Arion reached the summit late into the night, his body battered and bruised, exhaustion etched deep in his eyes. The old bastard wasn't anywhere to be seen. Didn't he say he'd be waiting at the top? So where was he?
Truly unprofessional, Arion thought. What if I'd broken something? Sprained an ankle? Who'd have dragged my sorry ass back down?
Maybe he should tell his father—get that old man reprimanded.
But then he remembered how the old bastard and his father were laughing dreadfully at him, so he dropped the matter. He didn't want to be a joke for their amusement.
His stomach growled—a vicious reminder that hunger didn't care about lessons or pride. But he remembered the command: no dinner if he didn't reach the peak by nightfall. So, like a shadow, he crept toward the kitchens.
The mere thought of the rich aroma of roasted meats—beef, pork, or chicken—set his mouth watering with longing. Slowly and hiding in every corner, he crept through the halls, mindful not to disturb the quiet of the sleeping household.
The usual noisy kitchen was dead silent. No flickering candles, no clattering pans.
It struck him as unusual. Usually, some small light or warm presence would remain, in case the lord or lady desired a midnight treat. But tonight, all was dark and still, and the kitchen seemed empty of comfort.
Yet hunger was a fierce master, and he gave no thought to such things. He began to search quietly through plates and baskets for any leftovers that might quiet the gnawing in his belly. He dared not light a candle, lest he be discovered.
Then, suddenly, a scent, rich and enticing, found its way to his keen little nose. Meat, without doubt—but where was it coming from? Like a hound on a trail, he followed the aroma, until at last he found it—the prize his hunger craved.
But, alas, he found more than that.
There, cloaked in shadow, sat the old commander himself, eyes glinting like a wildcat's, fixed on the roasted cut now in his greedy hands. Worse still—he was devouring the very meat that Arion had come searching for.
Realizing his mistake, Arion froze. Then, inch by inch, he began to retreat, hoping to escape before he was noticed.
"Young master," came the voice, low and chilling in the darkness. "I thought we agreed—no dinner for you tonight."
Only the moonlight streaming through the tall windows revealed the commander's figure, his eyes shining with quiet menace. Spider-like bastard, Arion thought.
Arion's eyes narrowed, lips curling in defiance. "Strange, I don't recall agreeing to that. You seemed to have made that decision solo. But old folks talk to themselves sometimes. I just listened."
That was a mistake.
A foolish mistake, indeed. To call an elder old was a misstep of the gravest kind, and though his words were born of fatigue and hunger, Arion knew deep down he had overstepped. His new life had lulled him into forgetfulness of certain decorums.
Commander Marius' eyes flashed, voice hardening. "Old? Mad? Me? I'm younger than your father, brat."
Stripping away all pretense, Commander Marius said, "Since you can't hold your tongue, no sleep for you either."
Before Arion could protest, the commander scooped him up like a sack of potatoes and marched him to the training grounds.
There, with a somber face and voice, Marius pointed to a massive boulder—large enough for knights and soldiers to sit or lean upon during times of respite.
"See that stone?" he said. "Usually, it is a place of rest or observation. But tonight, it shall be your sparring partner. Until you move it, you shall have neither rest nor food."
"I'll be back in the morning. If that boulder hasn't moved—even a little—there will be pain."With those final words, Commander Marius turned and walked away, leaving Arion alone beneath the cold night sky. The chill sank into his bones, but heavier still was the weight of the impossible task pressing down on his small shoulders.
He wished to protest, but the sternness in the commander's voice and the quiet departure left no room for argument.
How, he wondered, could a child so small shift such a mighty stone? He had neither the strength of a behemoth nor could he just wiggle his fingers and make it float like his mom."
Perhaps I could slice it, he thought, though the idea vanished as quickly as it had come.
What kind of cruel trial was this? To succeed, he would need the strength of a knight or a strong squire. How then, could a mere three-year-old hope to accomplish such a thing?
But then, a spark of cunning lit within him, and laughter—a soft, wild sound—escaped his lips into the still night.
Inside the castle, where all were fast asleep, that faint, eerie laughter was heard—but none dared to venture forth, fearing spirits or creatures from the dark might be at play.