The Cavern of the Faragon

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 ℑ

IN THE BEGINNING OF A NEW ERA

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      A SOLITARY leaf balanced between his lips, moving ever so slightly with each breath he took. Durandal Gremlock, son of the formidable Duke Gremlock, lay stretched across the wide branch of an old sycamore tree, the kind that had seen more winters than the entire lineage of his house. From his high perch, the young lord gazed upward, past the lattice of branches and bright spring leaves, into a sky that shimmered with morning haze.

The estate grounds below were quiet—too quiet for someone of his age and title, some would argue. But for Durandal, this tree, this sky, and the quietness between—these were the few things that belonged to him. His dark brown hair was slightly damp with dew, strands clinging to his forehead. Sunlight struck the red flecks in his eyes, sangria-toned and slow to blink, as if the world around him moved too quickly for his taste.

"Lord Durandal," a crisp voice called from beneath the tree, laced with patience that had likely been tested more than once that morning.

He didn't respond. Not yet.

Naviech, his longtime aide and closest confidant, stood below with arms crossed, his sharp uniform immaculate as always. With black hair tied at the nape and a ceremonial brooch gleaming on his collar, Naviech looked more like a captain of the palace guard than a tutor's errand boy.

"It's time," Naviech called again, louder this time. "Your linguistic studies begin in ten minutes. Your father was explicit."

Durandal let out a breath, the leaf fluttering slightly before sticking stubbornly to his lips. He plucked it away with two fingers and twirled it between them. "He's always explicit," he muttered.

Naviech arched his brow. "And you're always late."

"I would rather study the history of our ancient civilization," Durandal said, finally sitting up and glancing down at him. "Linguistics are dull. Ancient tongues are all the same—bones buried beneath layers of silence."

Naviech's expression didn't shift, but Durandal saw the familiar flicker of exasperation behind his cool gaze. "You can recite forgotten bloodlines and dead kings to yourself after class. But now, your father's orders."

With an almost theatrical sigh, Durandal stood, arms stretched overhead like a cat roused from its sunspot. Leaves fluttered down from his cloak and sleeves as he leapt gracefully from the tree, landing with the practiced ease of someone used to fleeing expectations. He began brushing himself off, pausing when Naviech stepped forward and plucked a stubborn leaf from his tousled hair.

"Lord Veredros is already waiting in the drawing room," Naviech said, flicking the leaf away like an afterthought.

Durandal winced as he adjusted the leather strap across his chest. "Veredros. The man who once told me that all great men were born bilingual."

"He says it because he speaks six languages himself," Naviech replied, gesturing for him to follow. "He expects you to at least grasp your third without groaning."

"Is sarcasm one of the six?" Durandal asked dryly.

"If it were, you'd be fluent," Naviech said without missing a beat.

They passed beneath arched ceilings and chandeliers hanging like frozen rain. Sunlight painted the marble floors in gold patterns as they made their way down the corridor. The estate, Gremlock Hall, was less a home and more a fortress parading in silk. Its halls echoed with generations of military prestige and political cunning, and Durandal had never quite decided whether he admired that legacy or resented it.