The Cradle didn't believe in taking things slow.
By the end of Ares' second full day in this stone fortress, he'd been dragged through five different elemental shrines like a rag doll – Fire, Water, Earth, Lightning, and Ice – all in one endless, breathless loop that left his head spinning and his mana core buzzing like an angry bee.
He didn't go back to the Wind shrine. He'd already been poked and prodded there on his first day, feeling the weight of invisible eyes watching every breath he took. This crazy rotation was all about completing the other elements, checking off boxes on some master list he couldn't see.
But the Wind shrine had been completely off-limits today. Nobody even mentioned it, like it didn't exist. The instructors acted like there were only five shrines instead of six, which was weird enough to make Ares' skin crawl.
He tucked that strange detail away in the back of his mind, filed under "Things That Don't Make Sense But Probably Should." The Cradle didn't do anything by accident – every choice was planned, every test had a purpose, even the stuff that looked random.
---
After the last shrine session left him feeling like a wrung-out dishrag, he was herded down a long, echoing corridor that stretched out like the inside of a giant's throat. The floor was polished black stone so shiny it worked like a dark mirror, reflecting the dancing torchlight and making it look like he was walking on liquid fire.
Four small wooden chairs sat in a perfect square in the center of an otherwise completely empty chamber. The room felt cold and formal, like a judge's courtroom. Three other five-year-olds were already seated, their backs straight as arrows and their eyes darting around nervously.
Two boys, two girls. All of them pure-blooded nobles wearing the same bright red cloth sash that marked them as fresh meat – first-year initiates who probably still missed their mommies.
Ares took the fourth chair, the wooden seat creaking slightly under his weight.
Noble Conduct and Etiquette Class.
The name sounded about as dangerous as a tea party with stuffed animals. It was absolutely not.
The instructor – a tall, thin woman named Mistress Helyra – wore no armor and carried no sword. But her tongue could slice through a person's pride like a hot knife through butter, and her pale blue eyes could strip away someone's dignity faster than a lightning bolt.
For the next hour, they were grilled harder than fish over a campfire. Perfect posture – spine straight, shoulders back, chin up but not too far. Speaking rhythm – clear words, proper pace, no stammering or mumbling. Bowing angles – exactly fifteen degrees for equals, thirty for superiors, never more than forty-five even for royalty. Greeting forms that changed depending on who you were talking to and what time of day it was. Bloodline hierarchies that were more complicated than a spider's web. Imperial table manners that had rules for which fork to use with which food.
Ares kept up without breaking a sweat. His previous life had been stuffed full of movies, history books, and political TV shows that taught him how to fake being fancy. He knew how to hold his shoulders, how to speak without sounding like a street kid, and how to bow just deep enough to show respect without looking weak.
But he noticed one of the girls – a tiny thing with copper-colored braids – stumbling over a formal greeting phrase, her tongue tripping over the fancy words like they were made of thorns.
Mistress Helyra didn't yell. She didn't even raise her voice. She just looked at the girl with those ice-cold eyes, one perfectly arched eyebrow lifting by exactly one millimeter. That single look hit the poor kid like a slap, making her shrink down in her chair like she wanted to disappear into the floor.
By the time the session ended, Ares had learned something new and important about how the Cradle worked:
Power wasn't always loud and flashy. Sometimes it walked on quiet feet and cut people down with nothing but silence and a raised eyebrow.
---
As he made his way back toward the living quarters, his footsteps echoing in the empty hallways, the corridor ahead split into three different paths like a fork in the road. One familiar figure stepped out from a side hallway – Roul de Eisenklinge, still wearing his sleeveless gray training tunic and a cloth wrap tied around his waist like a belt.
He lifted one hand in a lazy wave, like they were old friends meeting for lunch.
Ares picked up his pace to walk beside him, their footsteps falling into rhythm on the stone floor.
"So how was your day?" Roul asked, his voice casual but his eyes alert. "Survive your first real day of Cradle fun?"
"Five shrines," Ares said, trying to sound as tired as he felt. "All of them except Wind."
Roul's left eyebrow twitched upward, a tiny sign of surprise. "They made you do five in one day? Holy shit. You must've made someone very curious about what you can do."
"Or very nervous," Ares muttered, thinking about all those instructors scribbling notes while he sat on their testing circles.
"Yeah, that's how they work," Roul said with a knowing nod. "They like to poke things that might explode – just to see if they'll break apart or blow up bigger than anyone expected."
They walked in comfortable silence for a few steps, their shoes making soft sounds on the polished stone. Then Ares added, "After all that, they stuck me in etiquette class with Mistress Helyra."
"Oof." Roul actually winced like someone had hit him. "That's rough."
"That bad?"
"Worse than bad. I once bowed exactly two degrees too low during a greeting exercise. Thought she was going to have me executed on the spot." He shuddered dramatically. "Woman's got eyes like a hawk and twice the attitude."
That made Ares grin despite his exhaustion. "She corrected one girl today without saying a single word. Just looked at her. I swear I watched that kid's soul try to crawl right out of her body and hide under the chair."
They both chuckled quietly, the sound echoing off the stone walls as they walked deeper into the fortress.
But then Roul's tone shifted, becoming more serious and careful. "Since you're still new around here, let me give you the basics about our age group. There's three people you need to watch out for."
"I'm listening," Ares said, his attention sharpening like a blade.
"First one's Thorne de Eisenklinge. He's seven, but he fights like he's ten. Absolutely brutal in sword duels. Kid's already been Class Captain twice, which is pretty much unheard of."
"Noted," Ares said, filing the name away.
"Second is Vael de Eisenklinge. He's eight years old and acts all friendly and helpful – big smiles, offers to share his food, always ready with a joke." Roul paused. "He's absolutely not friendly. That smile's got more poison than a snake's bite."
Ares raised one eyebrow. "Good to know."
"And third is Marion le Eisenklinge. She's nine, almost ready to graduate to the next level. Doesn't talk much, keeps to herself, reads books during free time." Roul's voice dropped even lower. "But she's the most dangerous one of all. Wind and fire magic, perfect precision casting, and she plans everything three moves ahead. Don't cross her unless you've thought it through very, very carefully."
Ares listened intently, memorizing every name and detail like his life might depend on it someday.
Roul stopped at their door and glanced sideways at him, studying his face in the flickering torchlight. "You've got good instincts, kid. That's rarer than you might think in a place like this. But don't let anyone else smell it too early, you know? Keep that sharp brain of yours hidden until you're ready to use it."
Ares nodded slowly. He didn't mention who he really was – that he was the Patriarch's actual son, the sixteenth child, born with the purest blood in the entire family line.
It didn't matter here anyway. In the Cradle, your family name got you through the door, but after that, you had to prove yourself with your own hands and your own magic.
Roul pushed open their door, and they stepped into the quiet peace of their small stone room. One candle flickered on the desk, casting dancing shadows on the walls.
One of them was born to power, destined to inherit a throne.
The other just happened to be walking beside him, trying to survive each day.
And somewhere in the dark corridors of the fortress, the Cradle watched them both with invisible eyes, taking notes, making plans, deciding who would rise and who would fall.
In the distance, a bell chimed seven times. Curfew.
Time to rest, because tomorrow would bring new tests, new challenges, and new ways for the fortress to try to break them down or build them up.
Ares blew out the candle and settled onto his narrow bed, but his mind stayed wide awake, spinning with names and faces and plans for the days ahead.