Nico sat on a fencepost at the end of the farmland that had been left to him after his father’s untimely death no more than a year and a half ago. He did not want to look back on that time, but when everything in the farm reminded him of the family he’d lost, it was difficult at times and almost impossible at others.

Mournful notes drifted from the wooden flute that Nico held to his lips. Behind him, much of the farmland that had lain fallow since the last winter—the last time that he had had help with the management of the farm.

The song Nico played was a lilting and grieving one. It was difficult not to grieve. The solitude of being a lone farm boy on a property much too big for one man to handle, much less a boy just on the cusp of becoming one, was almost crushing.

Nico was at a loss for what to do. He hadn’t known where to go or whom to talk to for the longest time. “Bianca,” he whispered, to no one in particular. The notes from his flute fell silent. “I wish you were here,” he said.

The roughshod gallop of Vrist slowed to a canter as Will guided him past the far post of the tilt. The poor horse was not quite used to the state of the soil here in the capital. Back in their own little hamlet, the dirt was a little bit less compact. It was understandable, though. As humble as their little village was, Phoebus still proudly and justly governed it.

For now, though, the job of governing the village fell to its elders. Phoebus reached up and caught the reins of Vrist, just as Will wrenched the heavy helm from his head. He hated the way it felt on his head, since it only made the heat of the Southron realm more unbearable. Unfortunately, he knew that it was necessary.

Will held out his lance for his father to take. The tip was splintered, but even Will knew—without having to look at his father’s face—that a splintered lance just was not going to cut it. If he wanted to have any hope of winning tomorrow’s tournament, he had to shatter his lance nine times out of ten.

Nico looked up from where he’d been eating quietly to see that his father had risen. He made to stand up, too, but Kore’s hand on his leg made him stay.

“I thank all of you who have come to this grand feast today,” said Aides, eyes scanning the crowd of lords, ladies, and their progeny that had come to the banquet hall. Their masks only just hid their identities, but Nico had no doubt that his father knew exactly who was who.

“I raise a toast to my son, Nykos, whose naming day today marks not only his thirteenth year on this world, but also the day when by law and by tradition, you and I may begin to speak about how he is to be betrothed,” said Aides.