A soft knock preceded the gentle creak of the door.
“How are we feeling today?” Doctor Lacard asked, his familiar warmth spilling into the room like sunlight through old curtains.
Spud and Alexi turned, offering tired but sincere smiles.
Behind him, Nurse Miluna followed with two steaming bowls. The scent of simmering herbs and fresh-baked bread drifted in, as comforting as a lullaby.
Spud shifted, wincing. “Been better,” he said, eyeing the food. “But you two make it easier.”
Alexi smirked, his breath shallow. “Breathing’s like chewing thorns. But at least I’m breathing.”
“We’ll take that as progress,” Lacard said, kneeling beside Alexi’s cot with practiced ease.
Miluna placed the bowls on the side table, her gaze catching on the slingshot nearby. “What is that?” she asked, voice soft with curiosity.
Spud’s eyes drifted to it. “It’s called a slingshot. My brother’s. You use it to shoot stones—at trees, birds… whatever’s around.”
Spud reached out for it.
Miluna tilted her head, intrigued. “Would you like me to hand it to you?”
“Yes, please,” Spud said, relaxing his arm.
Miluna lifted the slingshot. Her fingers found the worn grooves—fingerprints of laughter and mischief.
“Now grip the middle of the rubber,” Spud instructed gently.
She followed his guidance—then paused. This wasn’t about handing it over. It was about feeling it. Her eyes widened as she felt the slingshot’s quiet power.
“Stone goes in the hide pouch,” Spud said, tapping the stretched leather. “Foxback hide. My brother swore it made shots fly straighter.”
Spud eased back against the pillows, his voice softening. “Pull back. Let go. And it flies.”
The rubber snapped softly. Miluna blinked—then smiled, eyes wide with quiet revelation. “I see now,” she whispered, not just to him, but to herself.
She placed the slingshot back on the table, now no longer just an object—but a shared memory.
Turning back to her work, Miluna began tending to Spud’s bandages with practiced care. Lacard, having finished with Alexi, retrieved a small jar from his satchel.
“You’re making good progress,” he said, applying the salve with gentle precision. “This will help with healing. And keep infection at bay.”
He passed the jar to Miluna, who continued her work with quiet focus.
The room began to fill with the comforting aroma of stew and warm bread. Spud and Alexi inhaled deeply—the scent wrapping around them like a thick wool blanket after rain.
Lacard and Miluna helped them sit upright, propping them with pillows and blankets. Every gesture was deliberate. Compassionate.
When the plates were finally set in front of them, both boys stared in quiet awe.
The stew was rich—thick chunks of tender meat, bright vegetables, and a broth that shimmered with herbs and something sweetly peppered. Beside it, steam curled from the bread, fragrant with yeast and warmth. Spud’s mouth watered at the scent alone.
Lacard paused in the doorway. “Someone will return soon with drinks and to help you settle for the night. For now—eat. Nourishment is part of healing.”
Miluna smiled softly, her eyes kind. Then both left, the door clicking shut behind them.
Spud dunked a piece of bread into his stew, murmuring, “Thank you, Micah.” He dipped again, slower this time, savoring the heat and flavor. It grounded him.
Alexi took a bite and let out a low sigh. “Been so long since I ate anything with real flavor.” He grinned. “This might be my new favorite.”
Lifting his spoon, Alexi fished out a strange blue-tinged vegetable and held it up, inspecting it like a rare artifact. “You know what this is?”
Spud mirrored him, peering at his own spoonful. A knowing glance passed between them—two explorers in a strange new land.
“Tastes like a potato,” Spud said, chewing thoughtfully. “Looks like one too… except blue. So, I dunno—alien potato?”
Alexi laughed, light and genuine. “Alien potato. I’m calling it that from now on.”
They ate in companionable silence. The only sounds were the quiet scrape of spoons and the occasional hum of approval. The stew’s warmth sank deep, easing the cold that had lingered in their bones, softening the shadows in their minds.
Spud swirled the last of his broth with a torn piece of bread. “Feels like things are changing,” he said, voice casual—but something uncertain hung beneath the words.
Alexi nodded slowly. “Micah’s not what I thought he’d be. Not like the others.”
Spud tilted his head. “Yeah… same. He said he wanted to understand us better. And it sounded like he meant it.”
Alexi leaned back, his plate nearly clean. “We’ll see if it lasts. But… he doesn’t talk like someone itching for war.”
“No,” Spud agreed softly, “he doesn’t.”
The door opened with a whisper.
Miluna entered with two ceramic cups in hand, her steps smooth and fluid—like a breeze that knew exactly where it needed to go. She handed one to Alexi, then placed the other beside Spud’s slingshot. Her hand lingered briefly, her eyes settling on the worn weapon with a quiet recognition.
Spud followed her gaze.
The slingshot rested there like a relic—weathered, familiar, unchanged. A small thing. But to him, it felt like memory. Like home.
“I’m nearly done,” Spud said, offering a crooked smile. His voice carried a warmth of honest gratitude.
“No rush,” Miluna replied, gentle as a lullaby. She paused, her gaze flicking between them. “Did you hear Micah’s announcement this morning?”
Alexi looked up, blinking. “No… what happened?”
He and Spud both leaned in, tension folding between them like a held breath.
Miluna nodded, still seeming caught in the weight of the moment. “He gathered all the slaves in the courtyard before work began. Announced Haniel’s demotion. Publicly. Said there’d be consequences for anyone who followed in his footsteps.”
Silence fell.
Spud and Alexi stared at her, eyes wide.
“He’s serious about making changes,” she added, quieter now, as if the walls might be listening. “It wasn’t just for show.”
Alexi set his cup down, brows drawn together in thought. “He seems like a good leader.”
Miluna’s expression softened. “He is. Like his father—Lord Jorial. Though… I’m not sure the old lord would approve of all this. He’s a traditionalist. Micah… he’s different.”
She turned slightly toward the window. Pale sunlight filtered through the angled glass, casting long, dappled shadows across the stone floor.
“Micah listens,” she said softly. “He questions things. He’s willing to try what no one else here even whispers about.”
Spud finished the last bite of stew and took a slow sip from the cup she’d left him. The drink was herbal—earthy, unfamiliar, but deeply soothing. As it warmed his throat, his thoughts wandered.
Not just to Micah, but to what it meant for someone like him to exist in a place like this. One man willing to ask, to bend, to try—that could send ripples through an entire fortress of rigid stone and silence.
A quiet revolution, Spud thought. Hidden in soft gestures, in shared meals, in the decision to listen.
Miluna gathered the bowls with practiced care, stacking them in a tidy pile. She turned toward Alexi. “Ready to rest?”
Alexi nodded, visibly relieved. “Yes, please.”
As Miluna moved quietly around the room, Spud and Alexi settled into their bedding. The stew’s warmth still lingered in their stomachs. The air smelled of clean linens and healing ointment, mingled with the faint smoke of a distant hearth.
It wasn’t safe—not yet. But it was calm. The kind of calm that lets you pretend, for a breath, that safety might be possible.
“So… what happens next?” Alexi asked. His voice was soft, eyes watching Spud. There was something hopeful in his tone—like a child asking for the next page of a bedtime story.
Spud turned his head on the pillow. “With what?”
“Your story,” Alexi said, sitting up a little.
Spud chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s a tale for another night.” He gave a teasing grin. “Right now, I’m more interested in the mystery of Alexi.”
Alexi blinked, then laughed. “Me? There’s no mystery. I’m just another kid with bad luck.”
Spud wagged a finger at him. “Everyone says that before they reveal they were secretly royalty or trained by pirates or something.”
Alexi smirked. “Alright, fine. Next time, I tell my side. But only if you finish your story first. You’ve left me with too many questions.”
Spud looked back at the ceiling—but his thoughts drifted somewhere deeper, far from the stone room and the cooling stew.
So have you, he thought.
“Deal,” Spud said at last. Then, after a moment: “Well… not a lot happened at first. I went home, started preparing for Path Day. It was only three days away.”
Alexi frowned. “No one cared about what happened? No one believed you?”
“We had to explain everything to the Duke,” Spud said. “Thankfully, they did believe us. Huntmaster Chum gave testimony. And… the absurdity of it all helped, I think. It was too strange to be a lie.”
His voice lowered, quieter with memory.
“As much as we lived near the castle, we’d never been inside the Duke’s court. Not until the day before Path Day.”
*
Spud and Timmy stepped into the Duke’s court, eyes wide, footsteps hesitant.
The chamber unfolded before them like a living monument—less a room and more a vault of memory. Convota’s legacy wasn’t just preserved here. It breathed in the walls.
High stone surfaces rose into shadowed arches, lined with massive tapestries that seemed to whisper as the boys passed. Each one told a piece of the kingdom’s long-forgotten past: silver-crowned kings atop shimmering steeds, warriors cloaked in starlight clashing beneath blood-red moons, and monstrous beasts vanquished by heroes whose names had long since passed into myth.
The scent in the air was heavy—warm beeswax, aged wood, hearth smoke. It smelled like reverence, like the room itself remembered everything it had ever witnessed.
Pillars lined the walkway like guards on watch, each carved with crossed swords and crested shields—symbols of houses long gone. Along the far wall, murals stirred in the torchlight: giants striding through stormy forests, winged serpents coiled mid-flight, ships burning as they rose against impossible waves.
Sunlight filtered through stained glass, casting broken rainbows across the marble floor. As Spud and Timmy moved, the light seemed to follow—shifting with them, like it saw.
In the center of the chamber, three mahogany tables formed a perfect triangle. Their polished surfaces shone, catching firelight along gilded edges. The carvings were intricate—vines, runes, faces of beasts and gods—so detailed they seemed almost alive, as if shaped by belief more than by hand.
Spud swallowed. Timmy remained silent.
This wasn’t just a court. It was the beating heart of something older, heavier. A place of power.
And at the center of it all sat Duke Farrad.
His eyes were sharp, his gaze steady. Robes of deep purple and pale blue draped over him, catching the firelight like moving water. Lines etched his face—not just from age, but from the weight of decisions made. A smooth bald patch caught the glow above his brow, not aging him but grounding him. He didn’t look frail. He looked certain.
He sat with purpose. The padding beneath his robes gave his shoulders quiet strength—not armor, but memory made solid. He didn’t wear power. He was power—calm, unwavering, undeniable.
Beside Arlep sat Vaneppe, the Duke’s youngest.
She was brightness wrapped in silk and laughter. Where Turon was steel, and Arlep parchment, Vaneppe was sunlight—gentle, warm, unafraid to move through shadow. Her smile came easily, unguarded, as if courtly masks had yet to find her. Around her, the room felt lighter.
She was close in age to Spud and Timmy, and among the castle’s children, she moved not as royalty but as one of them. She knew their games, their hiding places, the secret paths weaving between towers and gardens. To them, she wasn’t a princess—she was a friend.
But beneath the warmth was something more: a quiet resilience, forged in the shadows of giants. Her laughter masked sharp eyes, and her grace had been shaped with intention. In Vaneppe, the memory of the Duchess lived on—not as grief, but as a quiet rebellion. A gentle strength dressed in silk and sunlight.
The Duke’s gaze lingered on her for a brief moment.
In that breath, something softened within him. The deep lines of duty and age didn’t fade, but bent—just enough to remind the court that beneath the ruler was still a father.
She was sunlight in motion. Her smile spilled warmth across the chamber—unguarded and bright. In her laughter and eyes, the Duchess lived on—a legacy of love in a place shaped by stone and strict protocol.
Spud and Timmy stood perfectly still. The silence was so complete that even their heartbeats seemed loud, the golden-trimmed hush pressing in around them.
Then a clear voice rang out, breaking the stillness:
“Spud and Timmy of the castle quarters.”
The words echoed sharply, bouncing off stone pillars carved with ancient symbols. Banners fluttered faintly in a hidden draft. The grand hall, heavy with centuries of history, fell into respectful silence. The tapestries—depicting battles and heroes—seemed to lean in, eager to witness this moment.
Heads slowly turned toward the entrance. Sharp, expectant eyes watched them. The scent of beeswax candles mixed with faint hearth smoke, grounding the moment in the castle’s warm heart.
Two guards in gleaming armor stepped forward in perfect unison. Their polished visors caught the torchlight, casting flickering reflections across the marble floor. They bowed deeply before Duke Farrad, embodying the strict order and ancient rituals that ruled this place.
The Duke returned the bow with quiet authority. His robes whispered softly against the stone floor. His sharp gaze settled on Spud and Timmy—not as mere subjects, but as young men stepping into the kingdom’s legacy.
In the heavy silence, Spud felt the weight of history—not as a burden, but as a summons to stand taller.
“Thank you both for coming. Please stand,” Duke Farrad said firmly, his voice steady and commanding.
The boys rose slowly, keenly aware of every pair of eyes on them. Stained-glass windows scattered deep blues and reds across the marble floor—a silent reminder of the high stakes hidden beneath the polished court.
With a subtle gesture, the Duke signaled the minstrel. The haunting music ceased, the final note hanging in the air before fading into silence. The musician bowed swiftly and retreated, leaving the room expectant and still.
“We are eager to hear your story,” Farrad said, his eyes sharp and voice steady. “But first—a drink. This may be a long telling.”
A squire stepped forward with practiced ease, filling the Duke’s goblet from a silver pitcher. The liquid gleamed like molten amber in the flickering torchlight. Around them, the court moved like a well-oiled machine—guards bowing in sync, courtiers exchanging quick glances—each motion precise and rehearsed.
“Now,” the Duke said, focusing on the boys, “which one of you is Spud?”
“That’s me, Your Grace,” Spud answered, his voice steady despite the tightness in his chest. His eyes met the Duke’s—not just a boy from the quarters anymore, but a witness called by fate.
“And you were taken by this magic portal?” Farrad asked, his tone blending curiosity with caution.
“Yes, sir,” Spud replied, determination sparking in his gaze.
The Duke nodded and turned to Timmy. “Before we hear your story, Timmy, speak only what you saw—truth and nothing else.”
Timmy bowed his head slightly, muscles tense, mind focused.
“Very well, Your Grace,” he said.
He drew a deep breath as the weight of the hall settled on him. His voice was calm and measured, each word clear and deliberate. The Duke listened closely, a flicker of concern passing across his face as Timmy began his account.
When Timmy finished, the heavy hush lingered—taut and waiting.
“Thank you, young man,” the Duke said, his voice warm with genuine appreciation. “Your bravery and honesty honor us.”
Timmy exhaled, his shoulders easing. For a brief moment, a faint smile ghosted his lips.
“No questions yet,” the Duke added, eyes sweeping his advisors. “Now, the full account.”
Timmy stepped back.
All eyes turned to Spud.
He straightened, drawing in a steadying breath.
The Duke’s gaze locked with his. “Now you. The facts.”
Spud stepped forward.
The room seemed to close in around him; the silence sharpened.
His voice was firm, unwavering.
“In the woods,” he began, “I met him first. A figure cloaked in black. Silent. But everything about him felt... wrong.”
He painted the scene—the rustling leaves stilled, an unnatural hush settling, the sky bruised by an angry storm. Lightning cracked overhead; the wind howled like a living thing, thick with dread.
Then—the barrier.
A shimmer of magic that saved him.
Arkin, the Master Magician, leaned forward, eyes narrowing. His beard twitched, caught between awe and calculation.
Spud continued: the box, the blast, the portal. The soldiers—strange, silent, armed with weapons beyond understanding. The second portal, flickering like a mirage. The arrow, shot from nowhere.
His gaze flicked briefly to Chum.
Then came the cabin.
Floating books. Whispering walls. The cloaked figure again—face revealed, words cryptic.
A gasp rippled through the court.
The Duke silenced the gasp with a sharp glance.
Spud pressed on—telling how Chum’s steady hand had pulled him back through the portal, how together they’d watched the swirling gateway collapse into nothingness, the forest’s quiet rhythm returning behind them.
He finished.
The room held its breath.
Arkin sat frozen, eyes wide but locked on Spud, fingers twitching.
A grizzled captain mouthed a silent curse, knuckles whitening on the table’s edge.
One noblewoman dropped her goblet; wine spread across her sleeve, unnoticed.
The Duke’s silence stretched, then broke.
“Thank you, Spud,” he said, quiet but resolute.
In that moment, the court of Convota did not see a boy.
They saw a witness.
To something beyond their world.
Spud exchanged a brief glance with Huntsmaster Chum before the Duke’s gaze swept the hall and settled on Arkin, the Master Magician, whose eyes still held that unnerving intensity.
“Both of you have shown remarkable courage,” the Duke continued, voice low but full of meaning. “I’m truly glad to see you here, safe and sound.”
Then, turning to Chum, he said, “Your turn.”
Chum stood and gave a respectful nod.
But before he could speak, Vaneppe stepped forward.
“Father, if I may,” she said, her voice calm and clear. “Spud and Timmy are our guests. Can’t we offer them a moment to rest—and perhaps a drink?”
She looked toward Spud, and for a beat, something unspoken passed between them. He gave a small, knowing nod—remembering the last time they’d met in the castle gardens.
The Duke’s expression eased again. “You’re absolutely right, my dear.”
With a simple gesture, squires brought over chairs and placed them at one of the long tables.
“Please, sit with us,” the Duke said, inviting. “Tell the squires what you’d like to drink.”
Then, with mock sternness, he added, “But no alcohol until tomorrow.”
Laughter rippled through the room, easing the tension.
The Duke reclined slightly, turning back to Chum, his tone light but eyes keen. “We’re all ears, Chum. Tell us how you managed to save something for once.”
Chum laughed—a deep, rolling sound that echoed through the hall, contagious and rare.
“I save your bellies every day,” he shot back, drawing smiles from both boys.
But then his tone shifted.29Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhRZYWKJ9HD
Timmy and Spud sat straighter. This was a different side of Chum—and of the Duke.
“I was watching the black-cloaked man when he vanished,” Chum began, voice lower now. “Gone in an instant. No sound. Just… gone.”
He described the storm—the violent wind, the wild magic.29Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQmhDme7UBP
“I followed it to the heart of the forest. That’s where I saw him again.”
At first, he admitted, he hadn’t even noticed the boys—so fixed was his attention on the stranger.
“I saw him charging toward them,” he said, voice tight. “I fired an arrow. I wasn’t aiming to kill. I just wanted to stop him.”
The room stilled.
“I saw the box,” Chum continued. “But I was too far to describe it like these brave lads have.”
Then came the moment that drew every ear.29Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMdLk2tNtCV
“The second magician,” he said, nodding slowly. “A robe of stars and moons. Deflected the magic like it was nothing. Like swatting a fly.”
He turned to the boys. “What they told you—it holds. Every word.”
Chairs creaked as nobles leaned in, faces drawn with disbelief or the creeping edge of fear.
The Duke’s fingers, which had been tapping idly on the table, fell still.29Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3GxXmDSiiT
He leaned forward. His voice came low, measured. “There’s much to unravel.”
His gaze shifted to Arkin.29Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCk8ImzdmQq
“Ask away. This is your domain."29Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGLRkukE51F
and then Add to home screen.