"Brandt... Brandt..."
The voice was a thin tether, pulling him up from the crushing depths of a black, dreamless ocean.
Brandt's consciousness didn't wake; it surfaced, gasping for air in a room that felt devoid of it. He opened his eyes, expecting the void, but found only the grey, oppressive stone of his ceiling.
The first sensation was not relief, but the return of gravity. And with gravity came the pain.
It had settled during the night, transforming from the sharp, adrenaline-fueled spikes of the training yard into a heavy, rusted weight that saturated his entire being. His left thigh throbbed with a deep, sickening rhythm, as if the iron block was still resting there, slowly pulverising the marrow. His ribs were a corset of fire, tightening with every shallow breath.
He groaned, a low, wet sound that scraped against the sandpaper of his throat.
"Brandt?"
The whisper came again, laced with a terrifying hesitation.
He forced his head to turn. The movement sent a spike of nausea rolling through his gut.
Elara stood by the bed. Her hands were wringing the fabric of her apron, her knuckles white. Her eyes were wide, reflecting the weak, diffused light of high noon that filtered through the arrow slit.
"I... I'm sorry," she stammered, flinching as his gaze locked onto her. "I didn't want to intrude. But... the sun... it's high. You didn't answer when I knocked. I thought..."
Brandt stared at her, his mind sluggishly processing the time. High noon. He had slept through the dawn, through breakfast. His body had simply shut down.
He tried to sit up.
The world lurched violently. Agony flashed white behind his eyes, radiating from his thigh. He hissed through his teeth, his arms giving out, collapsing back onto the furs. Cold sweat instantly broke across his forehead.
"You were right," he rasped, his voice a broken thing. "To come in."
Elara exhaled, her shoulders dropping an inch. She stepped closer, her fear momentarily eclipsed by the servant's instinct to mend what was broken.
"Don't move," she whispered, her hands fluttering uselessly near his shoulder. "You're hurt. Badly."
"I know," Brandt muttered. He took a breath, steeling himself. "Help me up."
"But—"
"Please. Just... help me."
It wasn't a command. It was an admission of necessity.
Elara hesitated, biting her lip, then moved to the side of the bed. She slid her arm behind his shoulders. She was small, but her life was one of hauling water and scrubbing stone; she possessed a wiry, deceptive strength.
Brandt gritted his teeth.
He swung his legs over the edge. His left foot touched the floor, and his knee buckled instantly.
Elara caught him. She grunted under the sudden load, staggering slightly, her boots scraping on the rug.
"The infirmary," Brandt wheezed, the room spinning in slow, nauseating circles.
The journey was a quiet ordeal.
The corridors were empty, the keep humming with the distant sounds of the midday routine. Every step was agony. Brandt leaned heavily on Elara, dragging his injured leg across the uneven flagstones.
Elara didn't speak. She just focused on keeping him upright, her breathing ragged with the effort. She smelled of lye soap, cold stone, and the faint, metallic scent of anxiety.
They reached the heavy oak door. Elara stopped, her hand hovering over the iron ring.
"It's fine," Brandt muttered, pulling his arm away from her support to lean against the rough doorframe. "Wait here."
He took a breath, composing his face into a mask of stoic endurance. He pushed the door open.
The heat washed over him—dry, herbal, and intense.
Maester Vorin was waiting.
The old man stood by the hearth, his hands clasped behind his back, facing the door. He didn't look surprised. He looked like he had been counting the seconds. The firelight cast deep, dancing shadows across his wrinkled face, highlighting the weariness in his grey eyes.
He looked at Brandt—swaying, pale, clutching his ribs. His gaze dropped to the dragging leg, analysed the damage, then returned to the boy's face.
"You are early," Vorin said softly. "I expected this... later in the week."
Brandt limped forward, collapsing onto the nearest wooden stool. He let out a long, shaky breath.
"I accelerated the timeline."
Vorin sighed.
It was a sound of ancient patience wearing thin. He walked over, his wooden staff tapping rhythmically against the floor. He placed a hand on Brandt's thigh. Even through the wool, the heat of the trauma was palpable.
"The bone is cracked," Vorin diagnosed, his voice flat. "The muscle is torn. You found the limit, and you stepped over it."
He looked Brandt in the eye.
"Pain is a teacher. It tells you when the machine is breaking. If you ignore the teacher, you destroy the machine."
Brandt met the old man's gaze.
'I know,' he thought tiredly. 'But I don't have time to learn the slow way.'
"Just fix it," Brandt said, his voice quiet. "Please."
Vorin shook his head, a flicker of sadness crossing his face. But he didn't refuse. He was a healer; he mended things.
"I will mend the bone," Vorin said gravely. "I will knit the flesh. But I cannot erase the memory of the trauma from your nerves. The ghost of it will remain."
He placed both hands on the leg.
The glow appeared. It was the familiar, warm amber light of his magic. It seeped into Brandt's leg, a liquid heat that chased the agony away. It felt like sinking into a hot bath after a lifetime in the snow.
Brandt closed his eyes, his head falling back. He felt the bone fusing. He felt the torn fibres of his quadriceps reattaching, the ruptured blood vessels sealing.
But when Vorin pulled his hands away, the light fading, a dull, phantom ache remained deep in the marrow. It wasn't sharp, but it was heavy—a reminder.
Brandt flexed his leg. It moved. It held weight. But it felt... tired.
He looked at Vorin. The old man was watching him closely.
"It still aches," Brandt noted.
"Good," Vorin said simply. "Maybe that will remind you that you are not made of iron."
Brandt stood up. He tested the leg again. It was functional.
"Thank you, Maester."
Vorin turned back to his workbench, dismissing him.
"Go. And try not to return before sunset."
Brandt left the infirmary, the heat clinging to his skin like a second layer of clothes. He stepped back into the cold corridor.
Elara was gone.
He frowned, looking up and down the dim hallway. Then he spotted her. She was huddled in a servant's alcove ten yards down, speaking in hushed, frantic whispers with another servant girl.
The second girl was wringing her hands, her face pale. They looked like conspirators in a failed coup.
Brandt walked toward them. His boots were silent now that he wasn't dragging his leg like a corpse.
The unknown girl looked up, saw him, and let out a terrified squeak. She didn't bow. She didn't curtsy. She just turned and bolted, disappearing around the corner in a flutter of grey wool.
Elara jumped, spinning around to face him. Her eyes were wide, guilty.
"What was that?" Brandt asked, his voice flat but not unkind.
Elara swallowed hard. She looked at the empty corridor where the girl had fled, then back at Brandt.
"It's... the staff, Young Master. They're... worried."
"About what?"
"Lady Alise."
Brandt raised an eyebrow. His little sister. The brawn.
"Is she hurt?"
"She's missing," Elara whispered, the words rushing out in a torrent.
"She... she got into a fight with Lady Alara at breakfast. About... about training. Alara said something sharp, and Alise threw a plate, and then she... she ran off. No one can find her. The maids are checking the kitchens…"
Brandt felt a flicker of concern, but he quickly smothered it with logic.
Alise knew this keep better than the rats did. She had hideouts in the haylofts, the armoury, and behind the tapestries in the Great Hall.
'She's fine,' he concluded. 'She's resilient.'
"She's hiding," Brandt said, his voice calm. "She'll come out when she gets bored or hungry. Let the maids run in circles if they must."
He looked at Elara.
"I'll deal with it if it becomes serious," he reassured her. "Keep me informed if they find her."
Elara nodded, looking relieved that he wasn't adding his own anger to the pile.
Brandt's stomach gave a loud, violent growl. The healing had drained him. His mana channels were screaming for calories to maintain the repair work Vorin had done.
"I missed breakfast," he said, rubbing his abdomen.
Elara blinked, adjusting to the shift in priority.
"Yes... yes, Young Master. Of course. The kitchens?"
"The kitchens," Brandt agreed. "Lead the way."
The kitchens were a vast, humid cavern of stone and smoke, usually a hive of frantic activity, but today the atmosphere was fractured.
The news of Lady Alise's disappearance had rippled through the staff like a contagion, turning the usual rhythmic clatter of pots and pans into a disjointed, nervous hum.
Brandt moved through the periphery, his presence masked by the chaos. Elara led him to a secluded alcove near the dry stores, hidden behind stacks of flour sacks and barrels of salted fish. It was dark, smelling of yeast and cold stone, but private.
Elara disappeared for a moment and returned with a wooden platter. It wasn't a noble's meal. It was scavenged: thick slices of cold roast beef, a wedge of hard yellow cheese, and a handful of pickled onions.
Brandt didn't care.
He sat on an overturned crate and began to eat with a mechanical, voracious intensity. He tore the beef apart with his teeth, swallowing large chunks without chewing. His body was a furnace, and the food was coal.
He watched Elara as he ate.
She sat on a smaller crate opposite him, picking nervously at a piece of cheese. She looked exhausted, her plain face pale in the gloom.
He swallowed a pickled onion, the vinegar biting his tongue.
"Elara."
She jumped, her eyes snapping to his. "Yes?"
"Tell me about Kael."
She stared at him, confused by the sudden pivot from food to personnel files.
"Kael? The... the guard?"
"The same," Brandt said, wiping grease from his lip. "I know what Falk thinks of him. I know his rank. I want to know what you think of him. What do the servants say when the guards aren't listening?"
Elara blushed, a sudden, pink flush rising on her neck to stain her cheeks. She looked away, fidgeting with the hem of her apron.
"He... he is very kind," she murmured. "He always says thank you. He doesn't... look through us, like the others do. And... he is very handsome."
Brandt noted the blush.
"Go on."
"Everyone likes him," she continued, gaining a little confidence as she spoke of something pleasant. "He's funny. He tells stories in the guardroom that make everyone laugh. He's a gentleman."
"Is he loyal?"
"Oh, yes. To Falk. To your father. He takes his oath very seriously."
Brandt leaned back, resting his head against a rough sack of grain.
"That's a problem."
Elara frowned. "Why?"
"Because I need him to break the rules," Brandt said calmly. "I need him to train me more than Falk allowed. If he's loyal and follows orders, he'll say no."
He looked at Elara, his eyes narrowing as he dissected the problem.
"Everyone has a lever, Elara. A crack in the armour. A want. Even a perfect soldier."
He gestured with a slice of beef.
"Think. What does he want? What does he care about that he shouldn't?"
Elara bit her lip. She thought for a long moment, her brow furrowed in concentration.
"He... he likes to smell nice."
Brandt paused, the meat halfway to his mouth.
"Excuse me?"
Elara turned a deep, violent shade of crimson. She stared intently at her shoes.
"It... it's a rumour. Among the maids. Kael... he spends a lot of coin on... scents. Oils. Soaps. He hates the smell of the barracks. He... he wants to smell like a lord, not a soldier."
Brandt stared at her.
The absurdity of it hit him like a slap. A warrior on the edge of the known world, fighting monsters in the freezing cold, living in a stone fortress surrounded by ice and death... worrying about his cologne?
It was ridiculous.
It was human.
'Vanity,' Brandt thought, a slow, cynical smile touching his lips.
"How do you know this?" Brandt asked, pressing for verification.
Elara's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.
"I... I once bought a small bottle of lavender water from the market. It is usually expensive, but... I know the girl who runs the stall. She gave me a price I could afford. I was cleaning the gallery, and he walked past. He stopped. He... he asked me what it was. He said it was 'delightful'. He looked... jealous."
She hid her face in her hands, mortified by the embarrassment of the memory.
Brandt lowered the beef.
"You're telling me," he said slowly, "that my best chance of bribing a loyal guard into committing insubordination... is perfume?"
Elara peeked through her fingers.
"It... it sounds stupid when you say it like that."
"It sounds insane," Brandt corrected. "Which means it will probably work."
He stood up, brushing crumbs from his trousers. The pain in his leg was now a dull, manageable throb.
"Where did you get it?"
"Rimehaven," Elara said. "The market square. There is a permanent stall there."
"Rimehaven."
Brandt repeated the name—the town below the keep.
The support structure for this stone tomb.
He realised, with a jolt, that he had never actually been there. Not as Brandt. He had read about it, studied its economy and population figures in the dusty books of the library, but he had never walked its streets. He had never smelled its air or seen its people.
He had been trapped in this fortress since he woke up in the infirmary.
'I've been living in a bubble,' he realised.
Leaving the keep was a risk. He was a child, an heir, and currently injured. The town was not the sanitised safety of the noble quarters. It was muddy, chaotic, and potentially dangerous.
But the reward—Kael's training, and a deeper understanding of his domain—outweighed the risk.
And he needed to buy some damn perfume.
He looked at Elara. The girl was watching him, sensing the shift in his mood.
"We're going," Brandt stated.
"Going?" Elara blinked. "Where?"
"To Rimehaven."