After several hours, the savory scents of the feast finally began to mingle with the freezing air of Wynterdale. The massive bell atop the Main Hall rang out, shattering the silence of the night.
DONG... DONG...
For the people of Wynterdale, this was not merely a call to dinner, but a declaration of celebration. As the townsfolk gathered before the grand structure, the heavy Aeth doors groaned open. The scene inside was enough to make even the most appetite-lorn man salivate: the Great Elk Tristan had hunted was distributed across the tables, steaming under the glow of candles that made the fat on the meat shine like gold.
However, for Lord Joseph at the head of the table, this brilliance held no meaning. The death of his childhood friend, King Edovar, was a lump caught in his throat. Joseph stepped to the head of the table with heavy strides, raised his chalice, and bellowed so all could hear:
"ENJOY THE FEAST, EVERYONE!"
With that command, the hall filled with the clatter of cutlery and joyous laughter. The Vael family sat at their private table, savoring the choicest cuts of the elk. Dudley, with his mouth stuffed full, managed to mumble, "It really tastes... incredible!"
A faint smile of pride flickered on Tristan's face, but Norm targeted it instantly. "It tastes good, even if you weren't the one who actually brought it down," Norm said, her voice laced with unconcealed jealousy.
Grace intervened, casting a slight frown at her daughter. "You should show a little proud in your brother, Norm."
At that moment, Rossie descended the stairs. She was only a year younger than Tristan but was known as the "face" of Wynterdale. Unlike Norm, she possessed skin that looked as delicate as porcelain and chestnut hair that fell in intricate braids to her waist. The grace she displayed while sitting was the perfect result of dynastic grooming.
But Dudley cared little for grace. Using his spoon like a catapult, he launched a glob of mashed meat right onto Rossie's hair. Rossie's "lady" mask shattered in a single second.
"YOU LITTLE DEMON!" Rossie roared, all traces of her former delicacy vanished. "Do you have any idea how long I spent on this hair?"
Grace slammed her hand on the table to halt the chaos. "Children, enough! We have a more vital matter to discuss."
"King Edovar..." Grace said, not lifting her eyes. "We heard he's dead, Mother. News travels faster than the wind here." Norm said.
Grace sighed. "Fine, since you already know... tomorrow you will set out for the Capital with your father. Except for Tristan."
Tristan bolted upright. "Why? If I am to be Lord one day, shouldn't I meet the other leaders in the Capital?"
"Wynterdale needs a Lord, Tristan," Grace said with a soft but firm tone. "Your father has chosen to entrust this sacred duty to you."
The anger within Tristan turned into a sudden shiver. His father trusted him. He was leaving him the legacy of hundreds of years. "How long will you be gone?" Tristan asked, his voice more somber now.
"At least three weeks," Grace replied. "The journey and the length of the ceremony are uncertain."
Tristan returned to his food, but his mind was already grappling with the fears of his inexperience. What if something went wrong? What if he failed his people? Just then, Joseph emerged from his room and began to descend the stairs. Grace struck her silver fork against her chalice, cutting through the noise like a blade.
Joseph stopped midway down the stairs and addressed his people:
"Brothers and sisters of Wynterdale! The passing of King Edovar Nesterin has shaken us all. On this day of mourning, I shall go to the Capital to represent House Vael. While I am away, my son Tristan shall be the acting Lord of Wynterdale. I ask that you look upon him with the same trust you afford me."
No objection rose from the people; instead, they showed their unwavering faith in the young heir with applause and murmurs of approval. This was exactly what terrified Tristan: the possibility of breaking that unshakable trust.
Sir Bjarne leaned toward Joseph and whispered, "My Lord, Isaac 'the Varnak' and Eto Bergh have entered the Wynterdale."
Isaac was the same age as Tristan. Joseph had found him years ago, a masterless babe in the snow, and had raised him as a Vael. However, the commoners had dubbed him "the Varnak" because his lineage was unknown. To Tristan, he was a brother; a raven born in the white, with jet-black hair and grey eyes that shone like a Vael's, Isaac was the invisible part of the family.
Eto was a young man exiled from House Bergh. Contrary to his house, known for their beauty, his face bore an unfortunate ugliness, but his loyalty was absolute.
"Summon them to me," Joseph said, looking at Bjarne. "And I do not wish for Isaac to be called by that name again."
Isaac and Eto entered and knelt before the Lord.
"Eto, you will accompany me to the Capital," Joseph said. "Isaac, you will stay here to support Tristan."
Isaac looked at the man he considered a father with a modest expression. "My Lord, Tristan is capable enough on his own. Allow me to come with you."
"No, Isaac," Joseph said, placing a hand on the youth's shoulder. "I do not wish to leave Wynterdale vulnerable. You have things to teach Tristan, and he has things to teach you. And I may need Eto's strength in the Capital."
Isaac bowed his head in acceptance. As the night progressed, the fires of the feast began to turn to embers, and the joyous sounds were replaced by a weary silence. Grace prepared supplies, while Joseph stared into the dark forest from his window, and Tristan prepared for the longest weeks of his life.
As the sun rose heavily over the misty northern horizon, the crystals upon the snow took on a hue of cold gold. The massive lifting platform of Wynterdale prepared to descend; Lord Joseph, accompanied by fifteen infantrymen and a portion of his family, sat atop their horses.
Tristan stepped forward to bid his siblings farewell. Norm, gripping her reins tightly, looked down at her brother. "I'll bring you something back from the Capital, 'My Lord'," she said, emphasizing the title with biting irony. The sarcasm in her voice couldn't hide the restless jealousy burning within her. The fact that Tristan would sit in their father's seat, even briefly, was like an ember fueling her own knightly ambitions. She was going to the Capital not just for a funeral, but to take a step closer to her dreams.
Beside them stood the carriage carrying Rossie. The delicate rose of Wynterdale looked pale, as if a winter mist had settled over her. Her eyes drifted to Isaac, who stood just behind Tristan. "The city is in your hands while we are gone," she said, her voice trembling in the wind.
Isaac, unable to bear Rossie's somber state, took a step forward. "Ross, don't look so grim. It's only a couple months. You'll be back before you know it."
Joseph, finishing his goodbye to Grace, rode over to his son. He leaned down and gave Tristan's shoulder a fatherly pat. "Only a couple months, lad. If you can manage this with honor, I'll have a special gift for you upon my return."
Tristan felt the weight of an invisible cloak on his shoulders more than the promise of any gift. What could happen in couple months? he thought. It will pass in the blink of an eye.
Just then, Master Sten, the veteran of the Main Hall, approached with heavy steps. Joseph cast a trusting glance at the old man. "I leave things in your hands, Sten!"
"Of course, my Lord," Sten replied, stroking his long white beard. "We shall eagerly await your return." Sten was a loyal steward, the living memory of the Main Hall. Though his back was slightly stooped from the weight of years, his eyes remained as sharp as an eagle's.
At Joseph's signal, the horns sounded. The riders began to move slowly, gliding down the steep slopes of Wynterdale. Joseph, Rossie, Norm, Eto, and Dudley... a grand procession heading toward the uncertainty of the Capital.
Tristan, Isaac, and Grace remained under the biting wind until the group vanished from sight. As the crowd slowly dispersed to their daily toils, Tristan headed into the depths of the Main Hall to begin his new duties.
However, Grace did not move. Once she was alone with Isaac, Lady Vael suddenly grabbed his ear and gave it a sharp, painful twist. Isaac recoiled, caught entirely off guard.
"Isaac! You will go now and assist Tristan, exactly as Joseph commanded. Is that understood?"
"Of course, Lady Vael! Understood!" Isaac stammered, flinching from the sting.
Isaac could never quite decipher Grace. To her own children, she was as tender as an angel, but with him and Eto, she turned into a block of ice. It wasn't exactly hatred; perhaps it was just a cold reminder to those who did not carry Vael blood in their veins.
As Grace turned and walked inside with a regal stride, Isaac paused for a moment to watch the rising sun. The massive Aeth gates of Wynterdale groaned shut.