Chapter 71: Rowan Hale

Later that night, the moon had climbed above the treeline, casting a pale silver light across the courtyard stones. Aldric crossed the outer yard beneath its glow

A small wooden house rested at the edge of the estate grounds, close enough to the outer gate that a man within could hear the hinges groan. Its presence was quiet, unadorned, built of weathered timber that carried the marks of years. A chimney released a thin thread of smoke into the night, and two narrow windows spilled amber light across the frozen earth. The wind moved through the trees, setting the leaves into a restless murmur, their shadows shifting across the walls. In the moonlight, the house appeared rooted in place, as if it belonged to the soil.

Aldric knocked twice. Paused. Knocked once more.

A boy’s cheerful voice came through the door immediately, already running. “Father! Uncle Aldric is here!”

The door swung open before the words even finished.

Noris was thirteen, dark hair fell across a face marked by his father’s jawline but stripped of his composure. He stood in the doorway, restless, as the glow of the house poured outward, warping him in its warmth against the frozen night.

“You should ask who it is before you open the door.” The voice came from inside, unhurried.

“It’s Uncle Aldric,” Noris said, with the confidence of someone presenting irrefutable evidence.

“You didn’t know that when you opened it.”

“I recognized his knock!”

A pause from inside. “That is not the lesson.”

Noris was already grinning as he stepped back to clear the doorway, and Aldric moved past him with ease, reaching out to ruffle his dark hair in passing. Noris tilted his head in response, ducking just enough to show a flicker of resistance, yet he stayed within reach, his grin lingering with the familiarity of a boy used to this kind of affection.

The interior was small yet carried a sense of balance. A single main room opened around a low table, with two chairs angled toward the hearth as if waiting for conversation. Along the back wall, a narrow wooden shelf held a carefully arranged row of belongings: a folded cloth, a small iron box, three books with cracked spines, and a cup of tea set at the far edge, its steam rising in a patient column. A door at the rear led to the sleeping quarters. Every detail seemed deliberate, each object resting exactly where it belonged.

The hearth carried the weight of the room, its fire working with steady persistence. Aldric felt the heat before he reached the chair opposite—a dry warmth that had been gathering for hours. A faint shimmer hung in the air, threaded with the smell of smoke and blackened timber. Each breath was a reminder of how long the flames had been tended.

Rowan Hale held himself in a stillness that seemed alive, the kind that drew the eye without movement. He sat to the left of the fire, one leg crossed, a boy’s coat lying across his knee. The needle moved through the fabric with small, certain pulls, the thread catching the firelight each time it emerged. His hands, wide and scarred, the kind that had clearly done other work for most of their life, moved with a practiced steadiness. The tear in the coat’s collar was almost closed.

He kept his gaze fixed, as though looking up was not a habit he possessed.

“Welcome, Aldric,” he said.

“Thank you.” Aldric settled into the opposite chair. “Your tea is getting cold.”

“That one’s not for drinking.” Rowan replied without pausing.

Years of acquaintance had taught Aldric not to press further. He stretched his legs toward the fire and let the silence take its place between them. It was the kind of pause that belonged to their companionship, comforting in its own way, filled only by the crackle of the flames.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Noris returned from the back room with a second cup, which he set on the low table beside Aldric with the pride of a boy who has decided that hospitality is a serious matter.

“Thank you,” Aldric said.

Cross-legged on a wool rug beside his father’s chair, the boy pulled a wooden block from his pocket. It fit neatly in his palm, its edges worn smooth, and its surfaces marked by carved lines that seemed to form a pattern only to break apart. He studied it with intent, pressing his thumbnail into a groove that resisted him, his frown deepening as the firelight caught the shifting cuts.

“How’s your back?” Aldric asked.

“Still there,” Rowan replied.

“It didn’t worsen through the winter?”

“No. Same as always.” He pulled the needle through again. “The cold makes it harder, though. Winter never makes anything easier.”

“You could take the room in the main house that Sylvia has offered.”

“Sylvia offers only because it pleases her sense of order.” Rowan’s thumb smoothed the seam he had just closed. He lifted the coat, tracing the stitches with a fingertip to test their hold. “Besides, Noris is fond of the house.”