Hasdalph 6th, year 1169 – Homenil, Serellia

Morning fog still hung heavy over the waters of Alton Bay, rolling down from the hills and forests inland. The overcast weather made everything slow and lethargic, even the sailors, who were used to the gloomy weather of Serellia's east port.

While the fishermen worked to ready their vessels for a day's work, they hardly noticed that there was something already drifting out in the still gray waters of the bay.

A small piece of driftwood, the remnants of a vessel, had been carried in with the morning tide. While regrettable, it wasn't an uncommon find, nor was it big enough to be a concern.

One resident, however, did take notice of the debris—a raven, white as a ghost. Its red eyes had caught the shine of polished metal from where it patrolled the skies high above the bay and wasted no time swooping in to land upon the motionless form splayed upon the floating wreckage.

The corvid pulled at one of the buttons on the boy's fine jacket, with no regard for the dead, taking several moments to loosen it, a credit to the Lorellian craftsmanship.

The threads had just snapped when the boy, who it turned out was not dead, weakly swatted at the bird. But the raven had its prize, fluttering into the air to race back to its roost.

Past the docks and the town, the white raven carried its reward to the grounds of a wealthy estate, coming to land on the sill of the highest open window.

Inside it hopped, trotting across the desk and papers of the young lord, who was far too busy to even bother shooing him away, as he returned to his tiny nest, where he began to energetically rearrange the many trinkets that he had there, making space for his latest trophy.

Just as the raven was putting the finishing touches on his nest, the new button was snatched up by the sickly looking noble.

"What have you there? Hmm? If you've stolen from–" his words cut short, as he studied the emblem on the button. It wasn't Serellian. Not at all. But it was royal. A breath later, the young man was shrugging on his coat as he raced down the stairs.

"Mr. Aldin!"

"Yes, young master?"

"My horse," he stated as he was already going for his hat and riding boots. "At once! I wish to go to town!"

"Yes, Sir," the servant replied, though never in his many years working for the Cullach family had he ever heard Bhalthier so insistent on going into public. He nevertheless did as he asked, and saw that the groom had Bhalthier's horse brought around to the front.

Once he was at the docks, it didn't take Bhalthier long to spot several men gathered around the very thing he was looking for. Or rather, the very person.

"Is he alive?" Bhalthier asked as he approached them, only to stop short and back up a step when all of the men shifted their attention to him.

"Barely. Poor lad," said one of the men.

"What'ya suppose happened?" asked another.

"Lorellian, frum the looks of em, but ner'Lorellian ships docks here fer the past few days," the dockmaster suggested around the end of his pipe.

"Have him brought to the Citadel clerics for tending... I'll cover the charge," Bhalthier said as he began to back away from the group.

"Citadel clerics?" one of the sailors exclaimed.

"Means he's important ta someone..." the dockmaster grumbled as he puffed out a plume of smoke. "Well, ya heard the man... Get 'em up and over ta the clerics. One less troublesome thing I have ta worry bout, the better!"

***

Hasdalph 7th, year 1169 – Homenil, Serellia

The room Artus awoke in was dark, and it wasn't his own. The angle of the bed to the open door through which the only light poured was all wrong.

"Father?" he rasped as he strained to lift his head. "...Sebastien?" The prince let out a dry cough that was sharp against his tender throat.

The men in the doorway looked at him, but Artus was alarmed by the realization that their murmured conversation wasn't the only thing that was muffled. His own voice sounded terribly strange...harder to hear than it should have been.

He gingerly propped himself up on his elbows and tilted his head, wincing at the way the motion made it pound as he gently patted at one of his ears. Perhaps he still had water in them.

"I'm thirsty." Artus spoke louder this time, though it seemed his efforts to correct his hearing hadn't worked. As his eyes adjusted to the room, he noticed that nothing looked familiar. From the shape and placement of the furnishings to the color of the walls and their adornments, nothing looked right.

His heart leaped into his throat as he took a better look at the figures in the doorway, backlit and largely obscured by harsh shadows...

Strangers. Neither his father, nor Sebastien, nor any of the servants...

Who were these people? Was he in danger? Surely not... If they meant him any harm, why wouldn't they have enacted it upon him while he slept?

"Artus?" Bhalthier asked as he and the man he'd been speaking with approached the boy's bed. "I'm Bhalthier, and this is High Cleric Durian. Do you remember what happened?"

"Perhaps...I think." Artus's brows drew together. "Where's my father?"

The marquis looked to Durian, who frowned sympathetically and shook his head as if he and Bhalthier were carrying out an entirely wordless conversation using only their eyes until Bhalthier looked away and cleared his throat.

"We've sent word to La'Trest," the cleric explained, "until someone comes to collect you, Mr. Cullach has volunteered to host your stay in Serellia."

"Serellia?" Artus jolted into a rigidly upright posture. "Bhalthier Cullach is the marquis of... Am I in Homenil?!" The Lorellian prince bunched tight handfuls of the blanket draped over his lap, scrunching it as he sputtered. "But I can't be in Homenil... That's so far north! What of the Épée de Mer? And the Storm Cutter?"

The cleric looked to Bhalthier for clarification.

"Ships," the marquis said simply, receiving an affirming nod from Durian before he knelt down next to the bed and turned his attention back to the prince. "We were hoping you'd know something. We found only you adrift in the bay."

Artus studied the man for a moment. He didn't quite look an adult but was clearly more grown up than himself, with short, well-kempt dark hair and an ashen complexion, somewhat ruining what could have otherwise been a handsome face. "Something...attacked us? But I didn't see anything." Artus shook his head, immediately regretting the act. "It happened so very quickly, and then I was underwater...and now nothing sounds right." Tears welled in Artus's eyes, but he put on an incredibly calm face, appearing far more collected and dignified than a ten-year-old perhaps should be. "How soon shall word reach La'Trest?"

"A day or so, as the crow flies," replied Bhalthier with a small smile.

"Being underwater for too long might've damaged your inner ears," Durian explained. "You might have trouble hearing or become dizzy or struggle to keep your balance as a result."

"Is he alright to leave?" asked Bhalthier.

"Yes, of course. Just see that he rests and drinks plenty of water. I'll have the apothecary send a tea with you to aid him as well when they drop off our bill." Durian added with a wide smile, to which Bhalthier could only grimace slightly.

He wasn't strapped for coin. Not at all, but the Citadel and its services were costly, even for nobles like himself.

They had to be. The Citadel of Magic was heavily regulated and taxed within the human kingdoms, and those costs trickled down onto their patients. It was unavoidable and outrageous, but he'd shoulder it to see that the foreign prince was well looked after. Artus Moreau Viotto was the only heir to the Lorellian throne. If anything happened to him while in Bhathier's care...well, he'd prefer not to think about the possible ramifications.

A short carriage ride saw Bhalthier and Artus back to the Marquis's estate. The tall pines and thick, sturdy oaks encircled the estate in a sphere of green. High above them, crows cawed and landed on the rooftops, alerting the servants within that someone had arrived.

The gravel path crunched under their shoes as they exited the carriage and entered the manor. Everything within was made of wood, stained in deep rich colors that only added to the feeling that you were within a den of sorts. Most of the furniture was claw-footed or carved with depictions of animals, birds, or great winding trees. Most of the windows Artus saw were stained glass. Terrible for seeing through, but perfectly suited for painting the walls and floors in an array of beautiful colors.

"Aldin, would you make up a room for Artus?" Bhalthier instructed as much as asked while the servant took his jacket and then Artus's, which looked to be quite ruined.

"Aye, Sir, dinner will be–" Aldin began, but the rest of his statement was drowned out by the sound of footfalls, thunderous as a herd of stampeding saber-elk, as two children came cascading down the grand spiral staircase just to the right of the door.

"Is that him? Is that the mermaid!?" a stocky, round-faced boy asked as he cleared the last few steps without touching them to land in front of Artus.

"He's not a mermaid, Flann! He's a merboy," a girl, who was a bit taller and perhaps a year or two older, corrected as she caught up to her brother.

Flann stared at Artus for a long moment as if he were surprised or in wonder at the other child standing before him. "I don't know, 'Lorta... He's too pretty ta be a boy. Prettier than you, even!" Flann exclaimed with a laugh.

Artus found every response he could think of quite inconveniently caught in his throat as his cheeks and ears were set aflame.

Alorta's red brows twisted inward, and her cheeks also darkened at her brother's words before she stomped over to the glowing hearth warming the room and grabbed a red-hot poker. "I can fix that!" She grumbled, words low and dark, and Bhalthier caught an intent in her emerald eyes that made his stomach jump.

"Now, none of that!" Bhalthier warned, putting out a hand.

It wasn't his words that halted her advance, but rather the sudden grasp of a hand that shot over her shoulder and pulled the poker free of her tight grip.

"Folian!" Alorta pouted sheepishly as she turned to see the guard captain's imposing form standing over her. "I-I was only joking!"

Folian wasn't much older than Bhalthier, but that only made his title that much more impressive. He was the youngest man to climb the ranks to Captain of the Royal Guard and the only one that King Liam would trust his children with on holiday in Homenil.

"Aye, of course, ya were, princess," Folian said as he roughly returned the poker to its place. "An' Cullach can fly as well as his ugly birds. Both of ya give 'em some room, for feck sake."

Flann, who'd been curiously studying Artus, now turned his attention to the guard captain. "Folian, let's be knights again! This time, I'll be Vegnar the Barbarian! Oh, an'Lorta can be a big nasty dragon!"

"I'm not playing on'of yar daft games!" Alorta snapped, and by now Artus realized that Bhalthier was gone from behind him completely, disappearing down the hall.

"Come along, Yar Highness, let's get ya ta yer room," Aldin said, motioning to the stairs.

***

Hasdalph 11th, year 1169 – Boreven, Lorellia

"Rowan!" the Baron called for his son as he circled around the carriage and his men. " Rowan! ...Where is that blasted boy?" he grumbled, looking at the high clock tower before shaking his head. "See that we're ready to leave when I return," the Baron commanded as he headed back into the keep.

"Row-" The Baron cut himself off as he spied his boy at the bottom of the stairs with his mother knelt in front of him, fussing with his jabot and hair.

"Now, when you meet the prince, you be sure to make friends with him, you hear me? Hm? Rowan, look at me when I'm speaking to you, sweetheart. Stop messing with your hands. You're not some backwater lord from Orlington." She cupped his face so that Rowan's blue eyes met her own.

"But what if I don't like Prince Viotto? What if we don't get along?"

She tutted. "Oh, my sweet, you don't need to like him. You just need him to think you like him."

"Darling, we really must be going," the Baron said impatiently.

She rose to her full height elegantly, and his father exchanged a brief kiss with her that was so chaste that Rowan could have driven a wagon through the gap between them. Then, he was ushered out and into the carriage...

***

Ardaik 12th, year 1179

The slamming of the carriage door jolted Rowan awake, his hand finding his head instantly as he sat up.

The air around him was unsettlingly stagnant, musty with the earthen smell of a cellar. He wasn't on a ship and he wasn't at home... Could he be dead?

He quickly looked downward, to where he'd been stabbed by Kenton, and he was alarmed to see the wound scarred shut.

How long must he have been unconscious to have his wounds healed so? Now his attention extended out into the room around him. Candles and a few small braziers burned in the darkness around him, and what little they illuminated was horrifying.

Bones upon bones lined the walls, baked into the ceiling and lining the walkway. Under him was a pile of bones, armor, shields, swords, and other forgotten relics, waist high and caked in thin fine dust from ages of rest.

"Hello!?" Rowan called out into the darkness.

Had he been buried alive in some bone croft, believed dead? No...no, surely not. His rationality refused to believe that any undertaker would be so negligent as to not notice a living breathing person when presented with one. However, that reasoning provided him no comfort.

He heard a shifting in the darkness, the sound of scales against stone and bones clattering softly from surface to surface. Rowan picked up one of the candles to help aid his sight, the pale glow stuttering with the shake of his hand until it was steadied by the grip of his second.

Pushing back the darkness revealed Kamuhr's massive head, just as pale and white as the remains scattered around her, with two piercing blue eyes, each the size of Serellian bucklers, staring directly back at Rowan.

The candle fell from his grasp.