Mary walked beside him now, half-guiding, half-chasing.
Arion pressed forward, drawn not to the games of snow and child's play, but to the wall—the old wall, cold and weather-worn, its surface pitted and pale with lichen and frost.
Shadows gathered at its base, long and dark. When he neared, his face disappeared into them.
The girl didn't understand.
She never did.
She was used to children who cried for sweets or ran from chores. Not this one. Not Arion. He studied the wall like a general might study a battlefield.
She had served in the household long enough to know strange things when she saw them, and this child was no ordinary charge.
She remembered a morning not long past.
She had been late in her duties, delayed by a mishap below stairs, and came upon the nursery from the far end of the hall.
A sound reached her first—not weeping, not laughter, but a melody, like someone singing and forgetting the words halfway through.
And yet, the melody—it stirred something old in her bones, something she could not name.
Her blood ran cold. She ran, fearing some stranger had found their way to the boy. Yet when she entered, there was no one—only Arion, standing unsteadily, watching her with eyes too sharp, too knowing.
Others had heard it too. Always the same: the song, the silence, the stare.
"Arion, mind the steps, dearest," Lady Ariana called, descending toward him with all the grace of her station. "You'll take a tumble if you're not careful."
He understood half the words, perhaps less. But the tone, the caution, he grasped well enough.
He nodded solemnly, as if to make a show of obedience, and then, with all the determination a child can muster, he approached the stone staircase.
He tried it—once, twice—but his limbs failed him.
It was too much for him—too tall, too steep. He made an effort, he truly did, pushing aside his mother's hand again and again with a stubborn pride that made her chuckle.
But in the end, he yielded. Their fingers entwined—hers elegant and gloved, his small and mittened—and together they ascended.
With every step, the view expanded.
The rooftops of the castle dipped behind them, and the sky opened above, silver and wide.
The snow-swept city below came slowly into view, as if unveiled by some divine hand. A gust of wind stirred the air, sending a flurry of flakes dancing against Arion's cheeks, where they met their quiet end upon the warmth of his skin.
At the parapet he stood, straining to see beyond—and failing.
He leapt, once, then again, to no avail. But then his mother's arms wrapped around him, lifting him high. He did not protest. For once, he allowed himself to be carried.
The sight that met him stole the words from his mind.
The castle stood upon the crown of a mountain, its base cloaked in ice and snow, its proud face overlooking a city nestled in the valley below.
A waterfall, now frozen into jagged crystal, spilled from the cliffs and reached all the way to the town's edge.
The city itself was modest in size but rich in spirit—timbered homes and stone buildings, chimneys puffing cheerily, people scurrying about with purpose, unaware of the child who watched them with such longing.
Arion gazed upon it all, and something within him stirred.
A yearning, pure and whole, unlike any he had felt before. A hunger not of the body, but of the spirit. Not ambition. Not yet. But wonder. Wonder, and longing.
He would go there. Someday. Beyond these walls. Into the city. Into the world.
He would learn it. He would master it.