. Blade low, almost dragging against the earth, body slightly turned, feet apart, ready.
He swung.
The night cracked. The air howled as the arc of his sword disturbed the silence, the force of the cut causing the snow to ripple. He moved again. This time, faster. Sharper. Let them call it shame, he thought, this is the only thing that's ever made sense. The rhythm of years spent in hiding pulsed through his limbs—this was his language, his rebellion.
The Deer family had no love for swords.
The Deer family is a lineage known not for strength of arms, but for brilliance of mind. For a thousand years, they have served the Trovan Kingdom—one of the Six Kingdoms—through diplomacy, trade, strategy, and careful manipulation. Where knights charged with banners high, the Deers struck deals, whispered lies, turned kingdoms. To the outside world and their enemies, they were cowards. To those in power they were indispensable.
The Deers were known for their earthy bole—brown hair and eyes of a vivid, pure green—so rare that even among the Six Kingdoms, none but the Deers possessed it. The green of their eyes was like that of forests leaves, green like untouched Terils. Yet to the knightly culture of Trovan, the colour was a badge of shame—soft, subtle, suspicious. Worst of all it was associated with the Deer family, the symbol of the family that never lifted a blade in a kingdom of knights. In defiance, the Deer family adopted green as their colour, emblazoned on a golden shield with a bole—brown deer standing tall at its center. The eyes of the deer were crafted from Terils, found only in the Trovan mountains. Terils shone with the same intensity as their own eyes.
Frode Deer, current head of the house, embodied everything the family stood for: intelligence, strategy, logic. His name meant "wise and clever" in the old tongue, and he had lived up to it. Ruler of politics, slayer of wars before they began, he was a quiet force in a world of steel and fire. But in his own home, he was cold, and never showed his emotions, especially towards his firstborn child.
Arivid.
The bastard.
Born of a mother never named, never acknowledged, his birth being a quiet wound in the family's story. Arivid had always lived on the edge of the family—close enough to hear family discussions behind closed doors, never invited in. He wasn't a son, not truly. Just a reminder of some mistake no one would speak of. Frode provided for the child, maybe out of obligation, but he never made it clear. Frode never embraced Arivid, offering neither warmth nor recognition. Frode stayed away from Arivid as if it were an unspoken rule. Arivid was a shadow in the house of genius light.
He shared some of their traits—tall build, sharp intellect, and the bole-brown hair of his line, which he wore tied in a loose ponytail. But that was where the likeness ended. His ears pointed like that of elves, or trolls. His body, though thin, bore wiry muscle earned through years of hidden labour. And his eyes: one the brilliant green of the Deers, the other a deep, blood—red, glinting with some untold inheritance. A mark of the unknown. A warning,
He did not match the genius of his two siblings, did not weave words like his father, or manipulate like his cousins. But he was not a fool, only surrounded by brilliance. He did have a skill; he learned swordsmanship with terrifying ease. One glance at a form, and he understood it. Watched one duel, he understood it and he adapted. But in a house that viewed warriors with contempt, this was no gift—it was a betrayal.
However, Arivid dreamed of knighthood in secret. In books, knights were always chosen. Always welcomed. He had never been welcomed—not by them. But the sword welcomed him. Always.
Arivid found solace in movement, in the swing of a blade. And on this night, the eve of his eighteenth birthday, he moved with silent fury.
Arivid stood in the circle he had drawn, the snow around it now disturbed and scattered. His breath came in harsh, uneven bursts, clouds curling in the cold air. The wooden blade, once an extension of his will, now hung limp in his grasp, trembling.
Another night. Another wasted night. What am I even doing? Swinging at shadows, chasing ghosts... hoping someone will see me. Hear me.
His jaw tightened. The moonlight spilled across the clearing, silent and indifferent.
If I were born as someone else—someone worthy—maybe I would be accepted. Maybe They'd look at me without that damn judgment in their eyes. Maybe I wouldn't feel like I have to bleed just to prove I exist.
His eyes dropped to the blade. The grooves in its grain were filled with frost and sweat.
But I wasn't. I'm me. And maybe that's the problem.
He raised the sword again, slower this time, the shaking still in his arm.
But maybe... maybe it's also the answer.
Then—a voice.
"HEY!"
He froze, his body spinning, sword raised instinctively. A tall figure emerged from the snow-ridden trees, his hair long and loose—gray, with a hint of brown remaining—and Arivid's heart stilled.
Arivid's voice was hesitant.
"Father?"
Frode stepped forward, his cloak covered in snow, his eyes unreadable.
"You dare point that thing at me?"
Arivid lowered his weapon. Frode approached, his gaze lingered on the sword with disgust.
Bright green eyes studied him, calm but suffocating—like ivy wrapping tight around a tree.
"To the main house," Frode said, each word deliberate. "Let the family and elders witness the stain I've left on the Deer name."
"Yes, Father," he said, voice flat.
You don't even deserve that title. You've never looked at me like a son—only like I'm filth. A disgrace.
He tried to keep his face blank, but the flicker of hurt was there—just enough for Frode to see it, even if Arivid wished he hadn't.
As Arivid moved to pass Frode, the boy's eyes locked with his—impossible to ignore. The green, once full of life, had dulled. The red gleamed, sharper than ever. A cold sweat slid down Frode's neck.
Arivid passed him in silence, only for something to break within him. He stopped. Turned.
"Why?" he asked. The word hung in the cold. His voice, usually flat, now cracked with restrained anger. "Why is it always me? All I did was be born—and for that, I'm cast aside?"
Their eyes met—green to green, and red.
Frode flinched. His expression shifted—less anger now, more... sorrow?
Frode remembered the way Arivid had once clung to his every glance—and how he had turned away, again and again.
"Because of that," Frode said, hesitant but clear.
"There are things you haven't been told," Frode said, voice quiet now, uncertain. "Things that—if known—would bring danger to all of us. If they knew who you really—"
A thunderous explosion cut him off—tearing through the night like a scream.
Flames roared from the main estate, smoke curling into the sky. Screams followed.
Father and son ran towards the explosion. Snow hissed to ash beneath their feet. When they reached the burning hall, chaos awaited.
Servants fled. Beams collapsed. House knights' swords clashed with unknown figures in black cloaks.
While the chaos was happening, Arivid questioned what his father had wanted to say. What am I? What did he mean—who I really am?'
Frode gripped Arivid's shoulder, eyes fierce, snapping him out of his thoughts.
"Find any survivors. Use your strength. We'll regroup—"
A voice sliced through the smoke interrupting Frode. Smooth. Mocking.
"Well, well, well… if it isn't Frode, head of the oh-so-noble Deer family. Tell me, does that brilliant mind of yours still mask the stench of your cowardice?"
A man stepped from the flames—dark-armored, cloak smouldering, sword gleaming in the firelight. He was tall—easily six and a half feet—with a broad, powerful frame that moved with unnatural ease. He stood a few inches taller than Arivid, and it felt like more. The fire lit only the lower half of his face: ashen skin, mouth curled in a grin, and a scruffy, unkempt beard streaked with grey—save for a single patch of pitch-black hair, untouched by age or flame, as if even the fire feared to touch it. The rest was hidden beneath the hood, but Arivid could feel his eyes—glowing faintly red—locked on him.
Arivid froze.
His eyes... are they red? Like mine?
The man's gaze flicked to Arivid—looking down at him, eyes gleaming with recognition. A knowing look passed.
"So… this is the stain she left behind."
Vorrak's grin widened. "Half-blood. Loose end."
Arivid flinched—but only for a heartbeat. He straightened his spine, forcing the tension from his shoulders, burying the tremble in his chest. He couldn't look weak. Not now. Not in front of him.
His voice came low. Cold. But beneath that chill, something twisted. Not just fear… something sharper. Something eager.
"You… what do you mean?"
His eyes rose to meet the man's. The green one was clouded with caution. But the red—The red flickered. Brighter. Alive.
Arivid straightened his posture again, forcing himself taller, as if rising to meet the man's presence. His grip on the wooden sword tightened until his knuckles went white. He wouldn't let himself look afraid. Not now.
Frode stepped in front of his son with startling speed. Arivid had never seen him move like that—swift, instinctual.
He moved himself and his son a couple of paces back to create distance between them and the man.
"You," Frode said, his voice low and cold.
The man's grin widened. "Still hiding behind half-truths and lies, I see."
Frode's lips curled in a grimace. "Vorrak."
The name fell like a blade.
Servants nearby stopped running. A hush swept the hall, even amidst the crackle of fire and the clash of swords. Fear rippled through them like a wave.
Arivid's spine prickled. He remembered the name—an old tale whispered by the passing merchants. A swordsman who slaughtered forty knights for daring to meet his gaze. Vorrak, the Butcher of Blades.
No one spoke. Not Arivid. Not the servants. Not even Frode.
There was only one thought on all their minds.
Will we survive?
End of Chapter 1