Click to View Image

  

  As they stepped out of the stables, Katalin turned toward the far side of the small exercise field where young horses were being led in circles. Beyond it, the familiar kennels stood in neat rows of wooden pens and enclosures, their fencing sturdy but worn from years of use. Excited, she gestured for Laszlo to follow.

  “This way,” she said. “I want to show you the hounds.”

  Laszlo followed, casting a glance at the rows of pens. As they neared, a deep-throated bark rang out from one of the kennels, followed by the rustle of paws against straw as the dogs stirred at their approach. A few hounds propped their front paws on the fencing, tails wagging in excitement, while others dozed in patches of sunlight, their ears flicking at the noise of their companions.

  Katalin leaned over the fence of one enclosure, grinning as a familiar reddish-brown hound padded up to her. “Hello, old boy.” She scratched behind his ears, and the hound let out a pleased huff before giving her fingers a slobbery lick.

  Laszlo, however, had stopped a few paces back, eyeing the hounds with something between surprise and skepticism.

  “They’re… friendly,” he observed.

  Katalin looked up, brows raised. “Of course they are. They’re trained for the hunt, not war.”

  Laszlo still looked unconvinced. “At Westguard, we only have war dogs. They’d never let a stranger this close.”

  Katalin tilted her head. “Do you get to be around them?”

  “Only with the handlers near. The war dogs listen to all the handlers,” Laszlo said. “My father’s dogs are not as mean. He has two personal hounds—Gideon and Vengeance. They only take commands from him and the houndmaster, Otto. No one else, but I think they are used to me.”

  Katalin wrinkled her nose. “Vengeance? That’s a name for a dog?”

  Laszlo shrugged. “My father named them.”

  A voice called out to them. “Katalin?”

  She turned to see a tall, thin man in a worn leather jerkin approaching from a small wooden building beside the pens. His graying beard framed a weathered but kind face, and despite the streaks of silver in his dark hair, his stride was strong and confident.

  Katalin brightened. “Uncle Miksa!”

  Miksa grinned at her, hands settling on his hips. “Didn’t expect to see you today. Thought you’d be too busy preparing for the feast.”

  Katalin flashed a quick grin. “I’ve got time. Aunt Teo gave me a special mission.”

  Miksa raised an eyebrow, skepticism clear in his expression. “Oh? A special mission, is it?”

  Katalin giggled. “I’m showing Lord Tamas’ son around.” She gestured toward Laszlo. “This is Laszlo.”

  Miksa’s expression shifted, becoming more measured. He straightened slightly, giving a respectful nod. “My lord. Welcome to Stonehaven.”

  Laszlo returned the nod. “Thank you.”

  Miksa turned back to Katalin. “Tell your mother hello for me.”

  “I will,” Katalin promised. “And tell Aunt Barbara hello too.”

  Miksa nodded, giving her shoulder a light pat before stepping back. “Well, back to work. These mutts won’t feed themselves.” He turned toward the kennels, then whistled sharply to one of the younger handlers. “Run up to the kitchens. With the feast tonight, they’ll have plenty of good scraps and bones. Bring back what you can.”

  Laszlo, who had been listening quietly, frowned slightly. “The houndmaster is your uncle?”

  Katalin nodded. “On my mother’s side. Almost her whole family serves the Stonehavens in one way or another.” She glanced around at the dogs, a fond smile tugging at her lips. “Mama loves this place. She spent a lot of time here when she was young, and she still visits often—especially this year while my father was gone.”

  Laszlo absorbed this, then asked, “What else does your family do?”

  Katalin shrugged. “A little of everything. Some are in the kitchens, some are stewards or guards. One of my uncles is a carpenter. Mama was a lady’s maid for Aunt Teo before she married Papa.”

  Laszlo looked thoughtful. “The only commoners I know are soldiers. The others don’t really talk to me. They just do their work and go.”

  Katalin considered his words with a faint frown. He wasn’t wrong, exactly. The servants of the keep were efficient, moving like shadows through the halls, never lingering where they weren’t needed. She’d never thought about how that might seem to someone raised as a noble.

  She was about to comment when Laszlo shifted topics. “If I’m staying in Stonehaven, I’ll need to get to know the soldiers here.” He glanced around. “Where do they train?”

  Katalin grinned. “Not far. Come on—I’ll show you.”

  She gave one last pat to the hound before leading Laszlo toward the training grounds.

  Katalin led Laszlo through the keep, pointing out landmarks as they walked—important buildings, the fastest routes messengers took, and the best shady spots the guards claimed when off-duty.

  Even before they reached the training grounds, the sounds of clashing weapons, grunts of exertion, and sharp, barked orders filled the air.

  They stepped through an archway into a wide, open space beside the barracks. The ground had been beaten into packed earth, with rows of target dummies lined against one side and racks of practice weapons stacked neatly in the shade of a wooden overhang. A bow range stood at the far end, where a handful of archers loosed arrows at straw-filled targets.

  The yard was alive with motion. Soldiers of all ranks and ages were scattered throughout, some locked in sparring matches, others drilling footwork or wrestling in a wide dirt ring. A group of younger recruits jogged in laps around the perimeter under the watchful eye of a drillmaster, who shouted at anyone who slowed their pace.

  Katalin stopped just inside the entrance, taking it all in. She had seen the yard before, but never like this—never with so much movement, so much intensity.

  Laszlo stood beside her, watching intently. His gaze tracked the soldiers as they moved, studying them with quiet focus.

  Katalin glanced at him. “Do you want to meet the officers?”

  Laszlo shook his head. “No. My father will want to introduce me to them himself.”

  Katalin accepted that easily enough and turned back to the training. Near one of the water pumps, two soldiers stumbled away from the wrestling ring, drenched in sweat. They collapsed onto the ground, gulping down water, their chests rising and falling heavily.

  She frowned, squinting at them. “Do they always go until they fall over?”

  Laszlo turned to her, surprised. “What do you mean?”

  “They’re already strong. Why push until they can’t even stand?”

  Laszlo considered her for a moment, then gestured toward the exhausted soldiers. “They’re trying to make their bodies use mana.”

  Katalin blinked. “What?”

  “When you’re too tired to keep going, your body tries to find another way,” Laszlo said. “It starts using your mana. Do it enough, and your body learns to use mana before you get tired.”

  Katalin chewed her lip, thinking. “So… they don’t have to wait until they’re tired to use their mana?”

  Laszlo nodded. “That’s the goal.”

  “Do they train like this every day?”

  “No. You can only go until you drop every few days.” He paused, considering. “But it’s strange—the better you get, the longer you need to rest afterward if you push that hard.” Then he added, “But at the same time, you can go a lot longer before you get worn out.”

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  She was fascinated. “I think this is how my father uses mana. But my mother is teaching me a different way.” She hesitated, debating how much to say. Finally, she added, “She’s trying to teach me to control my mana through focus and concentration.”

  Laszlo looked intrigued. “I’ve heard of different mana training methods,” he admitted. “But my father says they’re just shortcuts for the weak and lazy.”

  Katalin’s jaw tightened. “That’s stupid.”

  Laszlo smirked slightly. “I never really believed it. The Westguard battlemages never exercise, and they’re terrifying.”

  Katalin crossed her arms, thoughtful. Her mother’s way made sense—guiding mana with control, not brute force—but she was curious.

  “I’ll ask my mother about it,” she said finally. “She always says control is the key to using mana, but… maybe this is how men train?”

  Laszlo shrugged. “Maybe. I’ve never seen a woman train like this.”

  Katalin wasn’t sure what to make of that. But she was definitely asking Mama later.

  A thought struck Katalin. “I wonder how mages train their mana.”

  Laszlo scoffed. “Me too. I bet they stand around while their master shoots fireballs at them.”

  Katalin snorted. “That would explain why we don’t see many old mages.”

  Laszlo smirked. “Or why they all look strange. Maybe their eyebrows never grow back.”

  Katalin grinned, but her thoughts lingered on the High Mage’s Tower. Did mages train their mana like warriors, pushing themselves past exhaustion? Or like her mother, through discipline and control? Maybe it was something else entirely.

  Maybe she could ask Corvus Nightweave—if she ever met him.

  Katalin watched a group of recruits jog past, their boots kicking up dust, and felt a sudden pang of hunger. “Watching all this exercise is making me hungry. Do you want to get something to eat?”

  Laszlo didn’t hesitate. “I could definitely eat right now. I had breakfast barely after the rooster.”

  Katalin grinned. “Then let’s go to the kitchen and see what they have.”

  Laszlo opened his mouth, then paused. “Oh, wait.” He turned slightly, as if thinking. “On a day like this, I bet they’ll have something really good in the market.”

  Katalin nodded. “I’m sure they will,” she said with a half-laugh. “But I don’t have any coin.”

  Laszlo looked unconcerned. “That’s not a problem. I have a few silver pieces.”

  Katalin’s eyes widened. “Silver? You really have silver pieces?”

  Laszlo shrugged. “Sure.”

  She hesitated, then asked, “Can I see one?”

  Without a second thought, Laszlo dipped a couple of fingers into a small pouch at his belt—right next to the fancy-looking dagger he carried—and pulled out a silver penny. He handed it to her.

  Katalin turned it over in the sunlight, running her thumb across its surface. “So pretty,” she murmured, then held it back out to him.

  “Keep it,” Laszlo said.

  Katalin blinked. “What? No. No, I can’t take this.”

  Laszlo grinned. “You earned it. For being my guide.”

  Katalin frowned. “No, truly. I’m glad to show you around. And besides, this is a favor for Aunt Teo. I wouldn’t want her thinking I only do favors for coin.” She pressed the silver piece firmly back into Laszlo’s hand.

  Laszlo studied her for a moment, then nodded. “If you insist. But I think even the Grand Duchess would agree it’s only right that I buy us something to eat in the market.”

  Katalin considered that, then grinned. “You’re right. Aunt Teo is a very practical woman, after all.”

  Smiling, they set off, Katalin leading the way toward the market. The closer they got, the more the scents of the market thickened—roasting meat, sweet spices, fresh bread baking in stone ovens. The air was alive with sound, merchants calling out their wares, bartering voices overlapping in an unbroken hum, and the occasional clatter of wooden carts being wheeled into place.

  From somewhere ahead came the bleating of goats, the snuffling of pigs, and the flurry of chickens squawking as a handler struggled to keep them in their crates. These were farmers and traders who had brought livestock in the hopes that the keep’s kitchen staff, or perhaps the housemaids of the nobles living within the keep, would purchase them for the evening’s great feast.

  As they stepped into the bustle of the market, Katalin turned to Laszlo with a grin. “Come on—I’ll show you the best parts.”

  She led him past the brightly colored stalls, pausing at a few of her favorites. First, the glassblower’s stall, where delicate flasks and colored beads caught the sunlight, glittering like tiny frozen flames. Then to the jeweler, where strands of polished stones hung in neat rows, and finally, to the pottery seller, where goods from all over the world lined the shelves—clay jars from the southlands, painted plates from across the sea, and stout mugs crafted by dwarven hands.

  Laszlo took it all in, his gaze flicking from stall to stall, his usual careful expression shifting into something like wonder. “We have markets in Westguard,” he said after a moment, “but they’re… orderly. This feels more alive.”

  Katalin nodded. “It is, isn’t it? It feels like you get to see pieces of the whole world here.”

  She turned then, leading him past a long row of food vendors, pointing out her favorites as they walked. “That one has the best sausages. They’re spicy, but not too spicy,” she said, nodding toward a man turning links of dark red sausage over a grill.

  “Over there—” Katalin pointed toward a stall where a woman was pulling golden-brown pastries from a small oven. “That’s where you’ll find the best meat pies. But my father doesn’t let us get them often.”

  She turned slightly, gesturing toward another vendor where whole fish sizzled over an open flame. “And if you like fish, that stall has the best roasted ones—if you get there before the best ones are gone.”

  Laszlo nodded, following her lead, but Katalin had one more stop in mind. She grabbed his sleeve and pulled him toward a smaller stall tucked between two large ones, where skewers of chicken sizzled over an open flame. The air was thick with a sweet and fruity scent mixed with the smell of roasting meat.

  “But if you want the best food in the market, it’s this,” Katalin declared. “The glaze makes it perfect—honey and peach.”

  Laszlo eyed the skewers warily. “You actually eat food from these places?”

  Katalin gave him a flat look. “Chicken.”

  Laszlo blinked. “What?”

  “You’re a chicken. This was your idea.” She nodded at the grill. “Maybe they can cook you too.”

  Laszlo rolled his eyes, but he was grinning. “Fine. But if I die of poisoning, you’ll have to explain it to my father.”

  Katalin laughed and turned to greet the merchant, an older man with thick arms and a round belly. “Master Teun!” she called cheerfully.

  The man’s weathered face split into a broad smile. “Ah, little Katalin! You’re just in time—I have fresh skewers turning now.” His gaze shifted to Laszlo, taking in his fine clothes with a raised brow. “Bringing a new friend?”

  Katalin nodded. “This is Laszlo. He’s visiting.”

  Teun gave an approving nod. “Well, if you’re here, then you must have good taste.” He turned the skewers over, letting them caramelize over the flames. “Bet you miss young Jakob’s peaches, though.”

  Katalin sighed. “It’s not the same without him.”

  Laszlo glanced between them, clearly lost. “Jakob?”

  “My cousin,” Katalin explained. “My uncle runs the peach orchards outside the city, and Jakob… well, he had a way of making the trees grow the best fruit. But he wanted to be an adventurer, so he left a few months ago.”

  “An adventurer?” Laszlo’s eyes lit up with interest.

  Teun chuckled, shaking his head. “Going to slay dragons or some nonsense. Left a good trade behind, that one. But I suppose adventure is in the blood of some young men.”

  Laszlo handed over a silver penny and turned to leave, but Teun cleared his throat. “Your change, my lord.”

  Laszlo blinked, then took the handful of copper Teun offered. “Oh. Right.” He tucked the coins into his pouch without counting them.

  Katalin took her skewer and immediately took a bite, chewing quickly. “Just wait till you try it,” she mumbled around a mouthful of meat.

  They walked through the market, eating as they went. Laszlo took his first bite cautiously, then blinked in surprise. “Alright,” he admitted. “That’s really good.”

  Katalin smiled. “Told you.”

  As they turned a corner, the sound of a lute drifted toward them, light and playful. Katalin looked up and spotted a small wooden stage where a young man sat, playing for a cluster of children. He was thin, his clothes were brightly colored silks in hues of deep blue and crimson. His fingers danced over the strings, coaxing out a cheerful tune.

  Laszlo slowed. “What’s going on?”

  Katalin grinned. “That’s Lucien the Lyrical. He’s a journeyman bard—which is probably why he’s stuck playing for the kids.”

  Laszlo tilted his head. “Lucien the Lyrical?”

  Katalin smiled. “He is the bard I mentioned on the roof. His real name is Thomas Cooper, but you know how bards are with their names. Last time he was Lucien the Loquacious. Before that, Lucien the Lark. I hope he never picks just one—I like hearing what he comes up with next.”

  Laszlo laughed quietly. “I don’t really know much about bards,” he admitted. “They come by Westguard sometimes, but mostly to deliver news. I think they perform in the inns, but I’ve never been inside one.”

  Katalin raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Would you like to listen for a bit?”

  Laszlo hesitated, glancing at the bard. “Is it safe? He won’t try to put a spell on us, will he?”

  Katalin grinned. “Lucien’s music can stir your emotions, but that’s all.” She tilted her head toward the lively melody. “If anything, you’ll just end up feeling happier.”

  Laszlo watched as the bard strummed a lively melody and the children clapped along. His expression shifted—curious, almost thoughtful. Then, with a small nod, he said, “Alright. Let’s listen.”

  They wandered over and sat down among the children, Katalin settling onto one of the steps of the stage while Laszlo took a seat directly on the ground with the rest of the kids. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t seem to think twice about it or notice that he was larger than most—just sat cross-legged among them, his focus entirely on the bard.

  Katalin glanced around, taking in the gathered children. Those closest to the stage were dressed well—sons and daughters of merchants, keep officials, and visiting nobles. But further back, standing at the edges, were the common-born children. They lingered at a distance, watching but not joining in. She frowned slightly, wondering if they wanted to sit but felt they couldn’t.

  She tried to remember a time when she had hung back like that, unsure if she was allowed to join. But every time she had seen bards or musicians, she had been with Aunt Teo or her parents, always at a festival or some gathering where she belonged without question. She had never needed to hesitate.

  The thought made her uneasy. She had always thought herself just another child of the keep—just the daughter of a blacksmith. But now, watching the way the other children held back, she wondered if maybe she’d been luckier than she realized.

  A few minutes later, Lucien strummed the final notes of his song, letting the melody linger in the air for a moment before lowering his lute with a flourish. He glanced over the gathered children, his grin playful.

  “Well now,” he said, his voice carrying over the quiet. “That was a fine bit of music, but tell me—are you lot ready for a story?”

  A chorus of eager voices answered him. “Yes!”

  Lucien chuckled, tapping a finger against his chin in mock thoughtfulness. “Hmm. Let’s see… what tale shall I spin for you today?” His gaze swept the crowd, eyes twinkling with mischief. Then he snapped his fingers. “Ah! I know just the one. Have you ever heard of the Legend of Ervand the Mad Mage and the Jeweled City?”

  The children gasped in excitement, some bouncing where they sat. “Yes!” they cried in unison.

  Lucien laughed. “Well, let’s hope you haven’t heard it told quite like this.”

  He straightened on his stool, adjusting his lute on his lap, and let his voice drop into a storyteller’s cadence. “Hear now, children, the tale of Ervand the White, the greatest of mages, and how he became Ervand the Mad, whose folly cost him all.”

  The Legend of Ervand the Mad has also been posted today.