The Shattered Crowns

The grapevines sprawled across the foothills of Wyvernmore like a living tapestry, their heavy clusters of purple and red fruit swelling on the cusp of harvest. Mist clung to the landscape, curling through the leaves and rolling down the fields like a soft tide. The rain had subsided to a light drizzle, leaving the air thick with the scent of earth, stone, and the bittersweet tang of ripened grapes. Far above, the castle loomed—Wyvernmore, the ancient seat of House Redwyn, perched atop the jagged mountain peaks like a predator surveying its territory.

Wyvernmore wasn't a palace of opulence like Alcalan, with its gilded domes and sweeping spires. It was a fortress, carved from the bones of the mountains themselves. Its dark stone walls rose like a natural extension of the cliffs, weathered by centuries of storms and battles. Narrow windows and battlements lined its exterior, designed for defense rather than display. The architecture was stark, yet imposing—a declaration of power that needed no adornment.

High above the castle, wyverns circled in lazy arcs, their silhouettes cutting through the mist like shadows. Their cries echoed through the crags, deep and resonant, a language all their own. These creatures had been House Redwyn's pride and legacy for generations. They were war mounts, messengers, hunters—and most importantly, a symbol of dominance. To control the skies was to control Astad.

Sarion, Alden's own wyvern, let out a rumbling growl as they descended toward the castle. His white scales shimmered even in the muted light, a stark contrast to the gray stone of Wyvernmore. Larger than most wyverns, Sarion's sheer size and strength marked him as a mount of rare quality. He was a beast of myth, a creature that turned heads wherever he flew.

Alden patted Sarion's neck as they approached the crags that served as the wyverns' nesting grounds. "You've earned some rest," he murmured. "Soon enough, we'll be flying into battle again."

Sarion responded with a deep rumble that vibrated through Alden's chest. The wyvern's golden eyes narrowed slightly, as if to convey his displeasure at the prospect of rest. Sarion lived for flight and battle; it was in his blood. Yet he trusted Alden enough to obey without question.

The wyvern landed with a controlled crash, his clawed feet kicking up loose gravel as he folded his wings. Around them, the crags were alive with activity. Young wyverns practiced short bursts of flight, their wings flapping awkwardly as they lifted off and landed again. Mothers guarded their nests fiercely, their sharp eyes scanning for threats even in this safe haven. Eggs as large as barrels lay nestled in the shadows, their shells mottled with faint patterns that would one day mirror the scales of the hatchlings within.

Alden dismounted and ran a hand along Sarion's flank. The wyvern lowered his head, nudging Alden's shoulder with surprising gentleness. "I'll see you soon," Alden said. "Enjoy the calm while it lasts."

Sarion snorted, a puff of warm air ruffling Alden's hair, before lumbering off toward his preferred perch. His powerful tail swayed behind him, leaving deep grooves in the gravel.

As Alden made his way toward the castle, he felt a pang of guilt. Sarion deserved better than to be dragged into the endless conflicts of men. But that was the way of things. Wyverns and riders were bound together, their fates intertwined. Sarion was a part of him, as much as Wyvernmore itself.

The hidden entrance to the castle was tucked away behind the crags, its narrow door barely noticeable among the jagged rocks. Alden pushed it open, stepping into the warmth of the keep. The familiar scents of roasted meat and spiced wine greeted him, mingling with the faint metallic tang of the castle's stone walls. Servants bustled through the corridors, bowing as they passed.

"Highlord Redwyn," said one of the Royal Dragoons stationed near the entrance. He was a tall man in pristine armor, his expression solemn. "Your mother and brother have requested your presence in the dining hall."

Alden nodded, though he couldn't help but sigh inwardly. He had barely set foot in the castle, and already the demands of his station were pulling him in different directions. "They must have seen Sarion before we landed," he muttered.

The Dragoon smiled faintly. "He is difficult to miss, my lord."

Alden made his way toward the dining hall, his boots clicking against the stone floor. He tugged at the high collar of his court uniform, which felt suffocating after a day spent in the open air. The embroidered tassels and gilded trim were meant to project authority, but to Alden, they were just another reminder of the burdens he carried. He longed for the simplicity of a Dragoon's armor—a steel cuirass, a sword at his side, and nothing else.

Pushing open the doors to the dining hall, Alden was greeted by the sight of his mother and younger brother seated at the long table. Astrea Redwyn, the matriarch of the house, was a picture of grace despite her frailty. Her blonde hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, and her ruby-red eyes—identical to Alden's—shone with warmth as she looked up at him.

Ralik, in contrast, was a bundle of restless energy. The fourteen-year-old fidgeted in his seat, his ink-stained fingers drumming against the table. He looked up as Alden entered, his expression a mixture of admiration and frustration.

"Alden," Astrea said, her voice soft but firm. She pressed a handkerchief to her lips as a cough overtook her. "It's good to see you home."

"Mother," Alden replied, crossing the room to kiss her hand. "You should be resting."

"I'll rest when I'm dead," Astrea said with a wry smile. "Now, tell me—what news from Alcalan? Has the king decided on a course of action?"

Alden hesitated, his mind flickering back to the endless hours of political posturing he had endured. Rather than answering directly, he reached for one of the biscuits on the table, spreading it with a generous helping of grape jam. A servant stepped forward to taste it first, and only after the taster nodded did Alden take a bite.

Astrea's eyes narrowed. "Don't avoid the question."

Before Alden could respond, Ralik broke in. "When are you going to teach me to ride a wyvern?"

Alden set down the biscuit and turned to his brother. "When I return from Franzisch and Kalla."

"You've been saying that for years!" Ralik said, his voice rising. "I'm fourteen already! Father took you on your first flight when you were seven. You tamed Sarion when you were thirteen. I'm old enough!"

Alden sighed, reaching out to ruffle Ralik's hair. "You'll have your time, little brother. We all have our roles to play. You'll protect our house in your own way."

"That's what you always say," Ralik muttered, pulling away. He pushed back his chair and stormed out of the room.

Alden watched him go, then glanced at the two Dragoons stationed near the door. With a subtle nod, he sent them after Ralik. The castle might be safe, but Alden trusted nothing and no one when it came to his family's safety.

Astrea sighed, shaking her head. "If you keep denying him, he'll come to resent you."

Alden turned back to her, his expression softening. "I'm trying to protect him, Mother. Wyverns aren't toys. If he isn't ready, he'll get himself killed."

Astrea's lips pressed into a thin line. "I know. But let him try, Alden. Let him see for himself."

For a moment, Alden said nothing. Then he nodded, though his heart ached at the thought. "I'll consider it."

The conversation shifted as they ate. The table was laden with food—roasted venison, spiced boar, fresh-baked bread, and an array of fruits and cheeses. Alden ate quickly, his mind already drifting to the responsibilities that awaited him.

"Byleth has decided to vassalize Franzisch and Kalla," Alden said at last, breaking the silence. "He believes it's the best way to strengthen Astad."

Astrea's grip tightened on her silverware. "And what of your father? What of the Pickette?"

Alden placed a hand on her shoulder. "Father will survive. He's the Black Baron. If anyone can hold the Pickette, it's him. And if he doesn't…" His voice hardened. "Then I'll ensure Estil pays the price."

His mother gripped her silverware tightly, her fingers whitening around the polished handle as Alden finished recounting Byleth's decision. "The king and his damned games will be the death of your father," she hissed, setting her fork down with a sharp clink against her plate. "All Byleth cares for is his bloody barons and marquises! Fat, land-hoarding fools, every one of them. Not a single one has ever faced a sword, let alone a battlefield. And now Osiris is left to fend for himself, with nothing but his cunning and the cursed Pickette walls."

Alden placed a calming hand on her shoulder. "Mother, you must have faith in him. Father didn't earn the title of Black Baron by luck. He'll survive, as he always does."

She looked at him, her ruby eyes sharp. "And what if he doesn't, Alden? What then? The Codes demand vengeance, but what good is vengeance if my husband is dead?"

Alden hesitated, then replied, his voice firm, "If father dies, I will do what the Codes demand. But until that moment comes—and it won't—we must hold the line. Byleth will grant no aid, and without the King's backing, any action I take will be seen as treason."

His mother's lips tightened, but then she sighed, her shoulders slumping just slightly. "You're too much like him, you know. Osiris."

Alden allowed himself a faint smile. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"As you should." Her lips twitched, but the tension remained in her gaze. "And yet, sometimes I wish you weren't. Always burdened by duty. Always putting the family before yourself. When was the last time you lived for yourself, Alden?"

"Mother," Alden said, the corner of his mouth quirking upward, "this isn't the time to lecture me about settling down."

"Oh, but it is! You could die tomorrow, and what would you leave behind? A saddle, some scars, and Sarion eating half the livestock."

"Better Sarion than me," Alden quipped, leaning back in his chair. "Besides, Ralik seems more than ready to carry on the family line. I hear he's been quite the prolific letter-writer these days."

Her lips curled into a knowing smile. "Yes, I've heard the same. Half the court girls seem to have received poems, songs, or some form of attention from him. He's charming, I'll give him that, though I think he's gotten more of that from my side of the family."

"Charming is one word for it," Alden said dryly. "Persistent is another. He writes more letters in a week than I've seen you or father write in a year."

Astrea chuckled, the sound lightening the tension in the room. "Well, perhaps that's how Ralik will leave his mark—through his words, not his sword. A bard in the family wouldn't be so bad."

Alden raised an eyebrow. "You'd be content with a bard?"

Her smile dimmed, just a little. "If it keeps him safe, yes. This family has given enough blood to Astad."

Alden leaned forward, his tone softening. "I know you worry about him, but he'll find his place. Whether it's on a wyvern, with a lute, or, gods forbid, in one of those ridiculous courtships he seems so fond of."

Astrea arched an elegant brow. "And what about you, Alden? What ridiculous courtships are you fond of?"

Alden groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Not this again."

"Yes, this again," she said, folding her hands primly on the table. "You're not getting any younger, my little Hawk. And while I admire your dedication to duty, you'll need more than a wyvern and a sword to carry on this house. Have you given any thought to marriage?"

Alden sighed. "Mother, the last thing I need right now is a wife. I have wars to fight, raids to plan, and a kingdom that seems hell-bent on tearing itself apart. Perhaps when all that's settled—"

"When all that's settled, you'll be an old man, and I'll be too busy doting on Ralik's children to help you find a suitable match," she interrupted, her tone sharp but her eyes twinkling. "Do you really want me meddling in your love life when I'm well into my sixties?"

"Do I have a choice?" Alden muttered.

"Not if I can help it." She leaned forward, her expression softening. "I know you don't want to hear this, but you deserve happiness too, Alden. A life that isn't just battlefields and politics. You can't carry everything on your shoulders forever."

Alden looked away, his jaw tightening. "I'll consider it. Once father's safe."

She studied him for a moment, then nodded, satisfied for now. "Good. That's all I ask."