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Chapter 1: Blood and Boughs

King Aldrin Oakvale, a tall and broad stag, his head crowned by strong antlers, paced the corridor of his palace in the capital of Golden Oak. As he moved back and forth, pipe clutched tightly in one hand, his gaze kept flicking to the heavy oak door that led to his queen’s chambers. Inside, his wife, Queen Auriel, was giving birth to their third child. The thick wood could do little to muffle the sounds of her labour, her anguished groans reaching him even here.

Aldrin lit his pipe for what must have been the hundredth time that day, puffing in restless frustration as he walked the length of the cool flagstone corridor. Servants brushed past him, some emerging from the queen’s quarters with empty bowls, others hurrying back in with fresh towels or more steaming water. He felt helpless — not for the first time. He wondered if Auriel would survive — if the child would survive. Too many mothers died in childbirth, and too many babies were lost before their first breath. The thought sat heavy on Aldrin’s chest, a weight rivalling his crown's.

Aldrin was King of Solbrae, ruler of the Sun-Gilded Court, seated in the capital city of Golden Oak — a city that wrapped around a great silver lake, its waters sparkling beneath the long summer sun. His kingdom was one of seven in the land of Cervinia, home of the Deerfolk: bipedal beings marked by the grace and features of deer. Their stags were often praised for their strength, their does for their beauty. And yet, every time Auriel had borne a child, Aldrin was reminded that despite his crown, antlers, and authority, he was powerless in the face of this. All he could do was stay close, wait, and hope.

After several hours, Aldrin gave up pacing and slumped in a chair provided by his servants. There he fretted, a small pile of pipe ash at his boot and several empty teacups stacked on the side table. His head hung low, his mind fogged, and his eyes heavy with exhaustion.

Then, suddenly, his ears lifted — the piercing cry of a child. His child. Thank the Great Stag, it was over. He shot upright, knocking the pile of pipe ash and shoving the chair hard against the wall. His legs trembled as he waited for the heavy door to open.

At last, the large door creaked inward, and a midwife beckoned him inside. He strode in, heart thundering, eyes going immediately to the bed where his queen lay. Auriel, as beautiful and graceful as ever, was bathed in the last golden light of the setting sun. In her arms, a small bundle stirred softly.

Aldrin’s heart leapt and swelled as he stepped closer. Auriel turned, a tired but radiant smile on her face, and tilted the child so her husband could see.

“Aubrun,” she said softly, like a sigh of wind through the orchard. “I’ve decided I want to call him Aubrun.”

Aldrin’s eyebrows lifted — they had spoken of names, but this one had never been among them.

“A name for autumn,” Auriel murmured, her gaze tender. “For the red of the leaves, for the warmth that lingers even as the days grow cool.”

With shaking hands, Aldrin took the child into his arms — this most precious, fragile cargo — and cradled him close. His smile widened as he repeated the name, his voice thick with emotion.

“Aubrun, my son.”

Word spread to all corners of Cervinia and beyond: from the highest noble to the humblest citizen, all were told that King Aldrin Oakvale had a new-born son — Prince Aubrun Oakvale, Prince of the Sun-Gilded Court.

Inside the grand dining hall of Aldrin’s palace, laughter rang out, mingling with the sounds of antlers clashing and heads thumping together as the wine poured and the merriment swelled. Around the vast room, Wolf, Rabbit, and Otter folk lay sprawled in all manner of positions, their tankards empty or spilling across the stone floors. Only the Stags, famed for their high tolerance to strong drink, remained standing, roaring with cheer, still hoisting brimming cups.

Much of that tolerance, of course, came from generations raised on the potent brews of Solbrae. Here, where the long, sun-drenched days ripen fruits to bursting and warmth hastens fermentation, the art of brewing has been perfected over centuries. Beers, lagers, ciders, meads, wines, champagnes — the best and strongest in the land all flowed from the skilled hands of Solbraean master brewers. Those seeking a drink that could floor even the hardiest beast in a single sip knew there was no finer place to come.

That night, the palace cellars had been thrown wide open. Casks of cider as sweet as sun-warmed apples, deep red wines rich with plum and cherry, golden meads thick with honey — they poured without end. The revelry was a testament not only to the birth of a prince but to the proud, age-old traditions of a kingdom that knew how to celebrate.

Aldrin was now deeply inebriated, stumbling his way back toward his chambers. His guests were either weaving just as unsteadily through the halls or lying passed out in chairs, on cushions, or even sprawled across the great dining room floor, snoring softly beneath the flickering torches.

Meanwhile, his two children — five-year-old Caelen and two-year-old Elenya — were quietly led away from the noise, down the dim corridor, by their nanny, a greying, dumpy doe named Agartha.

Agartha shuffled softly over the polished stone, her hooves making barely a whisper, one hand resting gently on Caelen’s small shoulder, the other steadying little Elenya, who clung sleepily to her skirts with thumb in mouth and a crumpled blanket trailing from her arm. Behind them, the raucous sounds of the feast faded, swallowed by the heavy stone walls, until only the faint crackle of a hearth ahead remained.

The nursery smelled of lavender and fresh linen, the faint glow of a single lantern spilling out through the cracked door. Inside, the hearth cast a soft, golden light across the cradle where the new-born stirred in his blankets.

The door creaked softly as Agartha opened it, ushering in the wide-eyed children. Caelen’s curiosity had carried him past his bedtime, while Elenya yawned and rubbed her eyes, her face half-hidden against Agartha’s side.

Queen Auriel sat by the fire, wrapped in a pale robe, her figure still and graceful in the cushioned chair. Her pale face was serene but drawn with tiredness, her ears flicking faintly as she looked up. A faint smile touched her lips as she stretched out a hand. “Come here, my darlings.”

Agartha gave them an encouraging nudge. Caelen trotted forward eagerly, tugging a drowsy Elenya behind him.

Auriel smiled faintly as they came close. “You have a little brother now,” she murmured, her voice soft and a touch hoarse. She rested her delicate hand on Caelen’s tousled head. “His name is Aubrun.”

Caelen’s eyes lit up. “Aubrun,” he repeated carefully, tasting the new name. “Can I see him, Mama?”

Auriel nodded. “Gently, now.”

The boy stood on tiptoe beside the cradle, peering over the edge. The tiny fawn squirmed softly under the blankets; his little antler buds were barely visible beneath the velvet of his brow. Caelen reached out, brushing a careful finger along the baby’s small hand, gasping when tiny fingers instinctively curled around his own.

Elenya, half-asleep, clutched her blanket and peered shyly from behind Agartha’s skirts, blinking at the cradle but too timid to approach.

Auriel gave a soft, tired laugh, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “You’ll both be good to him, won’t you?”

Caelen puffed out his small chest. “I’ll teach him everything, Mama!”

Agartha chuckled, lifting Elenya gently into her arms. “Come now, little lord and lady. Your father and his stags will be drinking till the moon’s down. Time for your beds.”

Caelen gave the cradle one last lingering glance, then followed Agartha reluctantly, still murmuring the name under his breath: “Aubrun… Aubrun…”

As they left, Auriel leaned back in her chair with a faint, weary sigh, gazing down at the tiny bundle resting quietly in the cradle. Outside the windows, the night stretched cold and dark, but inside these stone walls, the soft glow of family and celebration filled every corner.

Several days later, in a ceremony held within the grand cathedral of the Great Stag, nobles and dignitaries from surrounding kingdoms gathered to witness Aubrun’s naming and crowning.

Swaddled in a golden silk blanket, Aubrun was held in his mother’s arms as prayers were chanted and ancient songs sung. When the time came, she handed her infant to the High Priest, who wore brilliant white robes embroidered with gold, emblazoned upon his chest with the Great Stag standing within a large yellow sun. He held the fawn carefully and anointed his brow with oil from a font, a watery liquid drawn from a sacred pool in Gloamreach — a pool said to have been created by the Great Stag's tears.

Another prayer was offered, asking the Great Stag to watch over the fawn, to guide his steps, and that he might bring honour and pride to his family.

Afterward, Aubrun was returned to his mother’s arms, and a small crown — woven from the branches of orchard trees — was presented to his father. Aldrin raised the crown high above his head, then lowered it carefully into the High Priest’s waiting hands.

“In the name of the Great Stag, and by the will of His Royal Highness King Aldrin Oakvale, I crown you Prince Aubrun Oakvale, Prince of the Sun Valley.”

As the crown was placed gently over the fawn’s small ears, the cathedral erupted with cheers and clapping.

A feast followed — more orderly than the wild celebration after Aubrun’s birth. Nobles, royals, and honoured guests filed past Aubrun’s cradle, offering gifts, blessings, or promises to the child. Plates were set, cups filled, and laughter rose around the throne room.

Aubrun’s earliest memories were more impressions than anything else — soft colours and voices that wove through the golden halls of Golden Oak.

His father, Aldrin, was a tall, broad-shouldered stag, his antlers wide and imposing, his coat the deep chestnut brown of sun-warmed bark, and his hair darker still — rich, heavy, touched by age at the temples. His voice filled every room — firm, commanding, yet not without a certain rough warmth. To Aubrun, he seemed carved from the same stone as the mountains, unshakable and sure.

His mother, Auriel, was softer in every way. Her coat was pale and as fine as spun gold, but her hair, the long braid she wore woven with tiny orchard flowers, burned as red as autumn leaves. It was from her that Aubrun inherited his unruly copper hair, and her laughter was light and bright, like bells, the breath of spring itself.

His brother Caelen, five years his elder, already bore the look of a young storm when Aubrun was still small enough to fit in his mother’s arms. Bold and fearless, Caelen moved through the world with a heavy step and a sharper grin — quick to laughter, quicker still to fight.

Elenya, only two years older, was a flickering flame by comparison. Golden-blonde with a strawberry tint at the ends, she had their mother’s golden fur and their father’s keen grey eyes, with mischief always waiting behind her smile.

Up until Aubrun’s fifth year, his days were filled with simple joys: play, drowsy afternoons, long, sunlit naps.

But after he turned five, everything began to change. Slowly, and then all at once, his days became scheduled: rising before dawn, washed and dressed by servants, hours of meals, lessons, carefully arranged visits with his parents and siblings.

As he grew older, Aubrun came to understand why. But at five, it felt less like duty and more like a quiet cruelty — the first hints of a life no longer quite his own.

It was not all bad, though. He fondly remembered breaks in the long schedules: lazy summer picnics by the lake, cold winter nights by the hearth, listening to his mother’s stories of wizards, witches, and knights. His father stretched out on the rug, laughing as the children clambered over him, tickling them, letting them dangle from his strong arms.

When Aubrun turned six, he attended his first Royal Court. He had been sitting on a small throne beside his father, the crown given at his naming ceremony had been perched carefully atop his small head. Both of them wore garments of the darkest green, draped with matching chains of office — finely wrought silver, set with sapphires gleaming like drops of sky.

He watched the Royal Chamberlain announce each audience, striking his staff sharply upon the stone floor. Nobles and citizens filed before them, bowing or curtsying as they made their petitions. Aubrun watched his father closely, eager to learn.

He noticed how Aldrin brightened when speaking with the citizens, his shoulders squaring, his voice warming with genuine interest. But when it was the nobles — especially those who droned on about petty intrigues — his father’s posture sagged slightly, a sigh hidden in the set of his jaw.

Even then, Aubrun began to wonder if his father ever wished he could trade his heavy crown for a place by the hearth, laughing beneath the orchard trees, without a care in the world.

That same year, Aubrun attended his first royal dinner and ball. He never forgot the wonder.

Nobles had come from across the world: Cervinians with gleaming antlers, Does in flowing, shimmering gowns, Otters in fine coats adorned with river pearl buttons, Wolves — only two among the crowd, unforgettable in splendid blue coats and black breeches, their tails swaying with emotions their smiles tried to hide. A Bird noble from Skyrend, his emerald-and-gold plumage shining, laughed with his whole chest, his voice rising like a song carried on the wind.

There were Lapponians, too — rabbits in rich velvet robes, ears adorned with tiny golden cuffs and bells. Two sleek, dark-coated Cats stood apart, their high-collared jackets and graceful movements sharper than any sword.

Everywhere Aubrun looked, there was colour and music, the twirl of skirts, the clink of goblets, the low hum of conversation. In that moment, the world seemed bigger, brighter, than he had ever dared imagine.

When the first course arrived, roasted river fish on early greens, Aubrun sat up straighter, smoothing his sleeves like Mistress Rowan, one of his many tutors, had taught him. Right hand in the lap, left hand for the fork. Small bites, small sips, never slouch.

Across the table, Elenya laughed easily with one of the younger lords, her light sparkling like water. Caelen, beside her, looked every inch the future general — protective, composed. Aubrun kept his head down, determined not to embarrass himself.

“Aubrun.” His father’s voice made him glance up sharply. King Oakvale’s gaze was steady.

“You will be accompanying your sister to the ball this evening.”

Aubrun blinked, startled. He had not expected to be addressed directly. He knew Caelen would be at Elenya’s side — that was natural — but himself?

“Yes, Father,” he said quickly, trying not to sound too surprised.

Aldrin gave a small nod, and the matter was settled.

Elenya’s glance flicked to him — quick, warm, a flash of a smile. Aubrun smiled back, the knot of nervousness inside him loosening slightly. He knew, without being told, that this had been his mother’s idea — the kind of small kindness she always slipped in where his father’s mind was too full of politics and treaties.

The second course arrived: herb-roasted chicken with sweetroot mash and wilted greens, plates almost too beautiful to touch. Conversation rose, laughter threading through the hall, musicians striking up a lilting melody.

Aubrun tried to eat, though his stomach was knotted with nerves. His gaze wandered to the far end, where the Lapponian delegates sat — all dark fabrics and serious faces. There, among them, was a boy around his own age.

The candlelight caught in the boy’s black fur, silver at the edges, and something about his stillness struck Aubrun — the way he didn’t shrink himself smaller, the way Aubrun sometimes did. Before he could look away, the young Lapponian glanced up.

For a moment—just a moment—their eyes met across the tables. Aubrun’s chest tightened, like stepping into a current that tugged at him before he could brace himself.

He didn’t know this Lapponian.

He didn’t know why it mattered.

Then the boy turned back to his advisor, breaking the connection like it had never happened. Aubrun looked back at his plate, flustered for reasons he couldn’t explain.

Elenya leaned closer, her voice low and teasing. “You’ll have to dance well,” she said, nudging his foot under the table. “All eyes will be on us.”

Aubrun managed a laugh, though his mind was still caught on that strange, fleeting moment.

The dessert was the famed Solbrae apple pie, served with custard or cream. Aubrun had savoured every bite—the apples were never too sharp, yet never overly sweet, and the pastry stayed sturdy even under the custard or cream. Not a single guest left without having seconds.

At the end of the meal, the ballroom doors were thrown open with a swell of music, and the flood of candlelight from within seemed to catch all the gold and silver in the world at once.

The ballroom was a circular room with a highly polished marble floor, ringed by white columns decorated in carved golden oak leaves, that held up a dome roof from which hung a large main chandelier made from beech wood, its arms reaching outwards like tree branches. Aubrun stayed close behind Elenya and Caelen as they stepped forward — Caelen offering Elenya his arm with all the easy confidence he'd had since the day he was born, and Aubrun a step behind, trying not to trip over his own feet.

Great banners hung down from poles around the room — deep green and rich gold, the colours of Solbrae — and everywhere Aubrun looked, there were flowers tucked into braids, pinned at belts, woven into the buttons of jackets and gowns.

But none of it was as lovely as watching his parents take the floor.

Auriel and Aldrin stood at the centre of the room, the musicians slowing their tune into the beginning notes of a waltz.

They bowed to each other — Aldrin low and precise, Auriel graceful as a falling leaf — and when they came together, it was like watching something ancient and perfect being played out for the hundredth time.

Aubrun had always loved watching them dance.

His father, usually so stern and stiff, would soften when he held Auriel in his arms.

She would laugh, low and secret, just for him.

They made it look easy, effortless, as if the music carried them rather than their own feet.

The rest of the guests circled them, waiting for the cue to begin.

Aubrun shifted his weight from foot to foot, already feeling the prickling nerves return at the thought of stepping out there to be amongst expert dancers.

Elenya must have sensed it; she glanced over her shoulder at her younger sibling and gave him a tiny, encouraging smile.

When the first waltz ended, Aldrin bowed and Auriel curtsied, applause rippled through the hall like a soft rain, and then the floor came alive once again with colour and motion as the other dancers joined in.

The music quickened, and the space around them thinned.

Elenya squeezed Caelen’s arm and tugged him toward the dance floor with a bright laugh, her skirts swishing as she moved.

Aubrun hesitated a moment longer, standing at the edge of the polished floor, watching as the dancers spun and dipped under the flickering candlelight.

He wasn’t ready.

Not really.

The dance floor blurred into a whirl of colours and music — gold and green and the flash of bright river-blue.

Aubrun hung back for a breath, his little heart hammering harder than it should have.

Everyone else looked so effortless — spinning, dipping, stepping in time with the music like they'd been born knowing how.

He knew the steps. Mistress Rowan, his dancing tutor, had drilled them into him for weeks. But knowing and doing were different things entirely.

He was just about to retreat toward the edge when a familiar figure approached him through the crowd.

His Mother.

She smiled — the kind of smile that made the whole room feel quieter, even though the music played on.

She wore a gown of soft gold, light as sun-warmed silk, and when she held out her hand to him, it was without expectation, without pressure. Just a simple, open offer.

"May I have this dance?" she asked, her voice warm and teasing.

Aubrun hesitated for only a second before taking her hand.

Her fingers curled around his, steady and sure. She led her son onto the floor as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and somehow the knot in his stomach loosened a little with every step we took.

His mother curtsied low with a flourish, and Aubrun stumbled into a bow a half-second late.

She laughed — not unkindly — and squeezed his hand again and drew him in close to her, placing his hands where they needed to be.

The music shifted, lifting into a lighter waltz, and they began to move.

At first, Aubrun was stiff, counting the steps in his head — left, back, right, forward — but his Mother hummed the melody under her breath, guiding him gently.

He soon found the rhythm in her voice, in the slight pressure of her hand on his shoulder, and soon enough, the floor no longer seemed like walking through treacle.

He dared a glance up.

Her eyes were bright with pride.

"You’re doing beautifully," she said, as if he were already a grown prince, already someone worthy of standing tall in this hall of shining people.

His throat tightened, but he smiled, and together we spun once, twice, across the floor.

The dance lasted well into the small hours of the night.

Aubrun, however, was long gone before the dance’s end.

Aubrun did not remember falling asleep.

One moment, he was standing at the edge of the ballroom, having finished his third dance, watching the swirl of colours and light, the laughter rising like smoke to the rafters — and the next, strong arms lifted him easily off his feet.

Caelen found his younger brother curled across two velvet-cushioned chairs near the wall, fast asleep. His sash had slipped from his shoulder, and a single slipper was missing. With a quiet chuckle, Caelen scooped him up into his arms.

Caelen chuckled low under his breath as Aubrun mumbled some protest against Caelen’s shoulder.

"You'll thank me tomorrow, little buck," he said, ruffling his brother’s hair with one hand as he carried the fawn out past the great doors.

Aubrun grumbled something back, but it was lost to the heavy pull of sleep.