The world returned, not as a gentle dawn, but as a violent, unwelcome intrusion.
Brandt's first sensation was the cold. It was a rough, biting chill, seeping from the dark granite floor into his cheek, his shoulder, his hip.
He was on the floor.
'I... blacked out.'
He tried to move. The action was a mistake.
A shriek of pure, white-hot, deafening agony tore through his skull.
The migraine from last night was no longer a warning; it was a punishment. It was a physical, crushing weight, a red-hot iron spike driven through his temples, so intense it made his vision swim with dark, oily spots.
He groaned, a low, wet sound, and forced his small, weak body to roll over.
His limbs felt heavy, useless. Not paralysed, like in the well, but lethargic, as if they were submerged in wet cement. This was the backlash.
'So this...' he thought, his mind a slow, thick, syrupy thing, '...is the price.'
He'd pushed past the limit, and his body had just… shut down. A grim, pained, and somehow satisfying discovery. He had found the edge. He had paid for it. And he had survived.
The pain was a cage, but other, more mundane needs were pressing.
'Information.'
He needed the library. He had to know more about this. About mana, about channels, and about this... this agonising consequence. He couldn't ask Vorin, not about this. The secret of his early Awakening was a shield, but it was also a muzzle.
A loud, demanding, and almost violent rumble from his stomach cut through the thought.
'Food. First.'
He forced himself to sit up. The room spun, a nauseating, grey-and-black blur. He squeezed his eyes shut, his teeth gritted, waiting for the agony to recede from a scream to a dull, pounding roar.
Slowly, his movements stiff and pained, he stood. He was still in yesterday's clothes, now rumpled and smelling faintly of sweat and stale bread. He stripped them off, his new, small body aching in protest.
He moved to the wardrobe and pulled out a clean, linen shirt, dark woollen trousers, and a thick, fur-lined jacket. He dressed with a familiar, practised ease, his hands knowing the clasps and ties, even as they trembled.
He left his room, the granite box, and stepped into the cold, familiar corridors. His memory, his own memory now, guided him. He didn't have to think. His feet just knew the path, the shortcut through the armoury passage, the turn that led toward the kitchens.
Luckily, his family didn't eat in the Great Hall with the rest of the keep—a privilege. A small, private dining hall was set aside for them, closer to the kitchens, warmer, and, usually, quieter.
Usually.
He was ten paces from the heavy, oaken door when he heard the first crash.
It was the sound of a ceramic plate shattering against stone.
'My sisters.' The thought was a simple, weary statement of fact.
He pushed the heavy door open.
The scene was chaos. The heavy oak table, usually set with polished pewter and steaming platters, was a warzone. A chair was overturned. A basket of bread rolls had been upended, its contents scattered across the floor like casualties.
And in the centre of it all, standing triumphantly on the table itself, was Alise.
She was a mirror of her sister, but a warped, chaotic one. Both shared the same stark, Rimescar look: skin as white as the snow outside, and thick, dark, almost-black hair.
But Alise was... sturdy. She was robust, her small frame already promising a warrior's build, her dark hair a tangled, wild mess escaping its braids. She was energy and fury, a small, six-year-old valkyrie in a linen dress, her face red, her eyes blazing.
Her target, Alara, was her physical opposite.
Alara was slender, her build slight, her movements quiet and precise. She was cowering behind an overturned chair, her own dark hair immaculate, her dark, observant, and intensely analytical eyes peering out.
The moment the door opened, those eyes, the brains of the pair, saw him.
Relief flooded her face. She bolted from behind her barricade, a small, fast, shadow.
"Big Brother!"
She ran straight to him, grabbing the fur of his jacket, and immediately hid behind his legs, her small body trembling. "Brandt, save me! Alise is a tyrant! She's attacking me!"
Brandt stood, frozen, his head pounding. The title, Big Brother, felt... alien. It was a word from a life he had never lived, a role he had never played. It was a new, strange, and unwelcome weight.
'How weird.'
He didn't hate it.
"Liar!" Alise shrieked, still perched on the table like a gargoyle. She pointed an accusatory, jam-smeared finger at her twin. "She started it! She said I'd never Awaken!"
Alise's voice cracked, her childish rage suddenly mixed with a real, raw fear. "She said... she said I'd just be stupid and they'd send me away! To marry some... some pig-faced, southern noble!"
'Ah,' Brandt thought. 'So that's it.' The core of their fears, even at six. Awakening, or obsolescence. In this world, they were one and the same.
Alara, from the safety of her position behind his legs, piped up, her voice small, clear, and utterly devoid of remorse. "It's true! Maester Vorin says I'm smarter."
"I'll show you smart!" Alise roared, grabbing a whole, unpeeled apple, her arm cocking back for a lethal throw.
Brandt's migraine chose that exact moment to spike, a fresh, hot wave of nausea rising in his throat.
"Enough."
His voice was not loud. It was a low, tired, pained rasp. But in the small, stone-walled room, it cut through the air like a blade.
The twins froze.
He looked up at Alise, who was still poised to throw, her small face a mask of defiant fury.
"Could we postpone the war," he said, his voice flat, "until after breakfast?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He pushed past Alara, the girl clinging to his jacket like a limpet, and walked to the table. "I'm hungry. And my head hurts."
His words, low and pained, had an immediate and unexpected effect. The twins' bitter, tear-filled argument stopped instantly.
They stared at him.
Then, as if a switch had been thrown, they looked at each other. Their shared, tear-streaked, furious expressions melted into a single, unified, and utterly unwelcome expression.
Mischief.
Alise, still perched on the table, dropped her apple. She put her small, jam-smeared hands on her hips, her head tilted, her expression a perfect, mocking pout.
"Oh, is the big brother hungry?" she cooed, her voice a singsong, childish taunt. "Is his tiny little head hurting?"
Alara, no longer needing his protection, crossed her arms, a perfect, miniature mirror of her sister. "He must be! He missed dinner all because he hurt himself in the yard!"
"He's so clumsy!" Alise giggled, hopping down from the table, her small boots thudding on the stone floor. "Falk said you just 'tripped'! Did you trip? Did you fall down like a baby?"
Brandt ignored them, his hand rubbing his temple. The pounding, white-hot agony of the backlash was making the room tilt. Their high-pitched, shrieking voices were like needles in his brain.
'Falk...' he thought, the name a solid, grounding thing in his memory.
Alara, her dark, analytical eyes suddenly narrowing, stepped closer.
"You look pale," she stated, her voice losing its mocking tone, becoming quiet and clinical. "And... grumpy. Grumpier than normal. Maester Vorin must have healed your arm... but I guess even he can't heal your bad mood."
"He's always grumpy!" Alise declared, grabbing a bread roll from the floor and wiping it, uselessly, on her dress.
Brandt was about to order them to be quiet, just to sit down, when a new presence entered the room.
He didn't hear a sound.
There were no footsteps. No scrape of a boot on stone. No rustle of a heavy cloak.
One moment, the doorway was empty, filled only with the dim, cold light of the corridor. Next, a man was standing there, his shadow falling long and dark across the floor, swallowing the twins in its gloom.
He was a tall man, built not just of muscle, but of sheer, immovable density. He was broad, his shoulders straining the thick, boiled-leather jerkin he wore over dark, practical wools. A heavy, fur-lined cloak was slung over one shoulder, and a longsword, its hilt plain, worn, and purely functional, hung at his hip.
His face was a map of old, pale scars. One, a jagged, silvery line, started just above his right eyebrow, cut down across the bridge of his nose, and ended at his jaw, giving him a permanent, grim expression. His hair was dark, short-cropped, and touched with grey at the temples. His eyes, a cold, piercing blue, were fixed on the scene, calm, assessing, and missing nothing.
This was Falk. Master-at-Arms of Frostguard Hold.
The room, which had been a chaotic storm of childish, shrieking noise, went instantly, profoundly, silent.
Alara and Alise froze. Their mocking expressions vanished, replaced by a sudden, pale, wide-eyed terror.
Falk did not raise his voice. He did not move. He just... spoke. His voice was a low, calm, gravelly rumble, a sound like boulders grinding together.
"Alise. Get your foot off the chair. Alara. Pick up the bread."
He paused, his cold, blue eyes moving from one twin to the other.
"Now."
It was not a request.
The twins moved, a frantic, silent, blur of motion. Alise scrambled to fix the chair, her face pale, her lip trembling. Alara, her own cheeks white, hurried to gather the scattered, discarded bread rolls, piling them back into the basket, her eyes fixed on the floor.
"Sit," Falk commanded, his voice still that same, low, quiet rumble.
They sat at the table, side-by-side, their hands clasped in their laps, their eyes down, their small bodies rigid with a fear that was a thousand times more potent than any they had shown Brandt.
This was not the fear of a servant. This was the fear of a child for a respected and absolute authority. They did not fear Falk. They feared his disappointment.
Only then did Falk's gaze move to Brandt. His expression didn't soften, but the cold assessment in his eyes eased, replaced by a simple, quiet acknowledgment.
"Brandt."
He stepped into the room, his movements as silent as his arrival, and gestured to the empty chair at the head of the table.
"Sit. The food is getting cold."
Brandt did, his aching body grateful for the simple, solid, wooden chair. Falk took the seat to his right, a position, Brandt's memory supplied, that he always took when their father, the Marquess, was away.
He was a guardian. A warden. A temporary, and far more terrifying, parental replacement.
Servants, who must have been waiting for Falk's arrival, materialised from the kitchen doorway. They moved with a silent, practised, and terrified efficiency, their eyes, like the twins', fixed on the floor. They cleared the wreckage of the food-fight and, in seconds, replaced it with steaming, fresh platters.
The smell was... overwhelming.
Brandt's stomach, which had been rumbling, now ached with a sudden, violent, profound hunger. The backlash, the healing, the mana depletion... his body was a starved, empty vessel, screaming for fuel.
The breakfast was a pure, northern, mountain meal. There was a large, earthenware tureen of thick, steaming, oat porridge, so hot the cold morning air misted above it. A platter of dark, smoked fish, its skin glistening with oil. A basket of fresh, thick, heavy, black bread, and a brick of pale, hard, yellow cheese.
Brandt didn't wait. He grabbed a bowl, ladled it full of the porridge, and began to eat. He ate with a desperate, ravenous, and almost violent speed, his small hands shaking. The food was hot, bland, and filling.
It was the most incredible thing he had ever tasted.
He finished the bowl in seconds. He refilled it. He added a thick chunk of the smoked fish, tearing it apart with his fingers, ignoring the bones.
He was dimly aware of the twins staring at him, their earlier fight forgotten entirely, their faces a mask of pure, childish astonishment.
He didn't care.
The meal passed in a new, heavy silence. The twins, cowed by Falk's immovable presence, ate their own food, their movements small, neat, and careful.
They, of course, were the first to finish. And the silence, for them, was a poison.
They immediately began to pester Falk, their voices a high-pitched, whining chorus, begging to know when their own combat training would start. Alise was desperate to learn the sword, and even Alara, in her own quiet way, asked about maps and tactics.
As if on cue, the servants returned. They moved, silent ghosts, to clear the empty plates.
The moment Falk gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, the twins were gone.
They didn't ask to be excused. They just saw their chance. They slid from their chairs and bolted, a blur of dark hair and linen, their small, booted feet pounding in the corridor, their high-pitched, shrieking laughter echoing, almost immediately, as their freedom was restored.
They vanished, off to their next chaotic adventure.
The room, once again, was silent.
It was just Brandt and the Master-at-Arms.
Falk did not move. He sat, his large, scarred hands resting on the table, his cold, blue eyes fixed on the oaken grain.
Brandt, his mind now clear, his body fuelled, his migraine reduced to a dull, manageable throb, broke the silence.
"Maester Vorin spoke to you." It was not a question.
Falk nodded, once. His gaze lifted, and his cold, blue eyes met Brandt's.
"He did, Brandt."
A flicker of... something... moved in the depths of the warrior's gaze. It was not surprise. It was... pride. A deep, grim, and heavy pride.
"An Augmenter. At nine." Falk's voice was a low, quiet rumble. "He was... surprised. I was not."
He leaned forward, just slightly, his massive, scarred frame seeming to suck the very air from the room. "You have your father's will. And your mother's... fire. It is a... potent... combination. You will be a fine man, Brandt. A fine Lord."
The praise was a heavy, unexpected weight.
Falk's gaze sharpened.
"The pale skin. The tremor in your hands." Falk's eyes roved, clinically, over Brandt's face. "You pushed yourself last night. After you filled your channels. You pushed... until you were empty."
"You... you know?" Brandt whispered, his voice small.
A shadow of a smile, a grim, humourless, and almost sad expression, touched Falk's scarred lips.
"Every Augmenter... every single, stupid, impatient, new-Awakened whelp... does it. Once."
He leaned back, his gaze becoming distant, lost in a memory. "It is a lesson. A hard one."
Falk's eyes snapped back to Brandt, the cold, stern warning returning.
"But you will only do it once. You will not do it again."
His voice was a low, dangerous command. "That... backlash... it is not just pain. It is not just weakness. In a real fight..." He tapped his temple. "...it's a blackout. It is a... failure. You go from a warrior to a corpse. You become a liability. You become... dead."
He let the words hang in the cold, still air. "It is suicide, Brandt. Do you understand me?"
Brandt felt a cold, sharp, chill, one that had nothing to do with the Rimescar air. He saw, in his mind, that last, final, agonising, white-static-filled void. He saw his body, small and twitching, helpless on the floor.
He nodded. "I... I understand. I won't do it again."
"Good." Falk nodded, satisfied. The lesson was over.
Brandt stood, his body still stiff, but his mind sharp. He had his goals. He had his first hard lesson. Now, he needed his tools.
"Falk..."
The warrior looked at him, his expression patient.
"I need... to study. I want access to the keep's library. The... the main stacks. Not just the children's histories."
Falk was silent. He studied Brandt, his blue eyes searching for a long, heavy moment.