The first light of dawn crept through the tall arched windows of Beatrix's private wing like a curious cat, painting golden stripes across the polished marble floor. The morning air carried the scent of jasmine from the garden below, mixed with the crisp mountain breeze that always found its way through the castle walls.
Within the boy-sized bed wrapped in rich navy covers that seemed too fancy for someone so small, a pair of sharp eyes blinked open. No yawning. No stretching. Just awareness, instant and complete.
Ares Eisenklinge, now five years old, sat upright with the kind of perfect posture that would make even the castle's stiffest guards look like slouching teenagers. His black hair had grown longer over the years, now tied loosely at the nape of his neck with a simple leather cord. As he turned toward the window, the morning light caught the strands, making them shimmer like dark silk.
He began his morning routine exactly as he had for the past four years: in complete silence.
The floorboards didn't even creak as he shifted into position. With practiced ease, he sat cross-legged atop his bed, back straight as a sword, and placed both small hands over the right side of his chest. Beneath his ribs, his mana core pulsed with familiar warmth, no longer the wild, untamed thing it had been as a baby, but something controlled, refined, shaped by years of quiet discipline.
'Inhale.' The air filled his lungs slowly, deliberately.
'Hold.' He counted heartbeats, feeling the mana respond to his will.
'Exhale.' The energy flowed through him like water finding its course.
The mana obeyed his call now. Not rushed or forced like a panicked horse, but flowing in smooth spirals that circulated through his body with the precision of a master craftsman's work. It was his secret dance, performed every dawn while the rest of the world still slept.
For five long years, he had nurtured this core in the shadows of his quiet life. While other noble sons his age were probably still wetting their beds and crying for their mothers, while older brothers clashed wooden swords in the courtyards and strutted around like peacocks before admiring servants, Ares had chosen a different path. He studied breath like a scholar, learned the structure of mana like an architect, and practiced stillness like a monk.
He had become something more than just a sensitive child who could feel emotions. He was a living map of the castle's heartbeat. He could identify people by the unique rhythm of their footsteps three corridors away. He knew when Cook was having a bad day because her mana felt thorny around the edges.
The servants thought he was just a quiet, well-behaved boy. They had no idea he was cataloguing their every mood, mapping their emotional patterns, learning to read the invisible currents that flowed between people like secret rivers.
Now, at five years old, he was no longer just a vessel waiting to be filled. He was a weapon being sharpened in secret, preparing for whatever came next.
A gentle knock interrupted his morning ritual, soft enough not to startle but firm enough to be heard.
"Come in," he said, his voice smooth and controlled, the tone of someone who had learned that words were tools, not toys.
The heavy wooden door creaked open on its ancient hinges, a sound that had become as familiar as his own breathing.
Beatrix stood in the doorway like a portrait come to life, her kind face lit by a warm smile that could melt even the coldest winter morning. In her hands, she carried a silver tray that gleamed in the dawn light, laden with what smelled like fresh bread and honey.
"You always wake before the sun finishes its climb into the sky," she said, stepping into the room with the graceful movements of someone who had spent years navigating castle corridors in the early hours.
"Habit," Ares replied simply, sliding down from his bed with fluid motion and padding across the cool marble floor to meet her. His bare feet made whisper-soft sounds against the stone. Without being asked, he took the tray from her hands, it was heavier than it looked, and placed it carefully on the polished side table beside his bed. "I like it when the world is quiet. People are... louder when they're awake."
Beatrix's expression softened as she leaned down to kiss his forehead, her lips warm against his skin. "You sound exactly like your father when you say things like that. He used to tell me the same thing when we were younger."
Ares scrunched up his face in an expression of mock horror that made him look like the child he actually was. "I sound more charming than Father, though. Right?"
Behind them, the door opened wider as Junia walked in, somehow managing to balance a stack of freshly folded linens that looked tall enough to topple a grown man. Her arms shook slightly under the weight, but her stride was confident. She had been doing this dance for years.
"Charming?" Junia snorted, nearly losing her grip on the towels. "This is the same boy who once tried to name his bedroom slippers 'Mana' and 'Flow' because he said they helped him focus better during morning meditation."
"They needed proper names," Ares said with the kind of perfect seriousness that only children could manage when defending their most important decisions. "Everything that helps with training deserves respect. Even slippers."
The sound of Beatrix's laughter filled the room like music, bright and genuine. Junia's own giggle made her wobble dangerously, the stack of linens swaying back and forth like a ship in rough seas.
"You're going to miss this," Ares said suddenly, his voice quieter now as he looked between the two women who had been his constant companions for five years. The words hung in the air like morning mist.
The laughter faded. A heavy pause settled over the room, thick with unspoken emotions.
Beatrix nodded slowly, her smile becoming softer, sadder. "Yes. It's nearly time, isn't it? The Cradle awaits."
Junia carefully lowered the stack of linens onto a nearby chair, her movements suddenly careful, deliberate. When she turned back to face them, her usually bright smile trembled at the edges like a candle flame in the wind. "Five whole years we've had you to ourselves. When you come back from training, you'll probably be taller than me."
"I'm already taller than you," Ares pointed out with the brutal honesty that only children possessed.
Junia grabbed one of the folded cloths from her stack and swatted at him playfully, her aim deliberately missing by inches. "And you're still completely insufferable, you little monster."
Despite everything, the approaching separation, the uncertainty of what lay ahead, Ares grinned. It was a real smile, not the careful, controlled expressions he usually wore. For just a moment, he looked like exactly what he was: a five-year-old boy who loved the people taking care of him.
---
The Eisenklinge estate buzzed with energy these days, no longer the quiet fortress it had been during Ares's early years.
Over the past few seasons, the wind had carried many names through the castle corridors and training grounds, but two rose above all others like twin peaks on the horizon: Sigmund and Orren.
Sigmund, the first son and heir, was now seventeen and had finally completed his grueling five-year stint at the family's specialized training camp. The boy who had left at ten, already serious and focused—had returned as something else entirely. He now studied at the Imperial Academy, that legendary institution where only the cream of noble blood was sent to be forged into living weapons.
Stories trickled back from the Academy like drops of water through stone. Sigmund had left the family camp as a refined instrument of war, disciplined as a monk, deadly as a viper, efficient as a perfectly balanced blade. Though his elemental affinity remained at two, lightning and earth, he wielded them with a controlled ferocity that made even veteran knights watch their tone when addressing him.
His potential rating of Exalted was rare enough that grown men stepped aside when he walked past.
But then there was Orren.
The tenth son had always been different. Even as a small child, he had possessed the kind of burning ambition that made adults uncomfortable, constantly hungry for attention and recognition like a flame that could never find enough fuel. Now eight years old, his exceptional gifts had only fed that ego until it blazed like a bonfire visible from miles away.
The tenth son. The anomaly. The child who had shattered every expectation.
At his Cradle ceremony three years ago, something unprecedented had happened. The testing crystals hadn't just glowed, they had blazed with light so bright that witnesses had to shield their eyes. When the illumination finally faded, the impossible truth was revealed for all to see.
Four elemental affinities. Not one, not two, not even three, but four distinct magical resonances flowing through a single child's body.
It had been confirmed by multiple masters, witnessed by dozens of nobles, recorded in the family archives with shaking hands. Nothing like it had ever been seen before.
In all of Eisenklinge history, only one man had ever been born with three affinities: Lord Alaric himself, their current patriarch. His triple mastery of elements had been the foundation of his legendary reputation, the source of his power, the reason other noble houses spoke his name with a mixture of respect and fear.
And now his tenth son had surpassed even that impossible standard.
The whispers ran through the estate like wildfire through dry grass, spreading from the grand halls where nobles gathered to the outer barracks where common soldiers shared their evening meals:
"Four elements? That boy isn't just a prodigy, he's touched by the gods themselves."
"Think about it logically. Shouldn't the strongest lead us, not just whoever happened to be born first?"
"Sigmund is impressive, sure, but he's just following tradition. Orren is writing new history."
"I heard he can already control fire hot enough to melt steel, and he's only eight!"
Two distinct camps had begun forming throughout the estate, their boundaries invisible but real as castle walls. The division was quiet but unmistakable to anyone who knew how to read the subtle signs.
One faction backed Sigmund, the traditional choice, the proven leader, the heir who had earned his place through years of disciplined training and demonstrated strength. They valued stability, order, the tried and tested ways that had kept the Eisenklinge name powerful for generations.
The other group found themselves drawn to Orren, raw potential made manifest, destiny walking in child-sized boots, the promise of something greater than anyone had dared imagine. They whispered about prophecies and chosen ones, about bloodlines reaching their true peak after centuries of waiting.
Neither boy had spoken openly about the growing tension. They were still children, after all, focused on their training and studies. But the family had noticed the shift in atmosphere, the way conversations stopped when certain people entered rooms, the careful neutrality that had crept into formal gatherings.
Most importantly, Lord Alaric had noticed.
He had made no public statements about the brewing division in his household. No declarations of support for either son, no attempts to smooth over the growing rifts. He simply watched with those pale eyes that seemed to see everything, listened to reports from trusted advisors, and kept his own counsel.
But everyone in the estate understood one fundamental truth: when the Lord of the Eisenklinge was watching and waiting, it meant the storm was already gathering on the horizon. The only question was when it would break, and who would still be standing when the winds finally died down.
---
That evening, as the sun painted the sky in shades of orange and purple, Ares stood alone in the moonlit garden behind the castle. The training ring stretched before him, its sand raked smooth and ready for tomorrow's sessions. Wooden practice weapons stood in neat rows along the edges, their surfaces worn smooth by countless hands.
The air was cool against his skin, carrying the night sounds of the estate, distant laughter from the servants' quarters, the clang of metal from the forge where the blacksmith worked late, the soft hoot of an owl somewhere in the ancient oak trees.
Beatrix approached across the grass, her footsteps soft enough that only his trained senses detected her presence. She had changed from her formal day dress into something simpler, more comfortable for evening walks.
"Nervous about tomorrow?" she asked, coming to stand beside him. Her voice was gentle, the same tone she had used to comfort him through childhood nightmares and scraped knees.
"No," he replied without hesitation, his gaze fixed on the practice ring. "Just thinking."
"About what?"
He tilted his head slightly, considering his words carefully. "About what I'll become during the next five years. And how long it will take before everyone realizes what I actually am."
Beatrix smiled, but even in the dim light, he could see the glossy sheen of unshed tears in her eyes. She had been dreading this day for months, he knew. The day when her quiet, thoughtful boy would disappear into the brutal world of noble combat training.
"They will notice eventually," she said softly. "You're too special to hide forever."
"Let's hope it's not too early," Ares murmured, his young face serious as he looked up at the stars beginning to emerge in the darkening sky. "Some secrets are only powerful if you keep them secret."
Tomorrow morning, he would walk through the gates of the family's training compound. He would join the other young nobles in their daily routines of sword work and magical practice, physical conditioning and tactical studies. To everyone watching, he would appear to be just another Eisenklinge son beginning his mandatory five years of preparation.
They would have no idea that he had already been preparing for this moment since he could walk. That beneath his quiet exterior lay a mind that had spent years analyzing every weakness, cataloguing every strength, preparing for battles that hadn't even been fought yet.
Tomorrow, the careful construction of his public persona would begin.
And his five years of silence would finally end.