Tarinelve

For as long as I could remember, the three human kingdoms had been bound by distrust, their rivalry as old as the land itself. Terulvik, Saaorn, and Chaluk—each claiming its share of the jagged peninsula, a landmass stretching into the endless blue of the ocean like a thumb. Great rivers carved their borders, not as mere boundaries, but as wounds, as if the land itself resisted their rule.

Chaluk, the kingdom I called home, was built not on conquest, but on cunning. It draped itself in the veneer of strategy, wielding diplomacy like a dagger hidden behind a noble smile. It did not march armies to war. it whispered in ears, sowed discord, and funded bloodshed under the guise of righteous causes. A more insidious power, perhaps, than war itself.

It was an early autumn day, the kind where the leaves were no longer their usual deep green but shades of red and yellow, drifting lazily in the breeze in preparation for the coming winter. A hand gripped mine tightly—broad, meaty, and ruddy, yet firm and comforting. Its warmth soothed the queasy feeling in my stomach.

Together, we approached the large gates, which groaned and screeched as they slowly heaved open, their heavy ironwork grinding against its hinges. The sound echoed before the gates thudded to a stop against towering stone columns. A distinct scent of parchment along with the rising warmth of the air from within, brushed against my face. I remember yearning for a crackling fire to fight against the cold.

With wide, curious eyes, I looked up at the man who led me inside. His face was pout and round, with thick, expressive eyebrows that framed his sharp, hunter-like eyes. He barely glanced at me, ushering me forward as if I were nothing more than a stray pup awaiting instruction.

Before the outside world disappeared behind the stone walls, I caught a glimpse of the sky above. It was cloudy, with patches of clear blue here and there, partially obscured by a small keep. The keep was nothing extraordinary, but it looked sturdy, its curved spires bearing the red-and-white flag of Chaluk, fluttering faintly in the breeze.

“Keep up, lad. You’ve got legs, don’t you? Use em’.” the man barked in a gruff tone, the kind you might expect from someone desperate and starving—though he was far from it. His breath reeked of old ale, and I turned my head away, swallowing the urge to grimace.

Inside, the air felt stale, the dim light casting the space in muted hues. Overhead, a small chandelier hung precariously, its flickering candles throwing trembling shadows onto the ground. Dust danced in the faint glow, stirred by our presence that remained frustratingly quiet.

We stood there and simply waited. Minutes dragged on, each one stretching into what felt like an eternity. His once-firm grip on my arm began to slacken from impatience. I tried not to let my nerves show but his hard glare betrayed my demeanor.

“You don’t talk much, eh?” the man said with a resigned sigh. Talk? The idea seemed amusing to me. Why speak when emotions could convey so much more? To a boy like me, feelings carried weight that feeble words never could.

Little else was said, and little else I remembered, as none of it seemed important. In the flickering light, my eyes traced the runes carved into the door before us. Flowers and veils intertwined in strange patterns—a curious design for what I would soon come to know as a slow and bleak place. Yet in that moment, it gave me a faint, limited sense of comfort.

I heard the click of a latch, followed by the slow creak of the door swinging open. Inside stood three figures. Two were short, scruffy-haired men—or perhaps boys—both with black hair in disarray. The third was a tall and elegant woman. She wore a bow tied at her waist where a chainse might have once flowed freely.

Her gaze flicked to the burly man who held me, studying him carefully until his grip loosened, and he let go. His touch left a stinging heat on my skin, and before I could dwell on it, she placed her hands on my shoulders and gently guided me forward.

I hesitated, turning back to look at him. He gave me a single nod as if to say, Go on.

With heavy steps, I walked further into the room until she pulled me close, pressing me into her stomach. She was warm, so warm I could smell her perfume—a minty, old fragrance that made my nose burn. But I stayed quiet and didn’t resist. Her arms tightened around me, holding me so firmly that my head was forced to face the wall. One of the boys stared at me from across the room with half-lidded eyes.

“Thank you, Phillip,” she said softly. Her tone was calm, but I felt something churn inside her as I shifted uncomfortably against her grip. She patted my head in response. “He’ll be in good hands.”

“Aye,” Phillip replied simply. He hesitated for a moment, then asked, “Tell me one thing, Tunia. What does the duke want with ’im?”

I felt her body stiffen. She swallowed, a small, nervous gesture only I could notice from being so close. “I suppose it has to do with his mother,” she said, her voice quieter, almost reluctant. Phillip didn’t press further, and after a brief pause, asked, “What is his name?”

Phillip scratched his chin. “Well… I forget what he said. Out of all the mangy boys in that house, I think he was Alar… no. Roderich.”

“Roderich,” Petunia mouthed.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good,” she said at last, and finally let go of me. I drew in a sharp breath, the air filling my lungs in a rush, to which Petunia noticed—her eyes flicked to me for the briefest moment—but said nothing. Straightening herself, she added firmly, “You best be off now.”

Phillip drew in a sharp breath, the sound betraying a reluctance he didn’t voice. He leaned forward, placing a single rough hand on my head and ruffling my hair with surprising gentleness. “Take care, lad,” he muttered.

With that, he clicked his heel, turned, and strode out of the keep. The heavy doors groaned shut behind him, their echoing thud sealing his departure. In that moment, the strange, oddly comforting man was gone, pulled away from my life as swiftly as he had entered it.

Petunia uttered a few words to her boys, though I couldn’t make them out, and soon we were walking. My memories of what followed are sparse, blurred into fragments, until they finally dragged me to my new room. What I do remember are the keep’s narrow hallways and twisting corridors—old, modestly maintained, and strangely claustrophobic. High on the walls hung paintings of the royal family—King Prance, his wife, and Prince Calvan. Curiously, their daughter was nowhere to be seen among them.

Another odd thing about the keep was the silence. The wind rattled against the stone walls outside, but inside, it was unsettlingly quiet. When I truly listened, not even a whisper echoed through the halls. It was as though the thick stone dividers swallowed every sound before it could escape.

When we finally reached the room they had assigned me, it was no more than a chamber once used for the sickly. A small cottage bed, a plain dresser, and a simple rug were all it held. Standing there, I felt a strange longing for a room I might have once had, though I could not recall it, no matter how hard I tried.

On the bed were fresh clothes, folded neatly atop the sheets. One of the boys lingered long enough to nod toward them and say, “Find the third staircase down the hallway and meet us for dinner.” With that, he pulled the door shut behind him, and for the first time since arriving, I was alone—and I wasn’t sure if I found it comforting or terrifying.

What had been prepared for me was an oversized gray tunic and black leggings. Oddly enough, I liked them. The fabric felt warm and soft against the chill of the room, and slipping into them was easy and comforting, like shedding an old skin.

I might have lingered longer, lost in the quiet solitude of the space, if not for the sudden, tantalizing scent of something sweet wafting through the air. It struck my nostrils and jolted me into remembering the boy’s instructions. Turning toward the door, I grasped its silver doorknob—its surface cool to the touch and engraved with the same intricate symbols I had seen on the keep’s main entrance. The door creaked softly as I pushed it open.

Following the instructions, I made my way down the hall to the third staircase. The descent revealed a kitchen below, its warmth beckoning against the drafty corridors above. The staircase itself was crude, the steps more like uneven blocks of raw cobblestone than the grand, polished marble I’d read about in the tales of kings and castles. They were rough, jagged in places, and laid haphazardly, as though practicality had long outweighed aesthetic.

The kitchen was split in two distinct halves. On the left side, a large knife rested on a chopping block, while slabs of meat—poultry and beef alike—hung over a roaring fire, their greases dripping into the hungry flames below. To the far right, on a wooden counter, sat freshly baked sourdough bread—the very scent I had followed downstairs.

On the right side of the room, a long table stretched across the hollow space. Above it, a chandelier, easily twice my size, hung freely from the ceiling, swaying slightly as the warmth of the room stirred the air. A still-smoldering fireplace stood nearby, its embers faintly glowing, and the heat from it, combined with the flames on the left, filled the entire room, tickling my skin with its warmth.

Seated at the table were Petunia and the two boys I had seen earlier, along with a man sitting at the head. As I descended the stairs, their chatter stopped, and they all turned their eyes toward me. My stomach growled loudly, and I could feel the weight of their gazes as I walked hesitantly into the room.

The two boys whispered inaudibly to each other, but only for a moment before Petunia smacked one on the back of the head. “Let him settle in before you start gawking,” she muttered firmly, her voice just loud enough for me to hear.

The man at the center of the table showed no reaction. His expression was blank, almost unreadable, yet his gaze wasn’t cold. It felt distant, not harsh or hungry, but contemplative. He had short black hair, a poorly shaven beard, and a lean but moderate build.

Petunia awkwardly cleared her throat. “Come sit, Roderich,” she said, motioning toward an empty chair on the opposite side of the table. A plate of food was already set there—small cubes of cheese and a few olives neatly arranged. As I slid into the seat, the sturdy chair creaked slightly under my weight, its velvet cushion soft against my back. “Otto,” Petunia called abruptly. A servant in black robes appeared almost immediately. “Fetch the young man some wine,” she instructed, though the act was one born out of habit than true hospitality.

I felt small compared to everything happening around me. Faces I couldn’t quite place moved back and forth in a professional manner, carrying papers, plates, bags, and glasses. Despite the activity, the space didn’t feel particularly organized, as if the chaos was only thinly veiled by the workers’ brisk movements.

In a moment, Otto returned, his ginger hair falling over his face as he poured a dark purple liquid into my cup.

“You can drink your fill as I introduce you to everyone,” Petunia said with a petite smile, placing a hand atop one of the boy’s heads. “This is Achim, and that one over there is Adam. They’ll help you get settled over the next few nights, and—”

I interrupted her with a fit of coughing. The bitter liquid had rushed over my tongue as I took a sip, and I quickly wiped my mouth with my sleeve. Her face reddened slightly at my crude display, and the room fell silent.

Feeling the tension, I glanced up at her, my voice small as I muttered, “Sorry.”

The dinner progressed slowly from that point onward. Petunia explained that Achim and Adam were twins, born in secret to the Grand Duke. Their mother had passed, and the boys had been hidden from the public to avoid any scandal over their illegitimate birth.

The bread on my plate was a little stale, and the cheese’s outer layer had hardened, but I ate it regardless. Before long, slabs of meat were placed before me. The juices oozed from the tender cuts, salty and tinged with a faint red hue. I couldn’t help but scarf them down hungrily.

Yet, with every bite, I was aware of the man at the head of the table. His gaze remained fixed on me, one that made every swallow feel harder than it should have been, as though I were under some invisible scrutiny I could not escape.

The dining hall had emptied after nearly half an hour. For some time, I had noticed Petunia glancing at the man with a subtle unease in her demeanor—a stiffness in her posture, a flicker in her eyes. I only fully registered it moments before she abruptly stood, her chair scraping against the floor with a sharp skid.

“Well, this was a nice dinner,” she said briskly and grabbed the twins by their tunics, pulling them to their feet. “When you’re done eating, Roderich, go to your chamber and sleep. You’ll be waking early tomorrow for discussion.”

With a final nod in my direction, Petunia swept out of the room, dragging the boys along with her. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving me alone with the strange man.

I felt his gaze settle on me, and I instinctively sank into my chair, trying to shrink from his view. But then something unexpected happened—he stood. My heart thudded in my chest, and what he did next baffled me even more.

“I thought you’d look beastlier,” he muttered, his voice low and rough as he walked around the table. He picked up a candle by its holder, its flame flickering as he brought it closer. Then, kneeling to match my height, he studied me with a keen eye.

“You look so much like your mother,” the man muttered, bringing the flame closer. He tilted it slightly, the glint forcing my eyes to squint—or so it should have. But in that moment, I didn’t. For reasons I couldn’t explain, I held his gaze. He studied me, boring into my eyes before letting out a simple, unexpressive, “Hm.”

Then, without another word, he stood, placed the candle back on the table, and brushed past me as he exited the room. The silence that followed was deafening.

Memories of the man beyond that moment were faint, hard to recall. As I returned to my sleeping quarters, I crawled beneath the poorly ratcheted covers, their weight offering little solace. That night, I found myself peeking out every so often, expecting to see him standing there in the dark, watching. But he never was.

In fact, no one ever was. This old, repurposed keep—if that’s what it truly was—always had a way of making me feel profoundly lonely. Even in my dreams.