I am five now.
But let me be more specific: I am five, it is morning, and I am under siege.
Not by swords. Not by sacred exorcists. Not even by that illiterate paladin who once tried to purify me with a mop and a prayer.
No—by something far worse.
Maids. With dresses.
"Milord, look at this one! The embroidery is pure starlace! You'll look divine in it!"
"No, no, this one's better! Crimson silk with a shadow-frill collar will suit his silver hair. More noble! More mysterious!"
"But he has his mother's complexion. The lilac will bring out his cheeks—"
"He's not a fruit basket, Clarisse!"
"They're cheeks, not peaches!"
They bickered like harpies over a treasure hoard, swarming me with fabrics, ribbons, boots, hats, gloves, and stars know what else. My bed had vanished beneath a mountain of glitter and crushed velvet. My wardrobe hung open like a mouth mid-scream. A very judgmental, well-dressed mouth.
In the corner, a footman tried to escape with his dignity still intact, carrying what looked like a box of jeweled buttons.
A button rolled to my feet. It was shaped like a tiny dragon. I stepped on it. I did not flinch.
I sat on the floor, legs crossed, face blank, in my favorite black undershirt and shorts, watching them with the dead-eyed stillness of a wolf in a cage.
A very small, incredibly stylish, chronically underappreciated wolf.
"Enough," I said quietly.
They did not hear me.
"He'll be the center of the ballroom! Everyone will talk about the Duke's little prince!"
"Especially if he wears the sapphire velvet cloak—"
"The boots with the white fur would go well—"
I leaned forward. "I said," I repeated, more forcefully, "Enough."
Then I pointed to the simplest item in sight. A black cloak. Slightly too large. No frills. No glitter. Just ominous, dramatic, wonderful fabric.
"Just wear me that black cloak."
A silence finally settled like snowfall.
Both maids turned, blinking. Clarisse, the bubbly brunette with eyes so wide she could see time, and Magda, the older, sterner one who looked like she ironed her soul along with her uniforms, stood frozen with dresses in hand.
They looked at me as if I'd just summoned a demon.
Which, to be fair, I had once—by accident. When I was three.
(That incident ended with one fried pantry and a very confused chicken that spoke Latin for a week. Gallus sum. Pane requiro.)
"I do not require fifty-seven variants of noblewear," I said coldly, standing up like a shadow risen from a pile of sparkle. "I require silence, comfort, and freedom."
They exchanged glances. I narrowed my crimson eyes, channeling just enough leftover devilish pressure to twist the air.
A vase cracked. The air shimmered faintly. A distant hallway mirror shattered.
Clarisse trembled. Magda swallowed hard.
My presence, when I focused, could still weigh like stone upon a mortal's spirit. Not enough to crush—but enough to make knees buckle. Enough to remind them I was not normal.
And then—
"Kyaaaaa—!" Clarisse squealed.
"He's so serious! Look at him scowl!" Magda added with a grin.
"Like a tiny angry noble kitten!"
"I—what."
"You're adorable when you glare, milord!" Clarisse beamed.
"Like a doll trying to start a revolution!" Magda chuckled.
I stared at them, frozen. My aura sputtered like a dying candle.
No. No. That's not… You're supposed to kneel, not giggle! Tremble! Wail!
My intimidation technique… failed.
No. Worse.
It backfired. My cheeks heated.
The intimidation which caused superior gods to tremble and kneel now looks cute in their eyes. Of course, it would be a different story if I mixed my soul aura with it.
Though—granted—this entire castle along with some kilometers of land would be annihilated and my body would explode unable to bear my own essence.
So… no. Not yet. But oh, it's tempting.
"Should we get the tiara?" Clarisse whispered, not-so-whispering.
"I heard the jeweler enchanted it to sparkle when he smiles," Magda whispered back with all the subtlety of a cannon.
I am not a toy. I am not a doll. I am the former Sovereign of Hell, the Breaker of Pacts, the Flame of the Forsaken.
Clarisse held up a pair of lace-trimmed mittens.
I held up a finger.
"No mittens."
"But—"
"No."
"We could just try it on to see—"
"Clarisse," I said slowly, "when I was two, I made a grown warlock cry by staring at him. I made a cat renounce violence. I once whispered into a priest's dream and made him quit theology."
She blinked. "Yes?"
"And if you try to put lace on me again, I will resurrect a chicken demon and have it perform your wedding rites in Latin."
"…I'm not even engaged."
"You will be. And it will be weird."
She lowered the mittens. "Understood, milord."
Magda cleared her throat. "So… the black cloak it is?"
"Yes," I said, triumphant. "Dramatic. Grim. Fitting of my station."
"Do you want the tiny hat with the bat brooch—?"
"Out."
Both maids curtsied—awkwardly, due to all the loose fabric—and hurried out, giggling to each other.
I slumped back onto the velvet pile, defeated but clothed in victory. One small win for a five-year-old boy. One large win for the Dark Arts of Dignity.
As the maids scurried out—giggling like schoolgirls who'd just dressed a war criminal in cupcake frosting—a knock tapped at the door.
Not a hard one. Not urgent. Just a soft, rhythmic knock knock—like rain on a coffin.
"Fuoco."
I froze.
"…Mother."
Yes.
Her.
The only being in this castle I feared more than an omniscient creator.
My mother.
To others, she was a quiet, intellectual noblewoman. Unassuming. Graceful. Forgotten by court gossip like a side salad no one ordered.
But to me?
She was something far more dangerous.
A soncon.
An overprotective mother with the will of a dragon and the stealth of a library ghost.
She entered without waiting, gliding across the room like a cold breeze made of jasmine and disappointment. Her pale violet gown barely whispered against the carpet. The servants who saw her often forgot she'd been there at all.
I once watched her scare a tax auditor into giving us money.
"How many times must I tell the staff not to exhaust you before parties?" she sighed, kneeling beside me with clinical grace. "You're delicate. Fragile. Your constitution hasn't yet caught up with your growth curve. And if they damage your spirit before your core stabilizes—"
"My spirit is stable," I interrupted flatly.
Her eyes flicked to my hands.
"Your hands are shaking."
I looked. Damn it. They were. Slight tremors. Probably from aura recoil. Or rage. Or emotional whiplash from being compared to a revolutionary kitten.
I clenched them into fists. "That's nothing."
She reached out and gently tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear.
That gesture.
Snow on skin. Fire under bone.
I didn't flinch. But I didn't lean into it either. I let her do it like some helpless mortal prince in a bedtime painting.
"I'll speak to the lord," she murmured, like a war general announcing a ceasefire. "He agreed to limit your ceremonial duties until you're grown up."
"Stop coddling me."
"I will coddle you until the stars die."
And then you'll knit me a scarf from their corpses, won't you?
I frowned. "I'm not weak."
"I know."
Her smile turned wistful. Sad, almost. "But you're still my little child."
I looked away.
She always did this.
Every time I showed even a glimmer of independence, she gently crushed it beneath an avalanche of unconditional love and warm fingers.
I had once ruled the infernal legions with an iron trident. Dismantled kingdoms with whispered lies. Rewrote the seven sins into thirteen for fun. I was Asmodus.
Supreme Sovereign of Damnation.
And yet—
I couldn't look this mortal woman in the eyes when she called me hers.
"You should kill her," the old voice in me whispered again. Low. Cold. From the bottom of the soul-pit. "She's a weakness. Cut it."
"I know," I thought.
"She clouds your judgment. Unravels your will. She makes you... feel."
"…I know."
"But you won't."
I didn't reply.
She stood up, brushing her skirt off as if she hadn't just reached into my ribs and crushed my infernal pride with a warm hug made of sentences.
"I brought you something," she said lightly, like we hadn't just exchanged emotional gut punches.
She reached into her sleeve—yes, her sleeve, where most women keep perfume and handkerchiefs, she stores mysterious emotional traps—and pulled out a small glass orb.
It shimmered faintly with silver mist.
"A ward. Passive. Just a little stabilizer. It'll help if your soul aura spikes again."
I blinked. So, she noticed.
"…You invented this?"
She gave me a look. "Who else? The court mages? Please. They still think soul theory is a metaphor."
I took it, wordlessly. It was cool in my palm.
It purred. Actually purred. Like a spirit-cat napping in my hand. That hardly did anything for my soul.
She leaned down, kissed my forehead.
And then she was gone.
The door closed behind her with a soft click.
I sat there, staring at the orb.
"I hate this," I muttered aloud.
The orb chirped. Sympathetically.
Somewhere beneath the stone floors, I could sense the castle's foundational runes twitching. Not in danger. Just mildly offended.
"…Tch."
I got up, brushing imaginary dust off my black cloak. The maids had actually done a decent job. It flowed just right. Looked dramatic in candlelight.
"Milord, the guests have begun to arrive," said a trembling voice outside.
I exhaled.
Time to descend into the lions' den. Nobles, priests, fluttering fans, and poisoned smiles. The ballroom of social combat.
I cracked my neck, rolled my shoulders.
Knock knock.
The door creaked open again—this time, not a giggling maid or my terrifyingly tender mother, but a man made of steel and shouting.
A knight, clad in full regalia, stood at attention. His armor gleamed like it had been aggressively bullied by polish for three hours straight. The plume on his helmet curled in an elegant crimson arc, like a flamingo doing yoga.
"Shall we, milord?" he asked, his voice stern, rehearsed, and almost certainly stolen from a stage play.
I nodded.
And thus began the funeral march to my own birthday.
We walked down the polished corridor toward the Grand Ballroom—Grand as in "big enough to house an army," and Ballroom as in "room where children like me are paraded in front of corrupt nobles and retired witches."
The knight halted at the top of the marble stairs that led down into the ballroom's open maw.
He drew his sword—not to fight, alas—but to tap the floor thrice.
The marble rang like a bell. The music below quieted.
And then, with the thunderous authority of someone who'd practiced yelling into wind tunnels, he declared:
"ANNOUNCING: Young Lord Fuoco Cattivo—youngest son of House Cattivo—on the celebration of his fifth year of glorious birth..."
(Yes. He really said "glorious birth.")
"...makes his entrance."
I tilted my head. "Makes his entrance"? That's not how proper noble etiquette phrases it. Who hired this amateur?
A moment passed.
He blinked. "I-I mean—graces us with his presence."
Much better. That sounded appropriately obnoxious and reverent.
I took one breath.
Straightened my back.
Lifted my chin.
And stepped forward into the sunlight of the corridor, just as the music below resumed—light strings and cheerful flutes fluttering like birds high on sugar and social expectations.