Chapter 4: A Falcon Among Shadows
Six years had passed since I first opened my eyes in this fragile infant's body, screaming at the injustice of helplessness. Six years since equations and laboratories gave way to crumbling stone halls and whispered prayers to unseen gods.
Now I was six years old, Ren Alistair, third son of a fading house. My limbs no longer betrayed me I could walk without stumbling, run short distances without wheezing, even speak in full sentences when I chose to.
But I rationed my words like coin. A noble's tongue carried weight in this world, and careless speech was a weapon turned against its wielder.
And today, for the first time, my words might matter.
Morning in the Manor
The manor woke slowly, groaning like an old beast roused from uneasy sleep. Timber beams creaked. Wind moaned through cracked shutters. Somewhere in the distance, water dripped steadily, as if counting down to an hour only it knew.
Marta swept into my chamber before the first bell rang, skirts rustling, eyes sharp as ever. "Up, young master," she ordered, throwing open the shutters. Cold dawn spilled across faded tapestries and the worn falcon crest carved above the hearth.
"The Lord takes you to Havenwood today. You must look the part of a son of Alistair."
She worked with brisk precision, straightening my tunic of brushed wool patched in places, but dyed a respectable deep blue. Onto my collar she pinned a silver brooch, our falcon crest: wings spread, daring the wind.
The falcon gleamed faintly in the pale light. Tarnished, yes, but unbowed.
Tomas trailed behind her, carrying boots polished within an inch of their lives. He muttered, just loud enough for me to hear: "Never seen the little lord outside the manor. Hope he doesn't faint in the road dust."
Marta's hand whipped out, cloth smacking the back of his head. "Mind your tongue, boy. He rides with dignity today."
I said nothing, only watching. My cool, measured stare had unsettled servants since I learned to hold it. Frail. Unlucky. Cursed, perhaps. That was what they thought of me. Let them. Shadows moved more freely than light.
Protocol and Departure
When I descended to the courtyard, the full weight of the occasion became clear.
A two-horse chariot stood ready, its wood scrubbed clean though the paint cracked. The falcon crest stretched across its side, the paint peeling like old scabs. Four guards waited in dented breastplates, boots dust-caked, eyes steady. Sir Cedric stood at their head, hand resting on his sword's pommel, back straight despite the limp that worsened each year.
Then my father emerged.
Julian Alistair wore a fur-lined cloak, its hem frayed, but he carried himself with the quiet authority of a man who would not let the world see the cracks.
The guards bowed. "My Lord."
Cedric thumped his fist to chest. "Your Grace."
"Cedric. Men." Julian's gaze swept them like a falcon's. "Today we ride to Havenwood. Remember who you serve. We are Alistairs."
The word carried weight. A reminder, a shield, a prayer.
His hand settled on my shoulder, steady despite the faint tremor in his fingers. "Come, Ren."
The gates groaned open. Servants lined the yard, bowing deeply as we passed. I caught Marta's eye. For once her sharpness softened, and her whisper reached me alone:
"Show them you belong, little falcon."
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The Road to Havenwood
The chariot wheels rattled over rutted earth, dust curling in pale clouds. The fields stretched barren around us, soil thin and gray, hedges broken, cottages sagging as though bowing under invisible burdens.
Peasants stooped in fields paused to watch. One by one, they lowered their heads, caps pressed to chests.
"Lord Alistair," they murmured. Some voices carried reverence. Others, fear.
Father raised his hand in acknowledgment, his back rigid, jaw tight. To him, their respect was a chain.
To me, it was data. Hollow cheeks. Calloused hands. Spines bent by labor and hunger. This was no theory of feudalism. This was its cost, laid bare in every bowed head.
Havenwood
By midmorning, the town rose before us: Havenwood. Low stone walls ringed it, more symbolic than secure. At the gate, two guards in the Marquis's black and crimson eyed our crest with disdain but swung the gate wide.
Inside, the square pulsed with life. Vendors cried their wares. Children darted between carts. Sheep bleated. Smoke curled from food stalls, rich with roasting meat, fish brine, and frying dough.
Then the horn sounded.
"Lord Alistair approaches!"
The change was instant. Voices hushed. Townsfolk bent their backs.
"The Baron…"
"House Alistair still rides…"
"That must be the youngest son."
Their gazes pressed against me curiosity, pity, skepticism.
Father raised his hand. "My people of Havenwood, rise. We come not as masters, but as stewards. I thank you for your diligence."
They rose slowly, like stalks of grain after a hard wind.
Market and the Spark of Magic
We dismounted. Guards circled, keeping respectful space. Merchants hurried forward. One displayed bolts of cloth, another baskets of smoked fish. A third opened a box carved with faint runes, revealing fish resting on ice that shimmered unnaturally.
"A preservation charm, my Lord," he boasted. "Keeps food fresh for weeks. Costly, but unmatched."
Not sleight of hand. Not rumor. True manipulation of energy.
Nearby, children squealed as a street performer snapped his fingers, conjuring motes of colored light that drifted above their heads. They reached, laughing, as sparks winked and spun.
Magic.
My chest tightened. Equations raced through my skull, desperate to quantify what I saw. The efficiency was abysmal, the system crude. But it was real.
Julian smiled faintly, slipping a coin into the performer's hand. "The children need wonder."
I stared long after the sparks died.
The Temple of the Flame
The temple loomed near the square, modest stone crowned by a blackened spire. Bells tolled as Father Oren emerged, bald pate gleaming, eyes sharp.
"My Lord, young master," he intoned, bowing. "The Flame welcomes you."
Inside, incense curled through sunlight. At the altar, Oren dipped a chalice into a basin, chanting. The water glowed faintly, light spilling across stone like molten gold.
Peasants gasped. To them, it was divine.
To me, it was a system. Symbols. Ritual. Energy. Another mechanism, awaiting analysis.
"The people pray for your house, my Lord," Oren said smoothly. "They pray your children receive the Flame's blessing."
Julian bowed his head. "I pray the same."
I clenched my fists. Unblessed. The word echoed in every whisper I had overheard. If blessings were the currency of worth, then I could not afford to be without one.
The Meeting with the Elders
We crossed to the town hall, a timber frame sagging under its years. Inside, Havenwood's elders waited: Garron the blacksmith, arms like tree trunks; Halda the weaver, hands stained blue; Mistress Kallie, tavern-keeper with a gaze that could strip paint.
They bowed. "My Lord."
Julian sat at the head. "Speak freely."
And they did.
"The harvest cannot cover the Marquis's tithe."
"Bandits choke the road to Barrensfall."
"The Duke's riders demand grain we do not have."
Each complaint was a dagger, each word carving deeper into my father's silence. His hands folded tight, hiding tremors.
"We will… find a way," he said finally.
But there was no way. Not without breaking the cycle. Not without knowledge buried and forgotten. Knowledge that lived only in me.
I stared at the crude map sprawled across the table, already running numbers. Soil exhaustion. Crop rotation. Redistribution. The solution hovered on my lips. But not yet. Not from a six-year-old child.
Patience.
Return Journey
The sun sagged low, bleeding crimson across the horizon. The chariot wheels groaned, horses plodding. Guards rode in silence.
Father slumped back, exhaustion etched into every line of his face. He turned to me, managing a thin smile. "You were quiet today, Ren. My little shadow."
I leaned against him, eyes fixed on the fading sun.
Quiet, yes. But inside, something roared awake.
This world was not unknowable. It was a machine. Its pieces magic, faith, politics, soil all ground together, choking, inefficient.
And I had seen machines like this before.
I clenched my hands tight.
The world was a system.
And I would rewrite it.
End of Chapter 4