Hamlin met me early the next morning, leading me to a part of Kingskeep I hadn’t yet explored. We passed through what I quickly recognized as an armory, stocked with weapons of all shapes and sizes, though our destination lay beyond it. The armory opened into a larger room with a carpeted floor. The ceilings were lower here, no more than eight feet high, and the walls were coated in a thin layer of white paint that looked like it was applied in haste. The air was thick with the smell of copper and gunpowder.
In one corner of the room were two chairs, and Hamlin gestured for me to sit as he settled across from me. He looked disheveled, his short hair messy from what I assumed was a rushed morning. He clasped his hands together, studying me intently, his gaze piercing but not unkind, and beneath his scrutiny I felt small.
After what felt like an eternity, Hamlin let out a sudden laugh. “Hah. Apologies for staring. You’ve got your father’s expression.”
“You knew him?” I leaned forward.
For a moment, Hamlin’s demeanor shifted entirely. His voice softened. It felt genuine, almost comforting, like he wasn’t speaking out of duty. “Sure did,” he said, tapping his fingers lightly against the table. “He was the best hunter I’ve ever known… and speaking of which—” Hamlin leaned back in his chair. “Has Egon told you what you’re training for?”
“Sort of…” I muttered.
Hamlin sighed, leaning forward until his elbows rested on his knees. “If we’re going to do this, you’ll need to learn to speak up. Otherwise, people will think you’re a fool. You’re not, are you?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. And don’t call me ‘sir.’ Hamlin is fine.” He stood abruptly, though he wasn’t particularly tall, and moved to a painting on the far wall. It caught my attention immediately. The frame was silver, warped in a way that reflected light unevenly, and the canvas itself had a texture almost like cotton. On it was a familiar emblem: a dragon encircled by thorns.
“This symbol belonged to an ancient legion of Chaluk’s army. They were beast hunters, like your father. Dragons, wezthills, creatures most people think of as myths—they tracked them all. Egon, as I understand it, wants you to follow in his footsteps. To uphold your father’s legacy.”
I nodded, though part of me had already suspected as much from my earlier conversation with Egon. “Are they a threat?” I asked cautiously.
Hamlin hesitated—a strange sight from a man who otherwise seemed so sure of himself. “He believes so. A long time ago, if trained properly, a single man could take out a beast. Nowadays, it takes a small army. King Prance sees it as a waste of resources, says the occasional Amarbask or Bisir isn’t worth the effort.”
His hand drifted across the map on the table as he spoke, stopping near a cabinet in the corner of the room. With a low creak, he opened it, pulling out two wooden swords. “Truth be told, I don’t know if the beasts are a real threat. But Egon’s made it clear—he wants you trained.”
He tossed one of the swords in my direction. I caught it, startled by its sudden weightlessness in my grip. The wood felt smooth but worn, as if many hands had used it before mine.
Hamlin smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Let’s see if you’ve got even a sliver of your father’s talent.” He shifted his stance. “Ready?”
I had to be better. Hamlin was quicker than Mr. Felzt and somehow far tougher. Every strike, every sweep, left new bruises blooming across my arms and legs. Yet there was something about his casual demeanor, the way he never seemed to lose patience, that kept me moving forward. I wanted to impress him, though it felt like a futile effort.
Minutes passed, and my body screamed for rest. Eventually, I leaned back against the uneven wall, its jagged texture pressing into my back. My breath came in heavy gulps, my heart pounding as sweat trickled down my forehead.
“You spar like an old sodd,” Hamlin said, snatching the sword from my hands. He moved to the cabinet and placed both practice weapons back in their designated spot.
“You’re twice my age,” I muttered under my breath, but the words barely escaped before his sharp gaze landed on me. “Sorry—”
“It’s fine,” he cut me off. “Some bite isn’t bad. Just don’t show it to the wrong person.”
I nodded, and Hamlin grasped my hand, pulling me forward with a firm grip. My legs struggled to keep pace as he strode through another door. Cool, moderate air greeted me, and as the sunlight spilled over, my eyes squinted and adjusted. It took only moments to recognize where we were—a forge. I only knew what it was from the books Phillip had made me read months ago.
To the left stood an unlit hearth, its sturdy construction of light red bricks streaked with black from old charcoal. The acrid scent of soot filled my nose. A small bellow rested near the hearth, untouched, while a nearby table held an assortment of tools—tongs, clamps, and other implements I didn’t recognize. Close to us was a grayish anvil, its surface worn with scratches but otherwise unblemished. Above the table, hammers and mallets hung from pegs in the wall, their steel heads dulled with age.
“Out here, you’ll be learning the craft of blacksmithing,” Hamlin said, brushing his hand across the top of the anvil. He paused briefly, closing his eyes as though recalling something, then turned to face me. “It’s been some time since this forge was used, but it’s a fine one nonetheless.” His eyes shifted to my arms. “That said, we’ll need more meat on you before you start molding steel.”
“As long as I don’t end up looking like Phillip,” I muttered.
“Throwing strays, are we?” Hamlin chuckled. “That man cared about you, kid. Show a little more respect, even behind his back.”
I blinked in surprise. He knew who I was talking about. Did Hamlin know about everyone I’d encountered? The thought made me uneasy. Still, one question I couldn’t hold back slipped out before I could stop myself.
“Do you know what happened to my friend… Lily?”
Hamlin’s hand paused on the anvil as the question reached him. His fingers curled lightly over the metal edge, and he muttered, “The name doesn’t ring a bell.” He hesitated. “But I did hear about a girl… one who was causing a distraction before you were moved. I don’t know what became of her.”
His answer left my shoulders slumped. Seeing this, Hamlin softened and abruptly patted my head. “Enough of that. I think it’s time for some food. I’ll have a servant heat up the forge while we eat.”
I nodded, though my appetite felt nonexistent. Yet as my stomach growled in betrayal, I followed him through the forge’s secondary entrance, stepping into the courtyard. The grass squeaked softly under my boots, and a gentle breeze tousled my hair. The sky was a pale blue and cloudless. Air in Kingskeep was fresher than Widowskeep’s suffocating gloom, though it still held a certain staleness when the windows were all closed.
We crossed the courtyard, entering the grand hall. The tantalizing scent of roasted meat and freshly baked bread filled the space, making my stomach growl again, louder this time. Long wooden tables stretched across the room, already laden with platters of food. The sight made me realize just how hungry I truly was.
Hamlin gestured for me to sit, and I sank into the chair gratefully. Servants bustled around us, placing dishes within easy reach. Despite my earlier reluctance, the first bite of food—tender meat with a crisp edge—was enough to remind me of my hunger.
Hamlin, meanwhile, called for ale and drank it without ceremony, tipping the mug back like it was water. Unlike most of the “elites” here, who seemed to favor wine or finer spirits, Hamlin stuck to the rougher stuff. I’d never seen him drink anything else.
I glanced at him curiously, watching the way he drank. He caught my gaze and raised an eyebrow. “Did you want some?” he asked dryly.
I quickly shook my head, recalling the one time I’d tasted ale. The bitter flavor had been enough to last me a lifetime. A servant placed a plate of bread and butter before us, and I busied myself smearing the butter onto the neatly sliced loaf. When they offered me a mushroom pastry, I pushed it aside, wrinkling my nose at its strange, earthy smell.
Hamlin chuckled faintly. “You’ve got picky tastes, boy. That’ll need fixing.”
I shrugged, taking another bite of the bread. It was simple and familiar, a small comfort in the overwhelming strangeness of Kingskeep.
We sat in a growing silence as I finished my meal, leaning back with a sense of fullness I hadn’t felt in a while. My gaze wandered upward, taking in the details of the ceiling above. It reminded me of a church, with stone bricks angled sharply into a triangular peak. Wooden beams stretched across the lower portion like ribs, and the entire upper half was swallowed in a thick darkness that seemed impenetrable.
“You’re quite observant, aren’t you?” Hamlin asked and opened his mouth to say more, but his words were interrupted by the sudden arrival of a boy no older than fifteen. The boy’s unkempt hair fell in uneven layers around his round face as he approached with quick steps.
“Master Hamlin John,” the boy called, his voice clear but slightly breathless. “Your daughter has called for you in the stables.”
“My daughter?” Hamlin’s eyebrows shot up as he studied the boy’s face, his expression wary, searching for any sign of urgency or alarm. After a moment, he sighed, standing from the bench with an air of mild irritation. He swung his legs over and placed a steady hand on my shoulder before turning toward the doorway.
“Alright,” he muttered. Then, glancing down at me, added, “Why don’t you catch up on your reading? Or better yet, start writing in that journal Egon gave you. Keep your thoughts sharp, kid.”
Without waiting for a response, he strode off and left me alone in the dimly lit hall with nothing but the faint echoes of his boots on stone and the quiet sound of cooks in the distance. Reluctantly, I followed Hamlin’s advice, if only because it reminded me of the journal I’d nearly forgotten about. It now sat untouched on the small desk in my room, collecting dust since my first night in Kingskeep.
The room always felt empty, no matter how much I tried to make it my own. A single candle burned softly in the corner, casting flickering shadows that danced along the bare walls. I slid a chair over to the desk, the screech of its wooden legs against the floorboards breaking the quiet.
Opening the journal for the first time, I found the pages pristine, the faint scent of fresh parchment rising from it. Beside it was a small glass bottle of ink, its label reading iron-gall in elegant script. Surprisingly, the smell of pomegranate met my nose as I uncorked it. A feathered quill rested nearby. It was light between my fingers, though it felt precariously close to slipping from my grip.
I dipped the quill into the ink, swirling it lightly before pressing the tip against the first blank page. The faint scratch of the quill meeting parchment filled the quiet room, but I paused, staring down at the pale, empty surface.
Seconds turned into minutes as I sat there, thinking. What does one write about? My thoughts felt scattered, and though I’d experienced so much in these past weeks, none of it seemed to take proper shape in my mind. Egon had insisted I use this journal to track my progress, but what progress was there to record? I had barely done anything of note. Certainly not enough to satisfy him.
Still, I knew better than to leave it blank and with a reluctant sigh, I began to write.
Today, Hamlin said I look like my father. I wonder if he meant that as a compliment. He mentioned training me to hunt beasts, just like him. I don’t know how I feel about it yet. It feels so… distant, like a story someone else is living, and I’m just the listener.
I hesitated, tapping the quill lightly against the edge of the desk. The words felt clumsy, but I kept going.
There’s something about this place. Kingskeep. It’s huge, beautiful even, but it doesn’t feel safe. Not like Widowskeep ever did, either, but different. Bigger things are happening here, and I don’t know where I fit into it. If I even do.
The ink dried quickly on the page, and I sat back, studying my hesitant scrawl. It was crude, but at least it was something. Maybe Egon would not be impressed, but this journal was for me, wasn’t it? At least, that’s what I told myself as I capped the ink and set the quill aside.
The door creaked open behind me, and I could tell by the faint shuffling of feet that it was Achim. His small frame flopped onto his mattress with an audible sigh. Dirt streaked his face, and his shoulders sagged under an invisible weight. I couldn’t help but stare at him, curiosity bubbling up despite myself. He noticed, his body stiffening slightly, but said nothing about it.
“Are you okay?” I asked tentatively. Achim turned away, pulling the thin covers up around him. “You don’t have to answer,” I continued, “but… we should at least try to be friends.”
Achim coughed, a short, dry sound—whether to clear his throat or out of nerves, I couldn’t tell. After a pause, he spoke quietly. “Alright,” he muttered. “They had me cleaning out the gutters. Nasty work.”
“Oh.” The word escaped me before I could think, and I closed the journal with a soft thud, the sound making his shoulders tense further. “That’s strange. Aren’t you the Grand Duke’s child?” He nodded. “So, they pulled you from Widowskeep… to work?”
“It’s…” Achim paused, fiddling with the edges of his blanket. “It’s more complicated than that.”
“How so?”
Achim sat up, his small hands clutching at the fabric of the blanket like it might anchor him. “I think… a child of his passed,” he said hesitantly. “They brought me here to replace him, but when my father…” He faltered again. “…when the Grand Duke met me, he decided I wasn’t worthy. So… now I’m an errand boy.”
“That’s not fair,” I finally muttered, unsure if it was the right thing to say.
Achim let out a hollow laugh, the sound almost foreign coming from him. “Fair? Nothing about this is fair. But that doesn’t matter, does it?”
I wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, but the look in his eyes stopped me. Instead, I sat back in my chair, and we both sank into a stifling silence.
“I saw a girl,” I blurted out suddenly, breaking the quiet. Admitting it made my stomach twist, but I felt an odd need to tell someone, anyone.
For the first time, Achim looked genuinely curious. He turned toward me, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. “A girl?”
“Yeah,” I said, my voice faltering as I pointed toward the window. “First back in Widowskeep. Everyone told me it was a dream, but now… I’ve seen her here too. She watches me. Doesn’t say anything—just stares. But every time I try to talk, she runs away.”
Achim frowned, glancing toward the window I had motioned at. “Are you trying to creep me out?” he muttered. “It’s impossible for someone to be there. You’d have to climb tens of feet up the wall without anyone noticing.”
“Yeah, but…” My voice trailed off. He wasn’t wrong. I hadn’t really thought about how strange it was before, how unlikely. My brow furrowed, and I felt a cold unease creeping into my chest. What if she wasn’t real? A more pressing thought made itself known. Did that mean I was going mad?
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