As they walked toward the town, the ever-irritating young nobleman beside him prattled on without end.
Cedrik's voice—high, unrelenting, and pompous—buzzed in Arion's ears like a housefly trapped in a quiet room. It was all he could do not to turn and silence him permanently, even if it meant sparking war between two noble houses.
But just as his patience neared its limit, salvation came not in the form of reason, but of water.
The sound of a nearby river reached him—soft, rippling, insistent.
Arion turned his gaze toward it, letting his mind follow the flow upstream.
There, beyond a gentle bend, the castle loomed behind the veil of a waterfall. Mist lifted into the air in swirling colors, catching the sunlight in playful glints.
The white stone of the castle walls gleamed through the spray like something from an old ballad, too beautiful to be real.
What a sight, he thought.
He had seen this view a thousand times—whether under the golden promise of spring, the full bloom of summer, or the mournful palette of autumn.
But winter… winter had always been his favorite.
During winter, the land turned to a vast canvas of white, broken only by dark patches of rich, fertile earth. And flanking the gates of the castle stood two ancient trees with crimson leaves—red as blood, red as fire.
Unlike ordinary trees, which bloomed in spring and slept through the cold, these two chose the heart of winter to unveil their splendor. In the hush of snowfall, their petals fell like soft declarations of defiance, staining the courtyard in silent poetry.
So enraptured was Arion by the thought of those trees, he hardly noticed when the ten-minute walk to town passed like a blink.
But beauty fades when the road turns. The river's breath gave way to harsher winds—drawn not from stone or snow, but from memory.
The town received them with a hush too sharp to be called respect.
Faces turned, but quickly away.
Men bowed just enough, then vanished behind doors.
Children were drawn back by cautious mothers, their games abandoned in favor of doorways and distance. Thirteen years had passed since that night, and still the people remembered.
Arion bore it all with the grace of one long accustomed to fear and suspicion. Let them look. Let them whisper. He owed them nothing—except, perhaps, his silence.
Cedrik, naturally, noticed.
"Seems the rumors are true—that you eat children," he said, grinning with the satisfaction of one who thinks himself witty.
They had arrived at the local inn, an elegant place known to host merchants of note and nobles of leisure.
Its walls were thick, its windows latticed, its scent a blend of mulled wine, wax, and quiet conversations. Arion turned to Cedrik with a look of gentle amusement.
"Worry not," he replied, smiling as if addressing a dear friend. "I don't eat spoiled meat."
And with that, he pushed open the door and stepped inside, leaving Cedrik blinking in the afternoon sun, alone with his reflection in the polished glass.
By the time Cedrik entered, Arion had already taken his place on the second floor, settled in a seat by the window. It was his preferred perch—where he could sip something warm and watch the world go about its petty, important business far below.
The innkeeper, a heavyset man with a graying beard and good instincts, gave Arion a respectful nod. He had learned long ago that this particular noble, while young, was not one to trifle with.
But when Cedrik strode in with his guards—a peacock in rich velvet and disdain—the innkeeper felt the shift immediately.
There was a sharpness in the youth's eyes, an edge to his every movement. It was not nervousness. It was contempt. The kind that seeks something to break.
The guards flanked him like well-oiled doors, silent and watching.
Cedrik's gaze swept across the room, growing more sour with every table, every flickering candle, every patron who dared to exist in his presence.
But it froze—frozen hard and unblinking—when it found Arion seated above, calm and unconcerned.
Misreading the situation entirely, the innkeeper assumed they were strangers. He stepped forward with his best practiced smile.
"Welcome to my humble establishment, young lord. My name is—"
He never finished. One of Cedrik's guards shoved him backward.
"How dare you, lowborn filth, speak to the young lord without permission?" the man snarled.
From his window, Arion watched in silence, unmoved.
He had no intention of interfering. There was a saying he recalled from his former life—though its exact phrasing eluded him.
He remembered vaguely Something about trouble avoiding those who don't seek it. Or was it about running from fire before it burns? No matter. The meaning remained.
This was not his trouble.
Such scenes were common in this world, where the highborn so often looked down upon the rest. They did not speak with commoners; they commanded them.
The innkeeper scrambled upright, dusting off his pride.
"I-I apologize, young lord," he stammered. "I only wished to welcome your esteemed self and offer my finest food and drink—free of charge, of course."
Cedrik sneered.
"Who said I wanted any of the filth you sell?" he said, brushing past the man. "Give me your best room. Now."
"Of course, my lord," the innkeeper bowed deeply. Then, with a grimace, he remembered: the best seat in the house was already occupied.
He hesitated. Then, bowing lower still, he murmured, "My lord, forgive me. In my old age, I have made a foolish mistake."
"What mistake?" asked Cedrik, He eyed the man with undisguised contempt, as though already certain the answer would disappoint him.
From his perch above, Arion took a slow sip from his cup, eyes half-lidded, as though watching a play he'd seen before.