[A month prior...]
The lamps, lanterns, and candles throughout the manor had been extinguished long before midnight. Whether their flames were natural or conjured, all had been deliberately snuffed out. Darkness filled every hallway and stretched itself along the walls like something that clung and watched. The manor had always been large, but at this hour it felt endless. The faint glow from the exterior torches, used only by knights and soldiers on patrol, barely reached the windows and left the inside swallowed in shadow.
Despite that, Andras walked the corridors without hesitation. The night had never frightened him. His footsteps were soundless on the long carpets, and the shadows parted gently in front of him, as if his presence alone softened the dark.
His eyes, blessed since birth, adjusted seamlessly. A faint vignette blurred the edges of his vision, yet the center remained crisp and clear. It was a strange gift. His tutors noticed it when he was younger, but he had learned to keep most of its truth to himself. His hair, usually a vibrant red that caught sunlight like a blaze, had dimmed into a soft maroon that made him blend slightly into the gloom. One of his most striking traits became muted, yet anyone who saw him would still know exactly who he was.
Red hair marked his lineage. Others, whether through birth or imitation, tried to claim the same color, but none achieved the same wild sheen and silky texture that his bloodline carried. His hair had always reminded old knights of a beast's mane, bold and alive, and younger servants said it flowed like water even when still.
He wondered briefly why he always thought of that at night. Perhaps because in the dark, the color lost its fire, and he felt a little less like the boy everyone expected him to be.
His thought drifted away when he heard voices ahead.
"Intruder!" a knight shouted as he turned the corner.
The sharp call snapped the air. The second knight raised his lantern higher. The small flame flickered wildly, unable to cut through the thickness of the dark.
The first knight approached with his hand on his sword. Andras paused, a breath caught in his chest, trying not to appear startled.
The lantern bearer squinted, leaned forward, then stopped. "Wait. Hold on."
Andras stepped into the dusty cone of lantern light. "Ser Richard. Ser Gild."
Recognition washed over both knights' faces.
"My lord, by the gods, you almost scared the wits out of us," Gild whispered. He let out a relieved laugh and pushed the lantern toward the boy. "Please take this with you. It is dangerous to roam around like this."
Andras accepted it only because refusing outright would seem rude. The lantern's glow stung his eyes. He blinked a few times, pretending it was nothing. He had never told anyone that light sometimes hurt him. "I appreciate it, Ser Gild. Truly. But…"
He raised one hand. A thin strand of fire traced around his finger like a thread of molten glass. The knights straightened, watching the tiny flame bloom gently, then rise above Andras's head. The fire grew into a floating sphere that cast a warm, steady glow across the hallway.
"I can use this instead," Andras said quietly and offered the lantern back.
For a few heartbeats the knights simply stared. Both were veteran men who had seen countless mages, yet magic without spoken incantation was something they encountered rarely, especially from someone so young.
Richard recovered enough to clear his throat and take the lantern back. "As you wish, my lord."
They bowed, murmured respectful farewells, and returned to their patrol. Andras waited until their footsteps faded into the distance before letting the fireball unravel into a silver thread and vanish into his fingertip.
The darkness returned, gentler than before, and he continued walking. These late-night wanderings had begun innocently. At first, he sought the library to read the books kept behind locked glass. He worked carefully, memorizing each creak of the shelves so he would not alert the librarians.
The manor was enormous, nearly a maze. There were guest rooms, servants' quarters, kitchens, storehouses, a ballroom, several offices, and long, empty corridors that seemed built only for echoes. His room stood in the third floor of the left wing, while the library waited across the manor in the right wing. His nightly trips often took him through the deeper halls, which explained why most knights had already grown used to the red-haired boy wandering the shadows.
But tonight he was not headed toward dusty shelves and secret pages. Tonight he sought his father.
He had gathered courage for several nights, waiting for the right moment. He wanted to ask for the steel blade he had been promised. A gift for his tenth birthday. His father had sworn it himself, and Andras had dreamed of it many times. But the war grew worse, famine spread, and the kingdom demanded every ounce of his father's time. Promises, even heartfelt ones, sometimes faded under the weight of duty.
His tutors always taught that patience was a virtue. And he tried. He really tried. Yet children carried hope like a flame cupped between their palms, always bright even when fragile. He convinced himself his father had simply forgotten.
So he would remind him. Gently. Hopefully.
As he neared his father's study, a thin strip of warm light shone beneath the door. It was slightly open, not fully shut, as if someone had entered in a rush.
He slowed his pace. His heart thumped once, heavy and loud, then steadied. He approached with quiet steps, but before he reached the door, voices drifted out.
"You should not be here."
The tone struck the air with controlled anger. Andras froze, every muscle tightening.
He pressed himself against the wall, eyes wide. For a moment, he feared the scolding was meant for him. But then he heard his mother's voice.
"You sleep here. You eat here. You live here more than you live with us." Her words trembled with emotion.
A relieved breath escaped him. They were speaking to each other, not to him. Very slowly, curiosity drew him closer. He leaned near the door, peering through the narrow gap.
His mother stood in the middle of the study, frustration painted across her face. She gestured sharply, her movements small but desperate. His father stood behind his desk, shoulders set, expression unreadable.
Andras felt the world dull around him. His hearing dimmed. Even the steady beat of his heart felt distant.
A faint glow returned to his vision. Everything became clearer again. He could hear his father's voice.
"...You think I do not hear the pain behind these doors?"
Andras blinked. Pain. His father, who never wavered, who carried himself like unbreakable iron, was speaking of pain.
Guilt worked its way into Andras's chest. He should not be listening. He stepped back. The voices blurred into muffled echoes as the fog of his thoughts thickened. For a moment he forgot to breathe.
Then he exhaled softly.
"Maybe… I should not have told mother about what I have been feeling," he whispered. He fiddled with his fingers, the familiar weight of worry settling over him. One confession from him had clearly grown into something larger.
He was tall for his age and carried himself with a presence that intimidated most children his age. His lineage alone made others nervous. But deep inside, he was gentle and almost painfully sensitive. One misstep was enough to send him spiraling into fear that he had caused trouble.
A sudden slam of words broke the air.
"Get out."
His father's voice was sharp and commanding. Andras panicked. He turned and ran, his footsteps soft but hurried. He ducked behind a corner and kept his eyes on the hallway.
His mother did not leave. She stood her ground, unmoving even after being ordered to go.
Of course she stayed. Stubbornness was in both their veins. Andras often wondered if that trait was the strongest inheritance he had.
He let out a shaky breath and decided to return to his room. The left wing felt comfortingly familiar, and the long walk back felt safer than remaining near the storm of their arguments. He imagined the scolding he would receive if he was discovered wandering at this hour. His father always had a lecture ready, usually about discipline or health or the responsibilities of their family. Even thinking about it made his shoulders tense.
He quickened his pace, the shadows shifting quietly around him as he moved. All he wanted was to reach the safety of his room before either parent realized he had been close enough to overhear anything at all.