As a cold draft swept the yard, Richard thought about how much he hated the winter. The cold never brought good tidings, only suffering. The Wanderer was not cruel priests would tout but apathetic. For what is the suffering of mortals in the eyes of the Primals. Would a human ever care for the suffering he causes to his lessers? To the ants living in the ground. Or to the calves who would not receive their mother's love for the humans want of milk.

The sword hit his arm, bringing him out of his musings.

“Keep your attention on the sword, lad!”

“Will keep in mind, Ser.”

The master, Ser Lancroft, was a strict taskmaster and wouldn’t care for Richard’s pedigree, especially when the duke’s son was in the wrong. Richard's father would not stand for a simpering toady to teach him. The duke's philosophy was to shed more sweat now than blood later. And many nights passed with Richard nursing his bruises and cursing the instructor. But on the battlefield, Richard would count being under such harsh tutelage a blessing, he was sure.

Again Richard moved across the yard to attack the instructor, his sword raised. And the instructor quickly negated his attack. Again. Almost with the same effort, it took the boy to walk. A metallic clang rang through the yard as the master’s sword hit the Ducal Prince, overpowering the groan of frustration that followed. The laughter that followed his fall was salt to the wound.

At least the cold ground brought a little respite, thought Richard. There was something the cold is good for, except death.

As if agreeing with Richard's thoughts, the yard dimmed. The glaring sun got covered with a layer of thick clouds. The laughter, too, soon came to an end. Laughing at a Duke's son was acceptable, but enjoying that laughter was not. Though Richard did not consider himself petty, a lord should not become too friendly with their retainers. It was better to err to the side of caution as there was still a difference in their social standings.

The practice continued till the sun lowered itself under the mountains. The night approached faster than expected. Winter meant smaller days, but this cycle, winter had arrived quite a bit earlier than predicted.

“It seems Fjorn and Najht favour your plight.” The old knight muttered, then with a louder voice, he asked Richard to remove himself from the yard.

If it had been any other day, Ser Lancroft would not have ended the practice just because it darkened a bit faster.

There were always battles that could happen in the night, he'd reason. Nor would an ongoing battle stop just because of some shadows.

But today was the Harvest Festival, and the growing dark had just reminded the instructor of the time. Harvest Festival was to honour Fjorn and Herr, as well as pray for Fjorn leniency. The peasants thanked the siblings for the light they received and the bounty the land provided.

The harvest of the past cycle would then go to the Duke’s granaries. The granaries preserved and stored the grains for the coming winter, preventing their spoilage. They fed the Flaven estate, while whatever surplus was left was sold. Without a filled granary, surviving the coming cold would be nothing but a pipedream, especially for the peasants.

As a Ducal Prince and the Duke’s heir, Richard had to be present in the feast. And a dust-covered, sweaty man would not be a welcome sight in a celebration. Nor would it inspire much confidence in the Duchy’s subjects, even if it would in the soldiers. Richard dusted himself a little and walked towards Theo Ford, his gentlemen-of-the-chamber, as the other men around started to move about from the edge of the Practice Yard to their callings.

“Here, Sire”, said the young man, handing Richard a cold linen cloth. Richard nodded towards the boy while taking the towel and then began moving towards his chambers to prepare for the upcoming feast.

The Castle of Arane, a grey behemoth, almost like a sleeping giant at the centre of Flaven Duchy, was built centuries ago under Lord Arane Flaven. New parts were added to it through the years as new regents held the Duchy, making it a mix of multiple architectural schools and a confusing maze to navigate. How Theo and other servants can navigate every nook and cranny of the Castle, Richard would never know, as he knew only the main hallways.

Getting to his room from the yard was a chore and a half. The central wing where the family lived was far from anywhere on the grounds.

Once in his room, Richard noted that his clothes for the banquet were been laid out on his bed. After the servants cleaned the sweat and grime on him, they prepared him with the powders and scents that his mother insisted he should use. Under Theo’s supervision, Richard changed into the banquet clothes. His clothes followed the latest trends, or what his mother insisted were the latest. His outer garments were sombre and thick, warding off the hated cold, with small, embroiled slashes to show his bright coloured under clothes. The colours were green and grey of the Flavens, along with a smattering of purple to show his royal blood. A hairpin in the shape of a swan to tame his unruly mane and a ceremonial sword completed his outfit.

After dressing up, he ate a small afternoon snack of some fruits and cakes. It would not look good for the heir to gorge himself during the feast. And the upcoming event would no doubt be tiring. A few bites now could very well be all he might get to eat this evening.

Finally prepared enough, Richard started towards the Lord’s Hall, with Theo as his guide. The ducal princes and princesses held the responsibility of welcoming the lords. And to the high lords, not being greeted by Richard would be considered a slight. All this meant that he and his siblings had to be present at the Hall before their parents. The only advantage he held over his siblings was that he could afford to be late, as high lords would join the festivities later.

Moving through the winding hallways, Richard, again, cursed Arane and his twisted uncouth thinking. The first Flaven lord, in his infinite wisdom, thought that a long dreary passage to the hall would mellow the guests, friends and foe alike, who would like to have an audience with him. It left the older hallways gloomy and dreary, and Richard loathed traversing them every day.

After a dreary walk to his destination, he was graced with the sight of the oaken doors to the unnecessarily grand Lord’s Hall. At the door’s entrance, two of the three remaining children of the Duke stood, moving about along with their retinues and receiving the guests. His sister Serena, dressed in the Flaven colours, was helping the steward manage the preparations. The experience would help her when she would oversee her lord husband's household.

All the while little Elrik was restlessly moving about, probably in between one of his mischiefs. Upon noticing his entrance, the boy rushed toward to greet him, along with the disapproving governess trailing behind him.

“Seems you were the last brother.”

Elrik spoke with a mischievous smile. The young boy had always enjoyed teasing others and had a nose for trouble. It was a quick wit and being the youngest that kept him away from punishment. And his mischiefs that kept the gloomy castle lively and reminding everyone of the Duke's childhood. He just hoped that the boy would not grow to become as heartless as their father.

Sweet Serena came to greet him next, with a curtesy that got the governess’ approval.

“Hope the Primals’ blessing remain with you, brother.”

Always so proper, his younger sister was the jewel of the Duchy. Never one to shrink from her duty, she took to managing the banquet as a fish to water.

“Thank you, Sere. With every passing day, you are looking even more beautiful. It seems you will outshine even mother in today’s banquet.”

With all the lords present, he had to reply to her formally, no matter how much it gnawed him. Any break in propriety can cause the rumour mill to run awry.

With a little laugh at his comment, Serena moved aside to give him space to stand. It seems the high lords had started arriving, and he had to greet them.

Most guests were nothing of the notable sort, as most of the lower lords were busy managing the harvest or celebrating the festival in their holdings. Only the lords without urgent business, looking for political gain and ones with no power were part of the banquet. And the high lords would never miss an opportunity to get political gains. The numbers of the landless knights were the largest among the guests. All of them wanting to get the favour of the lords. His father's retainers made up the remaining.

Most of the guests arrived a few days ago and had been housed in the Castle. As the night approached, the high-class guests started to trickle in, following behind their allotted servants. Serena greeted the noblewomen while Richard had small talk with their husbands.

As time wore on, the hateful winter chill began to creep in on Richard, making him shudder. The enticing aroma of food and the constant small talk made him feel glad that he had eaten something before coming to the feast.

Between greeting and talking with the guests, Richard saw a man who stood out like a sore thumb among them. A tall man, he didn’t have the look of a peasant or house guard who might have snuck in to join the revelry, being too well dressed for both vocations. When he came near Richard, the prince found the man’s clothes to smell like horse and sweat, making it clear that he had ridden hard to get to the Castle, which seemed odd. It was the twin moons of Fjorn and violet rose of royals that gave away his identity. The moons were the sigil of one of the estates. Richard did not remember which, not being good with his heraldry. But the violet rose was unmistakably the royal symbol. The only people outside of the royal family who had the right to wear it were the royal servants. They two were clue enough to figure out that the man was a royal messenger.

Richard suddenly started feeling colder after the realization. Royal messengers never brought good tidings. They only came when his majesty, the Emperor, wanted something to be done and suspected the Lords of foul play. A royal messenger’s visit meant the Lord’s autonomy was under attack, and it seems the Flaven Duchy will have to suffer through some upheaval.

It seems winter was coming, and Richard despised nothing more than the cruel cold itself.