The storm broke at midnight, as though the sky itself meant to split the keep in two.
Cael Ashveil Varissen did not remember that night, but he would learn to carry it with him all the same.
On the high floor of the tower, a midwife hissed curses under her breath as she pressed one last time on his mother's belly. The woman's skin had turned the color of parchment hours ago.
"Push," she demanded through her teeth.
Lady Liora Ashveil Varissen bit down on a strip of linen and did not scream.
The lightning struck again. The stone underfoot shook hard enough that flakes of plaster fell. In that instant, Cael drew breath for the first time and howled.
The midwife caught him and muttered a prayer. He looked so slick and fragile.
Another servant ran forward with the cloth, but froze when she saw Liora's eyes staring glassy and fixed toward the cracked ceiling.
"Too late," whispered one of the maids.
Too late.
The baby's wails filled the chamber while the midwife cut the cord.
...
Hours later, when the body was carried out and Cael was cleaned and swaddled, a nursemaid sat with him in a small chair by the tower window. The storm had passed, but the scent of wet stone lingered.
"Little lord," she murmured, not unkindly, "you've no mother to feed you now. It's lucky your lungs are strong, luckier still you're a boy, though I don't envy you your father."
She peeked down at him in her arms, and for the first time he opened his eyes. They were a pale, watery grey that hadn't yet decided what they meant to be.
"Don't look at me like that," the woman muttered, though her lips twitched.
The door creaked open and Baron Edric Varissen strode in, black cloak snapping behind him. His face was set like iron, and his gaze passed over his dead wife's bed without pausing.
"How loud is it?" he demanded.
The nurse rose. "Strong-lunged, my lord. Healthy."
Edric looked at the bundle without reaching for it. His upper lip curled. "We'll see about that."
...
By morning, the servants whispered about the storm and the birth in equal measure.
They said lightning had struck the chapel roof at the exact moment the boy drew breath. They said crows had circled the keep for three days before it happened.
One chambermaid claimed to have seen black veins crawling up Lady Liora's arms as she died, though no one else admitted to seeing the same.
By dawn, the body was gone, the blood scrubbed clean, and the maids were humming as if nothing at all had happened.
But Cael was sent to the tower.
...
When Cael was old enough to remember, the tower already felt like a prison.
At five years, he sat on a narrow stone bench by the window, watching his half-brother Jorlan training in the yard below.
Jorlan's hair gleamed gold in the sunlight. His sword flashed even brighter.
Steel rang against steel as Jorlan drove his sparring partner to the dirt. A roar of approval rose from the squires and men-at-arms gathered around.
Cael shifted on the bench, trying to see better. He pressed his forehead to the cool glass and squinted.
"Don't strain your eyes," the nursemaid, now called Matilde, warned as she bustled in with a tray of bread and milk.
"I want to watch," Cael said.
"You're not made for it."
"Why not?"
Matilde paused, then snorted. "Because you were born with bones like a bird and eyes like a mole, that's why."
Cael scowled at the tray. "My eyes are fine."
"They are not. You trip over every step after dusk, and you can't even tell me the color of your own damn cloak half the time."
Cael crossed his arms. "Then why can I see him?"
"Because the sun is shining, little lord, and he is hard to miss."
Outside, Jorlan finished his bout and thrust his sword in the air. The men cheered again. A few of them glanced toward the tower window.
Matilde caught Cael's chin between her fingers and turned his face toward her.
"Stop staring. Eat. If you're lucky, you'll grow enough spine to stand out there someday. And if you're smart, you won't bother."
...
That evening, Edric visited the tower.
Cael stood when the door opened, as Matilde had taught him.
Edric didn't acknowledge him.
He strode to the window, hands clasped behind his back, and gazed out over the yard where Jorlan was still sparring by torchlight.
"You are weak," Edric said after a long silence.
"Yes, Father."
"You will stay in this room until you are strong enough to stop embarrassing this house."
"Yes, Father."
Edric finally turned. His eyes were dark, but sharp. He studied Cael as if trying to decide whether to bother keeping him alive.
"The name Ashveil," Edric said, slowly, "once meant something. That was before your mother's family squandered it chasing illusions. Do not follow her path."
Cael said nothing.
Edric leaned closer, and in a lower voice added: "Better to die an honest fool than live as a cursed one. Remember that."
Then he left.
...
Afterward, Matilde came and sat beside him on the bench.
"Your mother wasn't a fool," she said softly.
Cael glanced at her.
"She was clever. Too clever. And she left you something for when you're older."
"What?"
"A letter. And a trinket. Both locked away for now."
"Why?"
Matilde hesitated. Then she rubbed his shoulder once and rose.
"Because you're not ready," she said.
...
That night, Cael lay awake on his narrow cot, staring at the dark ceiling.
He heard the faint hum of the wind through the cracks in the stone, but beneath it… something else.
A whisper.
It was faint, and he couldn't make out the words, but it was there — curling at the edges of his hearing.
He sat up.
The window gleamed faintly in the moonlight.
Cael rose and padded toward it.
When he pressed his forehead to the glass, the whisper sharpened for a moment into something almost intelligible:
"…blood… and gold…"
He stumbled back, his heart hammering.
When he turned, Matilde was standing in the doorway, holding a candle.
"You heard it, didn't you?" she asked quietly.
Cael swallowed.
"Yes," he said.
Matilde's expression tightened, though her voice stayed calm.
"Then it's started," she murmured.
...
The next morning, Edric summoned him downstairs.
For the first time in his memory, Cael stood in the great hall.
Jorlan stood beside their father, gleaming in his practice armor.
"You will watch today," Edric said without looking at Cael. "You will watch, and you will learn. This is how men earn respect."
Cael followed as Edric led them out into the yard.
The men-at-arms formed a rough circle, all eyes on Jorlan as he raised his blade and saluted.
His opponent, a much older squire charged.
Cael squinted, trying to follow the movements.
At first, the clang of steel was all he could hear, but then faintly the whisper came again.
Not from the air this time, but from the yard itself.
When Jorlan's blade swung wide, Cael saw just for an instant faint threads of light trailing from the sword's edge to the ground.
No one else reacted.
The threads vanished as quickly as they'd appeared.
But Cael's breath was caught in his throat.
He could still hear the whispers.
When the bout ended and the circle of men erupted in cheers, Edric turned his gaze to Cael.
"You see now?"
Cael forced himself to nod.
"Yes, Father," he said.
Edric sneered.
"Then you'd best stop hiding behind skirts and books," he said, loud enough for the men-at-arms to hear. "Or you'll never be more than a pale shadow of this house."
Jorlan grinned down at him.
Cael held his gaze until Jorlan finally looked away.
...
That night, back in the tower, Cael stood again at the window.
He could still hear the whispers, faint but steady now, murmuring about blood and gold.
When he closed his eyes, he saw the faint threads in the yard again.
And for the first time, he wondered what else he might see — if he dared to look.