Fifteen years later, young Newton Ice trained with his brother, John, and a handful of young warriors.
Snow stretched across the courtyard like a white sea. Boots dug into it, leaving dark scars where the ground showed through. The wind came straight from the ocean beyond the castle walls, sharp and restless. It carried the smell of salt and iron.
Newton stood in the middle of the yard. A wooden sword rested in his hand.
"Again!" one of the boys shouted.
They rushed him together. Newton moved first. His bare head caught the faint morning sun as he stepped forward. The light slid across his smooth scalp like polished stone. He turned his body slightly and brought the wooden blade down.
Crack.
The first boy's sword flew from his hand. Before the boy could even react, Newton pivoted. His foot crushed the snow beneath him as he swung again.
Thud.
The second boy stumbled backward and dropped to his knees.
Another came from behind..Newton ducked. The wooden sword whistled above his head. He rolled across the snow, came up on one knee, and drove the flat of his blade into the boy's ribs.
The boy gasped.
A fourth warrior charged forward, yelling. Newton stepped in close and hooked the boy's ankle with his foot. The boy crashed face first into the snow.
For a moment there was only heavy breathing and the sound of the sea wind brushing against the stone walls.
Newton straightened. The wooden sword rested across his shoulder.
Around him, the other boys groaned as they struggled to stand.
From the top of the castle wall, Lord Martins watched everything.
The army commander of Snowland stood with his arms folded behind his back. The wind pushed against his long grey cloak, making it flap slowly.
His sharp eyes never left Newton. The boy moved lightly. Too lightly.
Martins had watched warriors train for thirty years. He had seen knights, soldiers, mercenaries and royal guards.
But something about the boy below made his brows rise slightly.
Footwork. Timing. Instinct.
The boy fought like someone twice his age. Martins allowed himself a small smile.
Footsteps echoed behind him on the stone walkway. Soon, Bianca Woodland joined him.
Her white fur cloak dragged lightly across the frozen stone. A thin crown of silver rested on her head, catching the weak sunlight.
She followed Martins' gaze toward the courtyard. "I wonder," she said slowly, "what caught the eyes of the lord commander of Snowland in the playing children."
Martins chuckled quietly. Then he raised a finger and pointed toward Newton.
"See your husband's bastard," he said. "He is the most promising young swordsman I have seen all my life."
Bianca's lips curved into a soft smile. But the moment Martins turned away, the smile vanished.
Her eyes darkened. It turned cold, and sharp. "I have told the bastard that I do not want him training with my son ever again," she growled.
Her boots struck the steps as she began walking down in a hurry.
Stone echoed beneath each step.
Down.
Down.
Down.
Below, Newton wiped snow from his wooden blade. He could still hear the sea. He could still feel the wind.
Then something shifted in the courtyard. The boys behind him suddenly grew quiet.
Newton turned. Bianca Woodland was walking toward them.
The moment Newton saw her, his body froze. The wooden sword in his hand lowered slightly.
A shadow crossed his face. He didn't move.
Behind him, one of the boys raised his weapon again. He didn't see Bianca yet. The wooden blade swung.
Whack!
It struck Newton across the back.
"Aaassshhh!" Newton cried out as pain shot through his spine. But even as he screamed, his eyes never left Bianca.
She kept walking. Now slow, but steady.
When she got close enough, her hand moved like lightning. She grabbed Newton by both ears.
Her grip was tight, and hard.
The boy gasped as she twisted them. "Walk," she said coldly. She dragged him away from the training yard.
Snow crunched beneath their feet. The other boys watched silently. No one dared follow.
Bianca pulled Newton into a narrow stone passage between two towers. The wind there was weaker. The sea sounded distant.
She released one ear only to grab his collar and yank him closer. Her face lowered until it was inches from his. "Where is Sonia?" she growled.
Newton swallowed.
"She… she is at the library," he said quickly. "Listening to old Alice… the storyteller."
Bianca's jaw tightened. Her fingers clenched around his collar and pulled him even closer.
"Listen to me, bastard," she whispered through gritted teeth.
Newton's heart beat faster. "You are the reason why Sonia was born crippled."
The words landed like stones. "Therefore," Bianca continued, her voice cold and sharp, "you will be her legs for the rest of your life."
She leaned closer.
"So you will stand beside her whenever she moves. You will carry her when she decides to walk. You will serve her until the day you die."
Her grip tightened again. "Do you understand?"
Newton nodded slowly. He had heard this line before. Many times. Too many to count. But Bianca never seemed tired of saying it.
"Yes, ma'am," he echoed quietly.
Bianca studied his face for a moment. Then she released him and smoothed her cloak like nothing had happened.
"Good," she said calmly. Her tone changed as if she were speaking about the weather.
"Go stand close to her so you could help her move around whenever she wishes."
Newton nodded again.
The moment Bianca let go of him, he ran.
Fast.
His boots slipped across the snow as he rushed out of the narrow passage. The cold air hit his face.
Tears slowly filled his eyes. He wiped them quickly with his sleeve.
No one must see. This was his world. He knew it well.
He had been born from a forbidden union. That was what everyone said. "He should never have existed.
He was the symbol of the only oath his father had ever broken.
Newton ran for a while..The wind pushed against him. His breath grew heavier.
Then his foot slipped. He crashed into the snow. Cold powder exploded around him.
For a moment he simply lay there. Nearby, a group of young boys had been watching.
They burst into laughter.
"See," one of them said loudly, pointing. "That is the bald headed bastard of the ruling family."
More laughter followed. Newton slowly pushed himself up. He didn't look at them.
"I wonder why his head is always shining without hair?" a girl asked curiously.
Another boy snorted.
"Of course he is a bastard."
He folded his arms proudly.
"The Woodland motto is 'we always keep our oath.'"
He tilted his chin toward Newton. "But he is the evidence that the Warden didn't keep his marital oath."
The group laughed again. "He is the Warden's shame," another boy added. "That is why his head must be shaved."
"A symbol of shame."
Newton heard every word. Each one. But he didn't react.
He had been hearing those words for as long as he could remember.
His fingers tightened slightly against the snow. Then he stood up slowly. His breathing steadied.
When he had caught enough breath, he began walking again.
One step. Then another. But he wasn't the only one who heard what the boys had said.
The moment the group turned around, their laughter died. John was standing there.
Silently watching them.
The wind lifted the edge of his dark cloak. His eyes were cold. The boys froze. Then one of them quickly bowed.
"M… my lord," he stammered.
The others followed immediately, bending their heads. But John didn't acknowledge the greeting.
His eyes remained fixed on them. "What," he asked slowly, "did you just say about my brother?"
No one answered. Fear crept into their faces. Their feet trembled against the snow.
John took one step forward.
The boys instinctively stepped back. But John was already moving. He lunged forward with his wooden sword.
Crack!
The wooden sword struck the first boy across the shoulder.
The boy cried out and collapsed. Before anyone could react, John turned.
Whack!
Another strike landed on a second boy's arm. The boy dropped his sword instantly.
John kept moving.
The wooden blade rose and fell again. And again.
Each strike came faster than the last. The courtyard echoed with dull thuds and frightened cries.
A boy tried to run. But John grabbed the back of his collar and slammed him into the snow.
The girl stumbled backward, covering her mouth.
John finally stopped.
The boys lay scattered across the ground, groaning. He stood still for a moment, breathing calmly.
Then he straightened his robes. His voice dropped low. "Mock my brother one more time," he said slowly, "and I will have your heads cut off."
Silence filled the courtyard. The boys trembled.
"Is that understood?" John growled.
"Ye… ye… yes, my lord," they answered together.
John stared at them for another moment. Then he nodded once.
"Good."