The torches along the stone halls hissed in their sconces, each flame bending under the pull of night air. The banners of Alfareth East stirred faintly overhead as Petric led the way, his wife Kelara steady at his side. Jerric and Lysa trailed close behind their parents, voices hushed, as if the stones themselves were listening.

  Petric carried himself with the weight of command even in a plain tunic. Hair cut close, eyes a sharp blue that missed little, and a faint scar drawn along his cheek—he moved as a man who knew the halls were his to bear.

  Kelara’s golden hair fell loose, catching the torchlight. Beautiful, yes, but her presence held more than that: grace tempered by steel. Even out of armor she moved like a warrior, confidence threaded through every step.

  Jerric walked with restless energy, frame always on the verge of springing into trouble. His brown hair refused to be tamed, and his blue eyes burned with the fire of someone who treated life as a dare.

  Lysa moved lighter than the rest, cloak drawn close more from habit than need. Dark-haired, blue-eyed, she carried herself like a thief who already knew ten ways out of any room.

  They stopped before the first portrait—Gerald Alfareth, painted in his prime. His gaze was stern, softened at the edges by time. Petric slowed.

  “My father wasn’t born a king,” he said quietly. “The people gave him the crown. They believed he was strong enough to keep them safe.”

  They moved on.

  The next arch held Queen Lorenya, her bearing regal even in oil and canvas. Petric’s voice dropped.

  “My mother. Your grandmother… she never raised her voice to command. She didn’t need to.”

  Lysa wrinkled her nose. “Since Grandma Lorenya is still queen… does that make Aunt Lore the princess of Calmyra?”

  Petric chuckled—brief, but genuine. “Well, she certainly thinks she is.”

  Farther down, two portraits hung side by side.

  “Ralph, who worked iron until his hands broke, and Ann, whose eyes missed nothing,” Petric murmured. “They built this house as surely as the stones beneath us.”

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  Jerric slowed before a faded mural of Billy and Pat, brushstrokes dim but faces proud.

  “And them?” he asked.

  “My mother’s parents,” Petric replied. “Grandpa Billy was a soldier who could turn fear into courage. Grandma Pat was sharper than steel. Without them, there’d be no crown at all.”

  The torchlight wavered. For a heartbeat, the air itself seemed to stir—faint and cold. Petric’s smile edged soft.

  “If the wind laughs in these halls,” he murmured, “it’s probably them.”

  They walked on in silence.

  — — —

  The night ended on the balcony.

  The courtyard below lay in shadow, watchfires burning against the dark. Jerric leaned on the rail, eyes fixed on the treeline.

  “What about the West?” he asked softly. “What about her?”

  Petric’s jaw tightened.

  “Virella rules in Everveil Wood. After my parents divorced, both remarried. Lorenya, still crowned, chose Vinsar—a man whose patience outlasts stone, who listens an hour before speaking a word. My father… he married Virella. A woman closer to my age than his. I was eight when she came to Everveil—younger than Giara is now. Even then, she turned heads.” His gaze drifted outward. “Mine included.”

  He pressed on. “She smiles like silk but commands like iron. Franz, her lover, drills her riders. My uncle PJ… he wants peace, but he’s torn.” The torches spat in the silence that followed. Petric’s eyes wandered toward the horizon, where firelight smoldered and snow shone under stars.

  “And my siblings—Frannor, Jonrel, Draven, and Giara—each caught between blood and loyalty.”

  Kelara glanced toward him. “PJ is your father’s brother, isn’t he? Why does everyone call him that?”

  “His name is Petric too, after our great-grandfather,” Petric said. “But his middle name is Josan. Everyone calls him PJ to avoid confusion.”

  Silence stretched. The torches hissed.

  — — —

  The horizon drew them in next, where the world opened wide.

  To the northwest, the peaks of the Pyrethorne Range smoked with distant firelight.

  To the northeast, the Frostmarch Peaks gleamed white beneath the stars.

  “Janric, my cousin, raises the phoenix in Pyrethorne,” Petric said. “Flame and steel—that’s how he believes the kingdom must be reforged. And my uncle, Carden, in Frostmarch, counts every coin and every winter. He wastes nothing.”

  “Janric and I used to be like brothers,” he added, quieter. “The big brother I never had.”

  Lysa frowned. “Then why can’t the two of you get along anymore?”

  Petric looked up at the stars, wordless.

  Jerric scowled. “It’s impossible to keep them all straight. Who even counts as family anymore? Half this war is just your siblings fighting each other.”

  Petric sighed, the sound heavy. “Lore is my sister through Lorenya. Giara and Draven, through Virella. Frannor and Jonrel—her sons, but Father claimed them as his own. Different mothers, different loyalties. But in the end, they’re all mine to face.”

  Kelara laughed under her breath, easing the air. “And here I thought my family was confusing.” Her smile warmed the balcony. “Anything else you’ve missed?”

  Petric looked toward the horizon, the faintest smile touching his lips.

  “Just a cat named Snowfoot.”

  The laughter that followed was soft—but it was laughter all the same.