(Trigger Warning: This chapter contains moderate depictions of physical, emotional and domestic abuse.)

Frostpeak had been built with a commanding view over the Storm Horn mountains and the lands beyond, so that the Marchions of Frostpeak, as the Galehauts were officially titled, would be able to face any threat posed to Cormyr. As such, the windows bathed the hall in the white light of a wintry day, the sun gleaming off the stone and snow of the mountainsides that spread out beneath the castle, growing lower and more modest with distance until they spilled out into the grimy green of the Farsea Swamp and the burnished gold of the Lightning Steppes.

The castle's great hall was a vast chamber of blue-grey mountain stone, ancient but strong, unyielding as the mountain which gave it its name. At one end of the hall, upon a raised dais, was the Throne of Byron, carved from the same stone as the rest of the castle, the arms shaped like the heads of howling griffins and the back depicting a pair of the beasts standing in profile, their wings appearing to crown the head of whoever sat upon the chair. The vaulted ceiling supported by masterfully-worked pillars that were thick as trees, spiralled with golden panelling and flanked by guards dressed in hauberks and wielding spears.

And standing amidst all of this was a single man, a young boy, and a harridan.

"How dare you disobey me, Logan!" Lady Margret of the Extaminos family yelled down at him, her long, bony fingers crushing his wrist like the coils of a constrictor snake before she threw him to the floor in front of his father, who was seated upon the Throne of Byron. The stone flags scraped the skin from Logan's palms as he landed, but when he looked up at Margret, the only response she got from him was a glare of defiance.

Even at eight years old, he had always been a wilful child, and his hatred for his stepmother made that will blaze brighter until it became an inferno of distaste and contempt.

Margret was not a hard woman to hate – there seemed to be no flesh, no blood, and no love in her for anything except herself. Every scrap of her body was gaunt as a rail and hard as granite, her skin dreadfully pale and eerily smooth, her lips chapped and thin as paper. Crows-feet patterned the sockets of her large black eyes, which were unblinking as a viper's, making her seem both older and younger than she really was in an unnerving blend of allure and experience. Her every other feature seemed to be chipped from flint, like imps had sharpened her narrow beak of a noise and torn any flesh that might have remained from her body from the inside out before sewing her skin back up. Even her hair was hard and wiry, like strands of solid metal that had been dragged through mud and stapled to the head of a scarecrow or a gargoyle. She loomed up over him as they met gazes, and from the sleeves of her black-and-white gown protruded the gnarled, bony branches that were her fingers.

As he pushed himself back to his feet, palms reddening with blood, Logan looked up towards the Throne of Byron. Silhouetted for a moment in the light was a figure, but as the seated man sat forward, the little boy's heart did not surge with joy or fear. It only rumbled in disappointment.

"W-what did he do?" his father asked in a stuttered whimper of a voice.

In contrast to his second wife, everything about Lord Josef Galehaut was soft and pathetic. His was not the face of a knight, nor was his body - pronounced jowls hung from his cheeks, his eyes droopy and sagging, his brow constantly twisted into a look of nervousness and fear, His black hair was thin and flaxen, draped back over his scalp and down his shoulders like strands of seaweed; despite only being in his thirties, half his hair had already gone to grey. His posture was stooped forward, his concave chest hunched over the little swollen belly that wobbled whenever he moved.

He wasn't fat, though – fat would have been something. Instead, he was just shapeless; the marcher lord of Frostpeak and head of the noble house Galehaut looked as if you could push him over just by walking near him.

Worse still, if you marched right up to him, mocked him to his face and shoved him over... he wouldn't even do anything about it.

Her certainly didn't when Margret did – striding up the dais to stand over her husband, she prodded at his shoulder with a finger like a spearpoint. "I caught him playing tag with the blacksmith's son and a few other common-born whelps down in the bailey," she said, her touch seeming to force him backwards out of sheer terror alone. "What sort of things are you teaching him, Josef?"

As she asked him, she jabbed at him again, to which Josef merely squirmed and whimpered before eventually replying. "N-nothing, my d-dear. You're the one in charge of his educ-cation..."

What he said was true, unfortunately. Margret had an iron-hard grip on her stepson, and had done for the past four years, right down to when he woke up in the morning, what lessons he received, and the children he could spend time with.

The latter of those three being 'none at all' – she never let Logan out of the sight of her personal gang of cronies, the household she'd brought over from her home city of Hlondeth, of which her family were the rulers. She always told him they were for his own good, but he knew in his heart that they were nothing more than her lickspittles.

Listening to the adults' 'conversation', Logan balled up his hands into fists and started to stride up the dais himself. "They're my friends, Margret!" he told them, not wavering even as both of them looked his way. "And I'm going to play with them, no matter what!"

"Silence, Logan!" the black-eyed woman retorted down at him. "You are a nobleman, the future lord of Frostpeak! Your place is above the common folk, ruling over them. Not rolling around in dirt with them!"

Logan met her gaze. "I want my own friends – not the people you always have around me! They never do anything except what you want!"

Margret moved to tower over him, her laugh lines deepening into a sneer. Clearly, her failure to impart the fear and obedience she wanted in her charge was frustrating her.

"Do as you are t-told, Logan..." Josef tried to say, scratching plaintively at his wrists beneath his long, plush robe. He was always picking at his skin – so much so that people referred to him as Lord Josef Scab, often in his own hearing.

"Quiet, Josef," she snapped, the two words making Josef recoil in terror. She then fixed her gaze more firmly on her stepson, taking a step towards him. "I am teaching you how to be a ruler, Logan, and you will honour me and respect my judgement. If you put yourself at the same level as your subjects, they will think you weak and take advantage of you. The common folk should be doing nothing but grovelling at your feet – if they do not, they must be whipped until they do so."

Logan felt a twinge in his neck, looking to his father for support. But when he got nothing, he realized he was alone despite his sire's presence and all the guards in the room.

But that wouldn't stop him - if his dad wouldn't stand up for himself, then Logan would. He wouldn't let Margret push him around.

"That's not true!" he told her. "You just want everyone to kneel for you!"

Those words just seemed to amuse Margret more than anything – as she listened, the faintest trace of a smile slithering across her lipless mouth. "The knees of men were made to do one thing – to kneel before their betters, or break in the bending." She glanced at Josef as she said that, and that merest flick of her eyes his way was enough to make the Lord of Frostpeak shrink upon his throne, curling up and cowering like a terrified mouse.

But not Logan.

"You're just a bully and I won't bow to you! If I want to play with my friends, I will!" he yelled.

Margret's eyes shone with malice, her smirk vanishing instantly. "Silence!" she snapped. "You have no say in this household, you witless child! Not so long as I draw breath! I am your mother, and what I say goes in Frostpeak!"

In that moment, sheer fury erupted.

"You're not my mother!" Logan roared he as lunged forward and drove his shoulder right into Margret's flat stomach with all the strength he had. In response, she grunted and bent forward, the air forced from her lungs. For a moment, she was as stooped as her husband, and looked as if she was bowing down to Logan.

The young boy took a small bit of satisfaction in that before he stomped his foot. In his own mind, the sound shook the hall.

"You're a hag and a pig! No, worse than both!" he bellowed. "You're not worthy to be a Galehaut! And you won't ever be one!"

As Margret rose, she glared daggers at him, and the sting of her backhand was like the strike of a whip on his cheek, the sharp pain darting through his flesh as he was sent staggering sideways. Then, her hard, bony fingers clamped around his throat and she yanked him back until they were face-to-face, her features taut with rage as her black eyes bored into his.

"You miserable, whiny, petulant little-"

Logan silenced her monologue by pulling his lips back and then pursing them out, sending a globule of spit straight into one of those black orbs. Wincing and hissing like a snake, Margret reached up with her free hand to try and wipe her eye clean, the fury in her face only building as she did so.

Her free hand then rose high into the air, ready to descend upon him with her usual cruelty and savagery... until a voice made her freeze in her tracks.

"Get away from him, Margret!"

The voice commanded the attention of every person in the room, and Josef, Logan, Margret and all the guards turned their heads to see a figure standing in the doorway of the great hall – a figure who moved with the weight, strength and certainty of a god among men.

The man was taller than every other man in the room, broad-shouldered and deep-chested. He was garbed in a splendid suit of silvered steel plate, chased in ornate gold patterns depicting griffins, with a navy cloak flowing down his back and an amulet depicting a dragon's head hanging about his neck, wrought in platinum. His short black hair was peppered with grey at the temples, but his jutting jaw was clean-shaven, and beneath his heavy, stern brow gleamed a pair of golden eyes.

Eyes which fixed Margret Extaminos and instantly blazed into an angry, protective glare, his irises suddenly turning from cool and metallic to smouldering like the churning flames of a volcano.

"Uncle Oren!" Logan's heart leapt at the sight of him. Twisting out of Margret's grip, even as his skin burned with pain, he scrambled breathlessly across the room and threw his arms around his uncle's waist. "You're home!" he declared.

In response, his uncle tousled his hair and gave him a warm smile. "Good to see you, Logan..." he said, roughing up his nephew's locks in a way that made both parties laugh a little. But his laughter then faded as he protectively moved Logan behind him and said "... and it seems I came not a moment too soon."

Margret rolled her eyes, her mouth and eyes both starting to twitch as she looked on. "Can you ever just leave well enough alone, Oren?" she remarked, her voice thick with contempt as she sneered openly at her brother-in-law.

Sir Oren met her gaze with a cold, firm authority. "If you're expecting me to stand by and watch you beat and strangle my nephew, Margret, you're mistaken."

From how she reacted, Logan guessed that either Margret was getting antsy at someone, anyone, challenging her authority... or that Uncle Oren was simply unnerving her. Possibly both.

"Why should you have any say in how he's raised?!" Margret snapped at him. "He's not your son!"

"Nor is he yours." Oren replied.

The brief flash of regret that appeared in Margret's eyes when those words reached her ears was immensely satisfying – so much so that Logan smiled. His uncle's calm, firm demeanour withstood her rage like water on rock, leaving her floundering and a little desperate as she realized this was a verbal joust she had lost.

And like many desperate people do, she resorted to doubling down.

"Then let us ask the man who is the father of that impudent little whelp," she stated coldly before turning to face her husband. "Josef, it falls to you as Lord of Frostpeak to settle this dispute. Who is in the right here?"

As his wife and brothers' eyes turned his way, Josef Galehaut whimpered and shivered, as if he was cold. And as he watched his sire quiver, whatever respect Logan had for him continued to wither away, even though a part of him didn't want it to.

His father was the only Galehaut in the millennia of their family's history deemed unworthy of the honour of knighthood... and frankly, it was plain to see why. Aside from their black hair, there was nothing that Josef and Oren had in common, despite being brothers. Where Josef was soft and spongey, Oren was hard and muscular. Where Josef was stooped and round-shouldered, Oren stood straight and proud. And where Josef caved and bowed degradingly to evil, Oren held fast against it, unflinching and unwavering.

Hells, even their golden eyes were different. While Josef's eyes seemed eternally watery, their gold colour diluted and appearing on the verge of bursting into tears any second, Uncle Oren's were bright and firm, almost glowing with righteous light.

However, it wasn't Oren who said the next sentence.

"Margret is Logan's mother now..." his father eventually managed to stammer. "And Logan has to accept that while he's here, like it or not."

Logan felt his heart plummet in his chest. "Papa...?" he asked, his voice soft and pleading as he looked up at the Lord of Frostpeak...

But all he got from Josef was a brief glance before his sire then turned away, sighing as his eyes filled with... shame?

Conversely, the boy suddenly felt a firm but gentle hand clasp his shoulder from behind, and as he twisted to look up, Logan saw Uncle Oren clutching him around the shoulder, holding him protectively. Despite his famed strength, however, Uncle Oren only ever touched Logan with care and affection. And this time was no different.

"Is that so?" Oren asked. "Well, if that's to be the case, he won't be here much longer. I will be taking Logan as my squire from now on, and I will be overseeing his education."

Hearing this, Margret fumed. "You'll do no such thing..." she hissed, fingers twisting at her side like coiling serpents as rage seemed to shoot through her. At the sight of this, Josef's already-faltering nerve gave out, and he rose to hurry from the hall down a side passage with several guards following after him.

That left only Logan's uncle and his stepmother, and he watched as Oren told Margret, "I can do it, and I will," before he looked down at his nephew and said "Come on, Logan."

As he turned his back to Margret, his uncle's protective touch shepherding him away, he caught something in the tail of his eye – the most hated person in his whole life pointing to the floor of the dais and speaking in a slow, stiff tone.

"If you don't bring that little shit here right this instant, I'll... I'll-"

"You'll do nothing." Oren said, his words as indisputable as the laws of gravity and cutting through her speech like a knife through cheese. "You may be my brother's wife and lady, but you are no more than that. He is the Lord of Frostpeak, and until I hear from him on this matter, I will act in my nephew's best interests. He is of my blood, unlike you, and after seeing how you treat him myself, I will not suffer it for another second," he stated unerringly, his gaze locked on hers. "If you wish to dispute this, you are welcome to try... and if you wish to order for my arrest and order the guards to subdue me, they are welcome to try themselves."

As he said that, his uncle slowly shifted his left hand to the hilt of Sacrifice, the blade which hung from his side. From that one small gesture, all the guards in the room visibly paled and stiffened. And no matter how loudly Margret roared and raged as she brandished her fingers at Oren and ordered his arrest, not a man amongst them moved an inch.

Her shrieking like a harpy made Logan wince, but as his uncle's soothing voice spoke again, Margret's ravings were washed away. He looked up to see his uncle smiling down at him as he said "Now, Logan... come with me, lad."

And so they exited the room together, Oren's hand still resting on his back, his very touch seeming like a shield around Logan, warding off all his woes. He couldn't take his eyes off his uncle, both due to his awe and his gratitude.

As always, whenever he was home, the Knight of the Griffin was watching out for him.

"Thank you, Uncle Oren," Logan said quietly.

Oren grinned down at him, his contempt for whatever danger Margret posed clear in his eyes. "No need to thank me, Logan..." he said kindly.

A jolt of excitement then filled the little boy's body as Oren led him towards the door out into the courtyard. "Am I really gonna be a squire? Your squire?"

His words, thick with disbelief, made Oren chuckle. He tousled Logan's hair again and said, "Hey, every knight needs a squire, don't they? And if your father and Margret won't teach you how to be a true Galehaut... then I will."

But his voice then seemed to fade as they walked out of the great hall together, the white light of the outdoors suddenly growing brighter until it swallowed them both...

~~~

Abruptly, Logan suddenly saw his uncle's face vanish from sight – so fast that his heart briefly sputtered in alarm and his body hurtled upright. But all that he saw around him, both to his relief and disappointment, was the navy interior of his tent on the Thalmont tourney grounds.

He must have dozed off, but he didn't know when, nor for how long he'd slept. The candle he remembered Arabella lighting last night, once tall and upright, was now little more than a stump in a pool of its own wax. Turning towards the entrance to his tent, seeing the pale pink light peering through the flap and hearing that the sole sound was the faint, sparse twittering of the first morning birds, he figured it was very early dawn.

The tournament was still a ways off. A few hours, maybe, but it was time he had to prepare nonetheless.

More specifically, time he had to rest. Arabella made a good point about his exhausting himself last night, and there was nothing practical he could do to increase his chances of winning in the melee.

The melee – the final match that would decide which team would be the victor and would get to go on the quest for the Lake. There was honour to be won in that, he supposed.

He had his part to play, his duty to perform. And he would perform it as a true knight should, no matter the circumstances.

The greatest hero he'd ever known had taught him that lesson, among countless others, ever since the day that he had seen once again in his dreams. The day that his torments at the hands Josef Galehaut and Margret Extaminos ended, and were replaced with love and care. With guidance in the ways of a true Galehaut by a true Galehaut.

Sacrifice still lay nearby, sleeping in its scabbard like a child under blankets as it rested for the day ahead. Reaching out, Logan placed a hand gently upon its hilt – as gentle as the hand that guided him into his new life.

He could only hope that his hand was as strong as the last man who wielded this blade, and as he closed his eyes and prayed, a few parting words escaped Logan's lips.

"I will make you proud... father."