Chapter 59 Before the First Step

  The morning sun of the valley filtered down in golden shafts across the manor courtyard, burning off the light mist that clung to the cobblestones. Birds chirped in the hedges, and a faint scent of early apples from the orchard drifted on the breeze.

  Caelen was already in the courtyard, his chair positioned beside the newest creation brought by the Free Peoples—the latest iteration of his rowing machine. It had been crafted with polished oak rails, reinforced with brass fittings, and, most importantly, now featured a seat that slid smoothly on a track as he pulled the ropes attached to a weighted wheel. A servant sat quietly nearby, a book on their lap, ready should Caelen signal for help—but he hadn’t needed it yet.

  He gripped the handles, braced his bare feet against the platform, and pulled. The young man sailed back and forth, with each stroke, as the wood creaked faintly. His breaths were resounding but steady. Sweat glistened on his forehead, yet there was a relentless rhythm in his movements, a quiet obsession shown in his eyes.

  The freedfolk stood in a quiet line, aprons dusted and tools resting at their sides, each knowing it was their own hands and craft that had armed this young man with the means to reclaim his life.

  By the time Aldric stepped into the yard, tunic half-laced and hair damp from a morning rinse, Caelen had already been rowing for twenty minutes.

  Aldric crossed his arms and gave the machine an appraising look. “That’s new,” he said, strolling over. “I want a go.”

  Caelen slowed his rowing, gave a quick nod, and let the handles drop. The brothers traded places as Caelen pulled himself into the wheelchair. Only then did Aldric sit on the moving seat, gripping the polished handles with a grin.

  “Doesn’t look so hard,” he muttered with a grin—and began.

  It took only five minutes for his grin to vanish. At ten, he was flushed. At fifteen, he grunted with every pull. At twenty, he released the handles with a groan and flopped back onto the sliding seat, panting.

  The Free Peoples chuckled softly, and Caelen, seated beside the machine again, tilted his head with the faintest smile.

  “Forty-two,” he said, tapping his own chest. “You… twenty.”

  Aldric groaned. “You’re going to lord that over me, aren’t you?”

  Caelen’s answer was a quiet, amused snort.

  Just then, Lisette skipped down the steps into the courtyard, her skirts gathered in her hands, hair half-pinned and bouncing behind her.

  “Mother said the day’s too fine for indoor lessons!” she called out, waving a hand at the Free Peoples. “So I came to see what all the clanking was about!”

  She made a beeline for her brother, leaning down to inspect the rowing machine. “This is impressive. Look at the joints! Did you design this part, Caelen?”

  Caelen, while transitioning from chair to rower, was about to answer when his face contorted in pain. He gasped sharply and clutched at his side. His leg jerked, stiffened. The rower groaned.

  Lisette was at his side in an instant.

  “Cramp?” she asked, already crouched down, one hand hovering just above his calf.

  Caelen could only nod, breathing fast through his nose.

  “Alright, alright, I’ve got it.” She closed her eyes, brow ridged into a line of concentration. Her fingers glowed faintly with a blue shimmer, and moments later, a light mist formed around Caelen’s leg. A cooling sensation, not icy but soothing, as if dipping into a mountain stream on a warm day, spread across his calf.

  Slowly, the knot of pain loosened. Caelen sighed with relief, slumping back on the seat.

  “That’s twice this week,” Lisette said with a smirk. “You owe me sweets.”

  Aldric, watching the whole thing from a bench near the wall, shook his head. “You really are cold as ice, little sister.”

  Lisette raised her eyebrows, her grin turning wicked. She stretched her hand slightly—no mist, no warning—and a sudden jolt of freezing cold water manifested in a sheet and dropped straight down Aldric’s back.

  “Gah!” Aldric leaped to his feet, spluttering and clutching at his soaked tunic. “You little—!”

  Lisette twirled with a laugh, backing toward the steps. “Next time, it’ll be your bathwater, dear brother!”

  Even Caelen wheezed a breathy laugh, still catching his breath from the cramp.

  The Free Peoples chuckled again, exchanging glances, and even the steward watching from a shaded doorway raised the corners of his mouth upward at the lad's accomplishment.

  …

  Sunlight dappled the courtyard. The laughter of siblings echoed between stone walls, and for a little while, Avalon Manor felt not like a noble stronghold—but a home, bright and alive.

  The courtyard still shimmered with late morning light, the air touched with warmth and the distant scent of wildflowers. The soft thudding sound of Caelen’s rowing had quieted, leaving only the whisper of a breeze and the low chatter of the Free Peoples as they began collecting tools and wiping sweat from brows.

  Caelen let go of the rowing machine’s handles, chest rising and falling with quiet pride. He wiped a hand across his damp brow and then glanced up, sensing something more than the wind had shifted in the air.

  His eyes flicked to the manor steps.

  Lady Seraphine and Lord Eldric had emerged from the shadow of the doorway, stepping into the golden light hand in hand. They had likely been watching from within for some time. But now, now they stepped fully into the courtyard—unaware of what was about to unfold.

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  Seraphine’s stride slowed and then stopped entirely. She tilted her head, her brow furrowing with gentle confusion. There was a look on her son’s face—one of mischief, yes, but also of calm certainty—a quiet, knowing smirk that made her heart skip.

  Caelen raised his arm and made a two-fingered motion.

  “Brother,” he said softly.

  Aldric, already standing nearby, blinked and came to his side. “You alright?”

  Caelen nodded, placed his hands on the sides of the rower, and then, with effort, shifted his weight. “Help… stand.”

  Aldric immediately moved to his side, supporting him beneath the shoulder, bracing him without lifting. Caelen’s legs trembled, but they straightened. He rose, slow but sure, until he stood fully upright. A hush fell over the courtyard. Even the blacksmith paused mid-step, his hammer forgotten at his side.

  “Mother,” Caelen said, his voice firmer than usual.

  Aldric met his gaze. Then, silently, the brothers moved—step by unsteady step. Aldric held his pace slow, his arm gentle, letting Caelen do the work. The younger boy’s lips were tight with concentration, but his steps—real, living steps—carried him across the courtyard. The gravel crunched beneath his feet.

  Seraphine’s hand flew to her mouth.

  Beside her, Lord Eldric stood still, his eyes wide with astonishment, his posture straightening with sudden pride.

  Seraphine’s breath caught. Her hand gripped her husband’s arm as she stared, not daring to blink. “He’s—he’s walking,” she whispered. “He’s walking.”

  “I see it,” Eldric murmured. “By the Veils, I see it.”

  The two boys drew closer. Caelen’s legs wobbled once, and Aldric quickly adjusted, steadying him—but the younger did not falter.

  When they reached the edge of the steps, Caelen stopped. With a bit of flair, he lifted his chin, took in both of his parents, and then, with unexpected elegance, dipped into a bow. Unsteady, yes. But deliberate.

  “My Lady,” Caelen said with effort, and then with a breath, “My Lord.”

  Seraphine’s tears broke free.

  She rushed forward, skirts fluttering, and wrapped her arms around her son. “My boy—my brave, brave boy—” she whispered into his hair, her voice thick with emotion. Her arms trembled with the weight of everything unspoken: the fear, the nights at his bedside, the prayers.

  Caelen didn’t speak, only leaned into the warmth of her embrace.

  Behind them, Lissette was observing all of this while leaning against the edge of the well, arms crossed and grinning like the sun. “Well,” she said brightly, a little too loud for it not to be a command, “that settles it.”

  Everyone turned.

  “It’s time for pie,” she announced. “This is officially a pie moment.”

  Aldric burst into laughter. “Only you would declare a pie moment at a time like this.”

  Lisette held up a finger. “You don’t walk for the first time in almost a year without dessert. I do have my standards.”

  Seraphine, still hugging her son, laughed—a sound that rang clear and clean through the courtyard. It rang clear as a bell that banished the remaining shadow of the sickness that gripped the household.

  And so, as the servants rushed to fetch sweets, and the Free Peoples smiled with quiet awe, the family of Avalon stood together—sons, daughter, mother, and father—in the light of a new day.

  And in the middle of it all stood Caelen, no longer just the boy in the chair.

  …

  The afternoon sun cast warm light across the courtyard, where the family had gathered after the midday meal. Laughter and low conversation drifted among them until the crisp, measured voice of Garron, the manor’s long-serving butler, broke the air.

  “My lord, my lady—pardon the interruption,” Garron said, stepping forward with a slight bow. “The two young guards Master Caelen requested have arrived.”

  A hush settled. Even the breeze seemed to pause.

  Lady Seraphine’s brows drew together in surprise. “Caelen requested guards?”

  Lord Eldric glanced at his son with an arched brow, his tone halfway between curiosity and caution. “You asked for two?”

  Before Caelen could answer, the iron-bound gates swung open, and two young men, both no more than eighteen, stepped inside. Their travel leathers bore the faint scuffs of the road, and each moved with the sure-footed poise of trained fighters.

  They paused at the edge of the courtyard and, upon seeing Lord Aldric and Lady Seraphine, dropped into quick bows. But as they straightened, their eyes found Caelen—standing.

  Both froze for half a heartbeat, then smiles tugged at their faces, unguarded and bright. Yet, with discipline that spoke of drilled restraint, they did not rush forward.

  Lady Seraphine’s voice was soft but edged with disbelief. “They were your friends?”

  Caelen nodded once. “Before and now.”

  Lord Eldric studied the trio quietly. “And now you’ve called them here. Why?”

  Caelen met his father’s eyes, his words slow, measured in that broken cadence of his. “To be… companions. To travel… with.”

  There was a beat of silence, then Lady Seraphine, her surprise giving way to decisive practicality, said, “Yes—they can join the guard. But you will not go into the wilds with just a few. We will be sending more.”

  Caelen shook his head, firm. “Fewer… easier to hide. Fewer… easier to travel. Fewer… easier… to grow. Fewer… easier… to trust.”

  The courtyard stilled again. Garron, standing near the archway, seemed to vanish into the background, as though he sensed this was no moment for a servant’s presence.

  Aldric’s thoughts turned inward. He is already thinking like a commander, counting men not by number but by their burden. He sees the weight of movement, the price of visibility. He is better than I was at that age.

  Lord Eldric’s mind took a different path. Fewer men means more risk. But it also means the boy wants control not just of his guard, but of his fate. He’s understood the cost of trusting too widely, too freely. That is… both a strength and a dangerous thing in one so young.

  The two young guards remained at quiet attention, saying nothing, but their eyes never left Caelen—as if seeing him standing was worth more than any orders they might be given.

  Lord Eldric stepped forward, his voice steady but carrying the weight of command. “My thanks to you both for answering the call,” he said to the young guards. “You’ve been summoned here for a special mission—one that requires skill, discipline, and loyalty. I would like you to travel with my son for the next few months. If you are both in agreement, I will provide the details.”

  The two guards—broad-shouldered and still in the bloom of youth—exchanged a brief glance, that unspoken understanding of comrades who’d seen enough to trust each other’s word. One of them, the taller of the two, asked, “How long do we have to prepare, my lord?”

  Before Eldric could speak, Caelen’s voice cut in, short and certain. “Less than… a month.”

  Lady Seraphine’s head snapped toward her son, the faintest edge of disbelief sharpening her gaze. “Less than a month?” she echoed, her tone laced with the disbelief only a mother could wield.

  The shorter guard’s lips curved into the faintest of grins at the young lord’s decisiveness. Without hesitation, he turned back to Eldric and said, “Then we’re in.”

  The taller one nodded in immediate agreement. “Aye, my lord. We’ll be ready.”

  Eldric inclined his head, satisfied. “Good. I will have Garron arrange quarters for you here at the manor until departure.”

  Lady Seraphine stood perfectly still for a moment, her expression a calm mask—but the faint tightening of her jaw betrayed her mood. She looked between her husband and her son with the poise of someone used to hosting nobles… and the fire of someone not used to losing arguments.

  “We will,” she said evenly, “discuss this… later.” Her eyes lingered on Caelen with the quiet intensity of a mother determined that her voice would be heard, and that her opinion—be it protective, suspicious, or entirely opposed—would shape the outcome.

  Caelen only inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, but the small flicker of a smirk at the corner of his mouth made it clear—he already considered the matter settled.