“Boy! It’s a mite nippy today, isn’t it,” remarked Roger, squinting up at the overcast sky as he drew up the stiff collar of his black, double-row buttoned school uniform. A thought suddenly occurring to him, he turned to Zephyrin with a half-grin. “Hope yer not findin’ the weather too much of a shock, southerner!” he teased him good-naturedly.

“I’ve seen worse,” replied Zephyrin easily, his memory summoning forth a vivid, blindingly white vision of the Crystalline Palace’s snow-blanketed grounds, the park pond frozen over and its towers environed by ice.

Roger scrutinized Zephyrin dubiously, then gave him a playful jab. “If ya grew up on the Black Mountain’s peak, maybe; elsewise, I don’t see how!”

A smile briefly rose to Zephyrin’s lips, but his amusement over their banter was mitigated by his awareness that his father still hadn’t said a word. In fact, it was difficult to tell whether he was even listening; Narcissin simply stared out dourly at the courtyard.

The three of them were seated on a perpendicular knee-high stone wall forming one of the cloister’s four faces, in between two of its many three-pointed arches. Though somewhat exposed to the elements, the quadrilateral structure of the enclosure preserved them from the worst of the wind’s bite. Heedless of the abnormally acute chill this early in the season, other boys played on the cobbled inner courtyard, running to and fro after a ball and calling out animatedly under a prefect’s watchful eye.

The recreation grounds were spacious, but austere. Not a blade of grass could be seen; of the garth that generations of monks had tended, naught remained save an imposing, lion-ornamented fountain. Undoubtedly a pristine white at the time of completion, it was now gray and cracked and hadn’t bubbled in decades, not since long before the monastery had been repurposed into an academy.

Better preserved was the lyceum’s library, a truly impressive holdover from the first half millennium of its existence; it along with the lyceum’s chapel had miraculously (so it was said) survived the Great Fire of 661 thanks to the protection of Saint Alanna, in whose honor it had been erected. Regardless of the veracity of the tradition, the library housed well over forty thousand books and suffered from no dearth of military accounts; Zephyrin had withdrawn one such volume earlier, in the hopes of sustaining the interest of his two young companions.

“First, let’s work on diction. Why don’t the two of you take turns reading?” Zephyrin suggested, all too conscious of the hesitation in his voice as he handed over the book to a stone-faced Narcissin. The boy didn’t react as their fingers inadvertently touched, only frowning slightly when he saw the complexity of the text. His brows knitted in deep concentration, he read several paragraphs laboriously, then passed the book over to Roger, who began reading in turn. As they alternated in this manner, it didn’t take long for Zephyrin to conclude that while in the first month of his attendance Roger’s command over Gaulyrian had already grown by leaps and bounds, Narcissin was noticeably lagging behind. His accent was thicker, his enunciation uncertain, and he had to pause as often as he encountered an unfamiliar word, which seemed to happen every other sentence.

As the young Alérian read, Zephyrin took full advantage of this opportunity to observe the future emperor, his foreknowledge imbuing a surreal quality into the otherwise banal scene. He listened as the tongue that would decide whether millions lived or died stumbled over simple words; observed the hand that would grip a sword and inspire a hundred-thousand strong army to make history as it slackly clutched a dusty tome; studied the gray eyes that, one day, would glint like cold steel as they sized up a battlefield at a glance, before blazing like meteors when the time had come to conquer… but which, for the present moment, merely drifted over a yellowed page…

As a silence fell and Zephyrin realized his father had ceased reading, he belatedly offered a few diplomatic suggestions, which the boy acknowledged with a barely perceptible nod. Clearly relieved to be done reading, Narcissin simply offered the book to Roger without comment. Roger flipped further ahead, then stopped as he found an account centered around the exploits of the famous Eon d’Oc, First Marshal of Gaulyria during the Second Crusade. This discovery prompted him to say excitedly, “That’s my ancestor!”

Indeed, though but the masters of a small barony on the Alérian border, the dy lé Prah name could claim shared lineage with the House of Oc, renowned for a long line of valorous men of arms who had distinguished themselves in the service of Saint King Rudolf VII, or ‘The Just’. “It’s fitting that you’re studying at a school under his patronage,” Zephyrin remarked. Roger nodded enthusiastically. “My Pa and Ma were prayin’ hard that I’d get in! I still feel like pinchin’ myself, betimes!” Roger then began delving into his family’s lore and ancient deeds of chivalry passed down from generation to generation, while Zephyrin cogitated on how he might involve his curiously unresponsive father in the discussion. Really, it was quite odd; if not the reading, he would have expected Roger’s tales to succeed admirably in that purpose…

At length Roger returned to the book, concluding the account of his Gaulyrian ancestor’s glories. Zephyrin offered him some measured praise. “You read well. Just be careful with your pronunciation: a standard Gaulyrian ‘r’ requires an alveolar rather than uvular trill.”

While Roger nodded, Narcissin wore a look of blank incomprehension. Noticing this, Zephyrin demonstrated: “Aléri. Alérrri,” he emphasized with the tip of his tongue, feeling aggravatingly self-conscious as he did so. It didn’t help that Narcissin’s brow slightly furrowed at the sound of his own name, as if wondering why Zephyrin had chosen that word in particular.

Roger tried replicating the sound several times with humorous results, before asking with a frown, “How come I hear some boys sayin’ it differently in class?”

Zephyrin thought for a moment. “At court, a pronounced ‘r’ is considered uncouth by many nobles, whether one uses the tongue or the throat,” he finally said, recalling a nettling—but shamefully true—criticism of the old Gaulyrian aristocracy he had read in a triumphalistic Elysian text. As expected, Roger seemed politely baffled by this information. “Eh? What’s wrong with r? A letter’s a letter, same as any…” As Zephyrin failed to supply an answer, he continued with a frown, “Wait, shouldn’t I be learnin’ ta say it like that, then?”

“No. In a few years, the soft ‘r’ will be…” Zephyrin trailed off. Will be extinct. But, since he very well couldn’t say that… “The court’s pronunciation is only a fad. Before long everyone will pronounce it with a trill.”

Roger gave Zephyrin a curious look, but nodded all the same. “Alright, I’ll trust ya, Zephyrin! Zephyrrrin!” he repeated exaggeratedly, then grinned. “Oh! I got it there, didn’t I?”

Zephyrin nodded in acknowledgment, before inquiring, “But Roger, why do you even care about the courtly pronunciation? As a baron’s son from the north, the royal court’s hardly any of your concern...”

Roger laughed merrily at this blunt appraisal of his future prospects. “Yer tongue stings more than a prefect’s birch, Zephyrin! Fer all ya know, House lé Prah will be in high demand at court one day! Statute number seventeen: a knight is always ready to serve His and Her Royal Majesties!”

“Statute number…?” What was the boy going on about now? Before Zephyrin could ask, Roger’s eyes widened. “Oh, that’s right! I’ve got somthin’ ta shew ya!”

Zephyrin raised an eyebrow incrementally as Roger scrounged in the depths of his battered school bag. “Here! Mind takin’ a gander at this?”

Zephyrin accepted the notebook, keeping it open at the page Roger’s finger indicated. “This is Roger dy lé Prah’s ‘Knight’s Charter’!” the boy said with a bashful sort of eagerness that Zephyrin would have ordinarily found quite endearing, were he not preoccupied by the increasingly sullen-looking Narcissin. He’d read this quickly and find a way to change the subject…

First statute: the Knight must rather die than stand by as evil triumphs!

Second statute: the Knight is always ready to be of service to others.

Third statute: the Knight is always self-composed. Taking no part in chatter or gossip, his speech is measured and calm.

Fourth statute: the Knight is conscious of his dignity, he aspires to do great deeds—and yet, has no expectations of being called upon. Whether great or small, he fulfills his tasks contentedly, with the same equanimity.

Fifth statute: if the Knight is called upon to fulfill humble tasks, he’ll do so grandly!

Sixth statute: the Knight must be a hero ever in quest of honor—true honor, the honor of living a virtuous life for the Goddess!

Seventh statute: the Knight shuns frivolity and pushes down weariness. He struggles manfully and uncomplainingly as he sees his tasks through to the end.

Eight statute: the Knight has a warrior’s spirit, he doesn’t haggle over the gift of self while pretending to make progress on the path of virtue. He gives himself entirely!

Ninth statute: the Knight’s soul is a virile soul, which he trains by constantly facing new challenges. As the descendant of a long and noble line of crusaders, he aspires for the heights of self-sacrifice…

With a growing feeling of apprehension, Zephyrin peeked behind the next page. Finding it blank to his considerable relief, he flipped back and read the ‘charter’ through to the end. As if detecting Zephyrin’s place with a sixth sense, Roger’s voice was coincident with his reaching the final line:

“Thirtieth statute: ‘The Knight’s soul is an enthusiastic one, perfectly happy and at perfect liberty! There’s no room in his heart for false prudence or pusillanimity!’” the boy declared with aplomb. He smiled, then asked expectantly, “So? Whaddya think?”

His eyes still on the notebook, Zephyrin opened his mouth to speak. But, before he could utter a word…

“… Blood.”

Zephyrin’s eyes flew up, startled. He found Narcissin staring impassively at his fellow northerner.

What?

What had the boy just said? His confusion heightened by his having initially misunderstood the word as ‘brood’, Zephyrin tried and failed to make sense of this non sequitur. The moment he turned his head to meet Roger’s equally uncertain gaze, however, the light of comprehension dawned. “Ah. Roger, your nose…”

Roger wore a confused expression for hardly more than split second before it gave way to consternation. “Rats! Is it happenin’ again?” Quickly pulling out a blue and gold plaid handkerchief, he applied it to his nose in an attempt to staunch a spontaneous and abundant crimson flow. Pulling it away after a few moments, he then contemplated the bloody result with a resignation that was the fruit of repeated experience. “S-Sorry—I have ta go—I know how it is, there’s no stoppin’ it anytime soon!… don’t wait up for me!” Excusing himself as he rose to his feet, Roger stowed away his notebook and gave his companions an apologetic look before rushing off to the infirmary.

Zephyrin and Narcissin were alone.

Older than Zephyrin by two weeks but a good two and a half inches shorter, Narcissin glanced at Zephyrin disinterestedly, then turned his head, staring out at the courtyard with his empty, unseeing gaze. Zephyrin sat motionlessly, at a complete loss for words. The uneasy sensation that had been germinating throughout the entire conversation was now sprouting insidious tendrils in the pit of his stomach. He was starting to think that something was very wrong. This behavior didn’t align in the slightest with the boyhood account he had read in his father’s memoirs.

Was this boy… truly the future emperor?

Zephyrin dismissed the thought as soon as it crossed his mind. It was ludicrous; there weren’t more than a handful of exclusive blueblood academies in the capital, to say nothing of Narcissin’s singular name. And yet… knowing that did exceedingly little to alleviate Zephyrin’s concerns. Finally, more out of a sense of helplessness than a genuine desire to read, he took up the history book again, rapidly skimming it for an especially salient passage. Finding one replete with gory battles, he began reading aloud, hoping now to provoke a reaction, any kind of reaction at all.

“… We hewed the Sinnites down to the last man. Devils in human form that they were, those with no aptitude in the arts among them covered themselves with oil, set themselves alight, and threw themselves in our ranks, endeavoring to supply with insanity that ardor which the Goddess provides to those fighting for the true faith. With their beastly screams in our ears and nauseated by the stench of their burning flesh, we struck off their heads until the city’s streets ran with blood like flaming wine… Ùtrèla was ours, the Predestined Land cleansed of the heathens, and the banner of Gaulyria preeminent over the realm!”

As Zephyrin read he saw Narcissin’s hands trembling in the corner of his vision, which surprised him more than a little. Though a southerner might find Lutesse’s autumns and winters redoubtable, they were positively mild compared to the Alérian climate his father would have grown up with. Though strange, he supposed this could be explained by the fact that the students hadn’t yet received their winter capes…

“Enough already!”

Zephyrin ceased reading as abruptly as if he had been slapped. Raising his eyes from the page, he stared uncomprehendingly at a glowering Narcissin. Only too late, he realized that the trembling he had mistaken as shivering actually consisted of… of a boiling rage. But why? What had he said?

“Gaulyria this, an’ Gaulyria that! Enough already!” Gritting his teeth, Narcissin fixed Zephyrin with a baleful expression, then stood up abruptly. His hands clenched at his sides and his knuckles bone-white, he glared at an open-mouthed Zephyrin with undisguised hostility. His gray eyes flashing fire, he drew a ragged breath before flinging at Zephyrin the bitter words:

“Just leave me alone! I hate Gaulyria!”