Time blurred into warmth and shadows.
There were no clocks. No responsibilities. No lessons. Just soft arms, calm voices, and quiet rooms. But while the rest of the world treated him like any other newborn, Ares was counting, not in days or hours, but in depth.
Each day, he felt something shift. Just a little. A quiet pressure in his gut. A faint thrum in his chest. Nothing violent. Nothing loud.
But constant.
---
He'd stopped trying to control anything weeks ago. He couldn't shape mana. Couldn't command it. He wasn't supposed to. He was still just a baby, biologically, at least.
But his seventeen-year-old mind never stopped working.
'The book said core formation begins naturally around age one.'
'Before that, mana is absorbed passively. Slowly. Breath by breath.'
'So this is what it feels like.'
There was no "pull." No suction. Just... a settling. Like breathing in warm air on a cold day, and feeling it gather deep in your lungs.
---
He noticed other things too.
Junia's mana always buzzed when she was anxious. Like a tight thread stretched too far.
Beatrix's remained steady. Warm. Not elemental, he couldn't sense that yet, but refined. Controlled.
It reminded him of an orchestra tuning in perfect silence.
'She's experienced. But not overwhelming. A support type, maybe? Or healing?
These were guesses. Nothing he could prove. But he was learning how mana behaved, how it clung to stress, flared under anger, faded with sorrow.
'If I can't shape it, I'll study how it lives.'
---
One night, while the moonlight filtered through sheer curtains and Beatrix slept beside his cradle, he focused inward again.
Not to manipulate.
Just to feel.
The warmth was there, just behind his navel. Subtle, like a candle that hadn't yet been lit.
But it was growing.
'Ambient mana is starting to settle. Slowly condensing.'
'I'm not ready to form a core yet... but I'm close.'
'When it happens, it'll be instinctive. Not a choice. But I want to be aware when it happens.
'Every prodigy in the book waited to understand. I'm going to understand before I even begin.'
He closed his eyes, baby-soft and fluttering, and let his thoughts drift with the mana.
No control.
No rush.
Just preparation.
' Let the others awaken at one. I'll be ready when it comes.'
---
Some children cried when held too tightly.
Others flailed or wailed or refused to sleep unless rocked for hours.
But not Ares.
Beatrix had raised no other children. She had no baseline. But she'd watched others over the years, noble infants passed between maids like trophies, sobbing boys dragged to early shrines, girls who clung to their mothers like lifelines.
Ares wasn't like them.
He rarely cried. He didn't babble or fuss unless hungry or tired. He barely even wriggled. He simply watched.
And that was what unsettled her most.
---
He was still just a baby, round-cheeked and soft, with downy black hair and heavy-lidded eyes. But those eyes…
They tracked.
They didn't just look.
They watched.
When she spoke, he listened. When Junia moved, he observed. When the candles flickered or the wind knocked at the windows, his gaze followed it all like he was memorizing the rhythm of the world.
Beatrix often found herself whispering to him, not to comfort him, but because some part of her believed he was already listening.
And not like an infant would.
Like someone waiting.
---
One morning, while brushing his hair near the open window, she paused mid-stroke. He was staring up at her, not in the hazy, unfocused way babies often did, but with a calm, steady gaze.
Too steady.
She stared back.
"What are you, little one?" she whispered, her voice barely above the breeze.
He blinked once.
Didn't smile.
Didn't coo.
Just watched.
---
She didn't tell Junia. There was no reason to. It wasn't dangerous. It wasn't wrong. He was healthy. Growing. Gentle.
But he was different.
And in the Eisenklinge family, different could mean everything.