On the second morning after Brandon first spoke, the Duke stood at his son’s doorway, a wooden sword in hand. He had spent the night crafting it, pouring his expectations into every carved detail.

  Brandon opened the door, his expression unreadable as he took the sword from his father’s outstretched hand. He did not look up. Silence stretched between them, and the Duke, who had been eager for this moment, could only sigh. He reached out, ruffling Brandon’s hair before turning away. As the Duke of the North, his responsibilities were many; he could not devote all his time to one child. Yet, now that Brandon could speak, perhaps—just perhaps—he would continue to improve.

  But the hope did not st long. Days passed, yet the Duke never saw the sight he had envisioned—his son joyfully swinging his wooden sword in the courtyard. Instead, Brandon remained the same: clean, quiet, and lost in thought, an enigma among his lively siblings.

  Then came the night when the bck kitten, Mittens, cimed a chair at the dining table.

  That evening, the Duke followed Brandon into his room. Standing at the doorway, he hesitated before stepping inside. Talking to his son felt unfamiliar, uncertain. Yet, as a father, he could not ignore it. He did not expect much from this conversation, but some things had to be said—not for the outcome, but for the act itself.

  "According to Northern tradition," the Duke began, "knights who swear loyalty to a house are always welcome at the lord’s table upon their return. It is an oath—a promise that by my fire, there will always be a seat for you; in my hall, there will always be food for you. A simple meal signifies duty and honor."

  He let the words settle before continuing. "Tonight, you pced the lynx at the table. If you wish for it to remain, then you must prove you have the right. Only a knight may name a squire to dine with them."

  With that, the Duke retrieved the wooden sword from where it rested against the wall and held it out once more.

  Brandon hesitated before taking it. This time, however, he lifted his gaze to meet his father’s eyes.

  "I wanted to be a schor," he said softly. "But if what you need is a knight, then a knight I shall become."

  The Duke was caught off guard, momentarily speechless.

  Brandon raised the wooden sword and executed a perfect knight’s salute before lowering the tip to the ground. He tapped the bck kitten gently with it. "My squire shall dine with me."

  For a moment, the Duke simply stared. Then, deep ughter erupted from his chest, filling the chamber. He pulled Brandon into a firm embrace—a rare, suffocating gesture of warmth. It was heavy, overwhelming, but not unpleasant.

  That night, as the Duke stepped out of Brandon’s room, his ughter echoed through the castle halls.

  Brandon’s peaceful days were over.

  At dawn, he was roused from sleep and ordered to run ps around the castle courtyard. Mittens, now a tiny but determined shadow, toddled after him, mewling in protest. Eventually, Brandon gave in and scooped the kitten onto his shoulder, letting it cling to his tunic as he continued his exercises.

  After his morning training, he sat for breakfast, his mother fussing over him to eat more. Her favoritism sparked jealous compints from his siblings, but he simply endured it in silence.

  His routine changed. Sleep, meals, and idleness gave way to sleep, training, meals, and thought. Now that the Duke knew his son was not a simpleton, staring bnkly into the distance became an unacceptable habit. The battle of wills between father and son began.

  "You said you wanted to be a schor?" the Duke inquired one evening.

  "Yes."

  "A schor is a fine thing to be."

  "..."

  And so, Brandon’s schedule shifted once more: sleep, training, meals, study, and only then, his silent contemption.

  With the mind of an adult, Brandon handled his studies with ease. The physical training, however, was another matter entirely. Maturity did not grant him the strength of a grown warrior, and his body needed time to develop. Still, his determination carried him through, ensuring he completed each lesson and drill until his form and endurance improved.

  The world was vast, filled with knowledge both familiar and unknown. The more he learned, the more questions arose, keeping his mind occupied. Slowly, his time spent standing idly at the castle gates dwindled.

  The Duke was both pleased and displeased. Brandon was becoming more ‘normal,’ their conversations growing more frequent. Yet, some habits remained unchanged. The boy still appeared at the castle entrance, lost in thought, and now, he had a companion. Mittens was always by his side, mirroring his contemptive stillness.

  The household murmured about it: the fool had become two.

  Brandon, burdened with too many secrets, remained reserved, speaking little. Yet, in his exchanges with the Duke, his change was undeniable. Though his siblings still viewed him as the silent oddity of the family, he could now engage in brief conversations.

  And with Mittens beside him, he no longer felt alone. The kitten became his confidant, his keeper of secrets, anchoring him when his mind threatened to spiral into despair.

  Time passed swiftly. A year and a half went by in the blink of an eye.

  Mittens was no longer the fragile creature that once clung to Brandon’s shoulder. Now, she could keep pace with his morning runs. The wildness of her kind had begun to show, her sleek form moving with the quiet grace of a predator.

  Brandon watched her with quiet understanding. They had both changed.

  And the war between father and son continued.