Light.
Not the gentle bloom of dawn through silk-drawn curtains, nor the amber hush of hearthfire licking at stone— but something merciless.
It came without warning. A blinding, unforgiving brilliance that swallowed all form and colour alike, searing through Nevan's vision until the world itself seemed to be scoured clean beneath it.
His breath caught—sharp, instinctive.
His hands rose at once, pressing hard against his eyes, fingers digging into his brow as though flesh alone might bar the intrusion.
It did not.
The light burned through regardless—relentless, absolute—until even behind closed lids it lingered, an endless white that knew no mercy.
For a time—seconds, or something far longer—there was nothing else.
There was no sound, no ground, no self. Only light.
Then, slowly—it began to loosen its hold.
Not all at once, but in fragments. As though the world were being returned to him piece by fragile piece.
Shadow came first. Faint and uncertain. Then shape, then form. And at last—clarity.
---
The air struck him.
It was thick—laden with heat, with the sour reek of sweat long dried into sand, with iron and beasts and men packed too closely together.
Nevan lowered his hands.
And saw it. The pit.
A vast, sunken wound carved into the heart of stone, its walls rising steep and merciless, hemming him in on every side. Tier upon tier of seats circled its breadth, overflowing with bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder until it seemed all of Garthford had gathered to witness what lay below.
Nobles leaned forward in silks that shimmered beneath the harsh light, rings and jewels catching fire where the sun struck them. Dukes and lords spoke in low tones, their voices laced with interest sharpened into something almost cruel.
Below them—
the common throng.
A restless tide of bodies, louder, hungrier, their voices rising in uneven waves that crashed and recoiled against the stone.
It pressed in on him. Not the closeness—but the weight of it.
Every gaze.
Every breath.
Fixed upon him.
His chest tightened. Slowly his gaze lifted toward the raised dais set apart from all others.
Untouchable.
Reserved.
The royal seat.
His father sat at its centre, unmoving as carved granite, his presence vast and cold as winter itself.
William beside him—composed, still, watching without seeming to watch.
Martin stood not far off, unease clinging to him like a second skin, his hands restless, betraying what his silence would not.
And his mother— Her face was turned away. Not toward him. As though reluctant to witness the event below.
A cold dread slid into Nevan's chest. Sharp and unwelcome.
"W… where… am I…?"
The words fell from him unsteady, unfamiliar, as though they did not belong to his own tongue.
He moved—one step—
And iron answered.
A hard, jarring clink that rang too loud in the pit.
He stilled. His gaze running down.
Chains.
Heavy. Unforgiving. Coiled about his ankles, biting into flesh, anchoring him where he stood.
"What is the meaning of this…?"
His voice rose now—strained, edged with something dangerously close to fear.
He looked to himself—and stilled.
No velvet.
No careful tailoring.
Only armour.
Ill-fitting and foreign.
It hung upon him as though it belonged to another man entirely, dragging at his shoulders, choking his breath, pressing him into the earth.
He could scarcely draw air beneath its weight.
---
Then—
sound.
A murmur.
Low at first.
Then swelling.
Rising.
Twisting—
Until it became a roar.
---
The gates opened.
Iron groaned against iron, a sound deep and ancient, echoing through the pit like something long buried being forced awake.
Then—
thunder.
Hooves struck stone in a rhythm that shook the ground beneath him, each impact reverberating up through his bones.
A horse burst forth.
Dark, powerful and wild.
And astride it—
Eric.
Clad in gleaming steel, every line of him composed, effortless, born for this.
The horse came to a halt. Rising a wave of sand that only made it look more menacing. Eric dismounted in one smooth motion.
Steel sang as his blade came free.
The crowd erupted.
A deafening wave of sound that crashed against Nevan from all sides, pressing into his skull, his chest, his very breath.
Eric lifted the blade slightly—
and the roar grew.
Fervent.
Hungry.
Alive.
Then—
his gaze found Nevan.
And everything changed.
---
There was no warmth, no familiarity, no brother. Only hostility. Cold, unyielding hostility.
"Eric—!"
The name tore from him, thin, uncertain.
"Where are we? What is this?"
His voice trembled. He heard it and hated it.
Eric gaze sized him before he moved. Slowly. Each step measured.
Tap.
Metal on stone.
Tap.
Closer.
Tap.
Nearer.
"Pick up your sword."
The voice was wrong. Flat and empty, as though it belonged to a man and not a boy "…and fight me."
"What sword…?" The words felt hollow in his mouth. His gaze swept down.
A blade lay at his feet. Its polished surface caught his reflection—warped, trembling.
The chains—were gone. He had not felt them leave.The armour shifted—settling, yet still suffocated him.
---
"Fight."
"Fight."
"Fight."
The chant rose, pounding against him, driving into his skull like a hammer.
Nevan bent slowly. His fingers closed around the hilt. It felt wrong. Heavy. Alien. Just like the one in the training yard.
Before Nevan could take a stance. Eric struck. Steel screamed through the air.
Nevan barely lifted his blade in time—impact crashing through him, violent enough to rattle bone.
Another strike came before he could settle.
And another.
Relentless.
He tried—
tried to answer—
But his limbs dragged, as though bound still by unseen chains, every movement too slow, too late.
The first cut came.
Fire across his flesh.
Then another.
And another.
Each one opened him.
Each one burned.
"Father—make him stop!" The cry tore free of him, raw, desperate.
He looked towards him. Pleaded—But the king did not move. Did not see.
"Mother—please—help!" he turned too her even more desperate. But her face remained turned away.
"I told you," Eric's voice cut through, cold and merciless, "all you had was her favour."
Steel drove into him.
Nevan staggered.
"You are nothing without it."
The blade plunged.
Cold.
Then heat.
A terrible, spreading warmth that stole breath, thought—everything.
His mouth opened—but no sound came. The world dimmed.
The roar faded.
And all that remained—
was the certainty.
He was dying.
---
He woke with a gasp that tore through his throat.
His body surged upright— Pain followed at once.
Sharp and unforgiving.
His ribs screamed in protest, his breath catching halfway as his hands flew to his stomach—
Searching, expecting something. But there was nothing.
Only skin.
Damp.
His hair clung to his brow, pale strands darkened with sweat, trailing cold along his temples.
"It… was a dream…"
The words came thin.
Uncertain.
A tremor passed through him.
Not from cold.
From memory.
---
A knock interrupted his thought.
Soft.
Measured.
"Nevan, my dear… are you wakeful?"
His mother voice rang filled with worry.
She entered before he could answer.
Swift.
Composure fraying the moment her eyes found him.
"My lord—what has befallen you?"
She reached him at once, her hand cool against his fevered skin.
"You are drenched through… should I summon the physician?"
He shook his head.
Once.
Again.
Tried to speak—
Nothing came.
Only breath.
Dry.
Unsteady.
"It is… nothing."
The lie faltered even as it was born.
Charlotte stilled. Not in motion—but in knowing.
"Nevan…"
Her voice softened, her fingers brushing damp strands from his face.
"You tremble."
"I do not—tremble" His voice rang out. Too quick. Too brittle.
He swallowed in an attempt to anchor himself, to bring back his composure.
"It was but a dream."
He forced steadiness into it.
"There is no cause for alarm."
He leaned away—just slightly—seeking distance.
Control.
"I am quite well."
The mask he had worn so many times. He reached for it. But it seemed it was slipping through his grasp.
"I have heard of the yard." Her voice lowered.
Measured.
"They told me it was a mere spar."
Her gaze moved over him—the bruises.
The uncanny hue of purple and dark red that plagued his skin.
"A spar does not leave a child thus marred."
"It was nothing of consequence." His voice tightened. "I misstepped. That is all."
A pause.
"I would not have it made into more." he spoke softly, he didn't want to relieve the fear he had felt on the training yard.
Silence fell upon the chamber. For seconds Charlotte just sat there. Watching, waiting.
"My little saint…" Her voice gentled further.
"You need not endure this alone."
"I am not alone." he spoke his voice sharp. "I require only rest."he said quieter now.
"I assure you—there is nothing—"His voice broke.
He stopped, taking a deep breathe he tried again.
"There is nothing to—" His breath caught again. Harder this time.
Her hand came to his cheek. Caress it with so much care, as though he might crack at any moment.
He tried to pull away, but he was hesitant.
"You need not be strong before me," she whispered.
That was all she said. That was where it gave way.
"I am…" The word dissolved.
His gaze fell, lashes lowering as though they might hide what surged behind them.
"I am…" he tried again but nothing followed.
Warmth slipped free. A single tear.
Slow.
Unbidden.
He stilled as though struck by it.
Another followed.
Then another.
His breath began to falter—not loud, not broken—but no longer his to command.
"I did not wish… for you to see me thus." His voice thinned.
"I believed… I was sufficient."
His fingers tightened into the sheets.
"I saw it… I knew what he would do… every strike…" His breath fractured.
"And yet—" His shoulders trembled. "My body would not answer me."
"I could do nothing." The words fell heavy.
Charlotte drew him close.
He tried to resist. He wanted tk put up the walls he had used a thosand times before. He wanted to smile and tell her he was okay even though he wasn't.
For a heartbeat. He had almost succeeded. A last, fragile hold on pride—Then it broke.
He clung to her.
Fingers twisting into her gown, as though it alone held the world steady.
"I was afraid," he finally admitted, the words barely sound. "I thought… he would not stop."
"You are safe," she murmured, holding him tighter.
"You are safe, my son."
But he did not feel safe.
Not yet.
Because the yard still clung to him.
The heat.
The eyes.
The silence when he had begged.
The moment his father passed him as though he were nothing.
The tears came then.
Not gentle.
Not quiet.
They slipped free faster now, hot against his skin, carrying with them the taste of salt and something bitter—something that burned at the back of his throat.
He hated it.
Hated the weakness.
Hated that she could feel it.
That she could hear the unsteadiness in his breath.
That he could not stop.
"I do not wish to be seen thus—" he tried, voice breaking again, breath hitching as he struggled to pull away, to reclaim himself.
"I am— I am not—"
But the words would not form.
His body betrayed him.
Again.
Charlotte held him firmer.
Not allowing distance.
Not allowing retreat.
"You need not hide from me," she said, her voice breaking now despite herself.
"My child… you need not hide."
And that—
that undid him entirely.
He pressed into her, the last of his restraint slipping through his grasp as silent sobs took him—not loud, not wild—but deep, shuddering things that trembled through his frame.
He wept for the yard.
For the fear.
For the helplessness.
For the moment he had truly believed he would die—
and no one would come.
Charlotte's heart broke beneath her ribs.
She had never seen him thus.
Never.
Not as a babe.
Not as a child.
He had always been quiet. Self-contained. Untouchable in ways that had once filled her with pride.
Now—
he was only her son.
Broken.
Frightened.
Clinging to her as though she were the only thing that had not turned away.
She held him.
And did not let go.
Time passed unseen. Measured only by the slowing of his breath, the soft hitching easing into something quieter.
Charlotte did not move at once.
She remained as she was, holding him still, as though the act itself might keep the world from reaching him again.
Only when she was certain—truly certain—that his rest had taken hold did she begin to shift.
Carefully.
Gently.
She guided him back against the bed, her hands steady despite the tightness in her chest. The linen whispered softly beneath him as he settled, his form lighter now in slumber, yet somehow more fragile for it.
She drew the covers over him, smoothing them with a tenderness she had not shown in years.
Her fingers lingered.
Brushing back the pale strands from his brow—
And there she saw it. A bruise.
Darkened. Swollen. Blooming in cruel shades of violet and red against his skin.
Her breath stilled.
For a moment—just a moment—she could only look.
He had never been one to cry.
Not as a babe, when others would wail for every passing discomfort.
Not as a child, when loneliness might have driven another to noise.
Nevan had always been… quiet.
Contained.
A boy who found solace in thought rather than company, who could sit for hours with nothing but his own mind and emerge untroubled.
It had once comforted her.
That stillness.
That self-sufficiency.
Now—
it frightened her.
Because whatever had brought him to tears tonight…
had broken through something that had never yielded before.
"What did they do to you…?"
The question barely left her lips, no more than breath given shape.
But it lingered all the same.
Heavy.
Unanswered.
She leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.
A silent promise.
Then she rose.
---
The chamber door opened with a muted creak, closing just as quietly behind her as she stepped into the corridor beyond.
Night had claimed the castle.
Darkness stretched long through the stone halls, broken only by the steady line of torches set into iron brackets along the walls. Their flames flickered with restless life, casting wavering shadows that danced across the cold surface of the stone.
Her footsteps echoed.
Measured.
Sharp.
Each step of her heel striking against the floor with quiet authority.
Servants moved where they must, heads bowed as she passed, their presence shrinking against the walls like ghosts unwilling to be seen.
She did not slow.
"See that more wood is brought to the prince's chamber," she said, her voice cutting cleanly through the silence as she passed a maid tending to a torch. "The night grows cold."
The girl bowed at once. "At once, Your Majesty."
"And send word," Charlotte continued, her gaze fixed ahead, unyielding, "that the physician is to attend the castle come morning light. I will have him see to the prince without delay."
"As you command, my queen."
She moved on.
But her thoughts did not.
They turned backward. To earlier that evening.
---
The great hall had been warm with candlelight, the long table set in careful order, silver gleaming faintly where it caught the glow. The quiet murmur of servants moving to and fro had filled the spaces between conversation.
Yet one seat had remained empty.
Nevan's.
At first, she had thought little of it. He was often absent. Often lost to books, to thought, to solitude.
But time had stretched. Courses had come and gone. And still—he had not appeared.
"Where is the prince?" she had asked at last, her tone light, though something faintly uneasy had begun to stir beneath it.
Thomlin had stepped forward then, his posture as composed as ever, though something in his eyes had not sat right.
"My lady… the prince will not be attending supper this evening."
"Will not?" she had echoed, a faint crease forming between her brows.
It was not like him.
Not without word.
Not without reason.
"He has retired early, Your Majesty."
Retired.
At that hour?
Nevan, who so often lingered deep into the night, his mind restless long after others had sought their beds?
The unease deepened.
She turned her gaze then.
"Martin," she had called, her voice gentler now. "Is your brother unwell?"
The reaction had been immediate.
Too immediate.
Martin had stilled where he sat, his hand tightening faintly around his utensil. His gaze flickered—once, twice—toward Eric… then William… before returning to her.
"Um… Nevan, he—"
The words faltered.
Caught.
His throat worked as though forcing them through would cost him more than silence.
His fingers trembled.
Subtle.
But not enough to escape her notice.
Before he could speak again—
another voice answered.
"I had the boys spar."
King Enoch.
Calm.
Even.
His gaze had not lifted from his plate.
"he sustained some minor injury. He is probably tired."
Minor.
The word had settled upon the table like something false.
Too smooth.
Too easily given.
Charlotte had held his gaze for a moment longer than was proper.
Searching.
Weighing.
But the king did not look up.
Did not elaborate.
Did not explain.
And so—
she had inclined her head.
"Then he has no doubt tired himself beyond reason," she had said lightly, though the unease had not left her.
"Rest will do him good."
The matter had been set aside.
Left.
Unfinished.
---
Now—
as she walked the darkened halls, the echo of that moment returned to her with new weight.
New clarity.
Minor. Her jaw tightened faintly. Her steps did not falter.
Whatever had taken place in that yard—
whatever had reduced her son to trembling silence and tear-stained sleep—was no minor thing.
And come morning—
she would have the truth of it.