{Elarion – Age 10, POV}
The Trial didn't just make us strong.
It made us perfect.
Not perfect in the way of dreams or ideals.
Perfect like machines.
Like polished statues trained to breathe, bow, kill, and kneel—without sound, without thought.
---
We woke at 4:00 a.m. sharp.
Not a second early. Not a second late.
From that moment, we trained.
Physical drills until our bones felt like splinters. Sword forms. Meditation. Precision drills. And etiquette—the most ruthless of all disciplines.
We were taught to sit without slouching, to stand without shifting, to speak only when spoken to, and to exit a room with silent, robotic grace.
Eyes forward. Back straight. Every step measured.
---
Food?
Only for survival. Never for joy.
We were served grey porridge, meat and watery soup—strictly balanced for nutrition. No sugar. No flavor. No warmth.
According to Crimsonveil's doctrine:
> "Sweetness weakens the body. Taste clouds focus. Eat to live. Never for pleasure."
---
If someone laughed, they were gone.
If someone yawned, they were gone.
If someone made noise while chewing—
They were gone.
No warning.
No threats.
Just… missing the next morning.
---
Even breathing had a rhythm.
Even bowing had a sequence.
Even silence had rules.
---
I followed everything.
Not because I feared punishment.
But because I learned that calculating each movement was the only way to remain in control.
But I wanted to , I wanted to break it, even once.
To exist in Crimsonveil, you had to become your own prison.
> Emotionless.
Flawless.
Puppets with bleeding hands and perfect posture.
---
Sometimes I wondered...
> Was this worse than hell?
At least in hell, you could scream.
Here, you couldn't even blink without being judged.
---
It didn't matter.
I was used to it.
But the others weren't.
I saw boys twitch in their sleep, flinching from nightmares.
I saw boys bite down on their tongues just to stop laughing when someone tripped.
And I saw what happened when someone slipped.
They vanished.
---
No bodies.
No goodbyes.
Just empty beds and colder mornings.
---
This wasn't training anymore.
This was refinement.
They weren't just forging blades.
They were creating flawless puppets.
And I—I had become their masterpiece.
---
We all sat down in perfect manner.
The hall was too quiet again.
The last fish sat still on the board. Silver scales flickered beneath the sunlight that slipped through the high windows.
Elarion's fingers curled around the blade, gaze trained not on the instructor, nor the boys beside him—but on the silent rhythm of precision that had governed his every action for months.
He angled the knife.
Sixty degrees.
He adjusted.
Seventy-five.
The steel bit through flesh—perfectly wrong. A cut that any veteran would spot as intentional.
A hush fell.
A step. Then the instructor's voice broke it.
"Elarion."
He looked up.
Calm. Cold. As if the word had merely brushed against him.
"That was deliberate."
"It was," he replied.
"You know the correct angle."
"I do."
"Then why?"
Elarion placed the blade down, gently. As one would lay a pen beside finished ink.
"To confirm the rules were mine to follow. Not chains."
The words did not ring with pride. Nor defiance. They were spoken like a record—filed and stored.
"I've obeyed everything here," he continued, voice even. "Perfect posture. Perfect speech. Not a misstep. But that only proves I can obey. Not that I should. Not that I must."
He reached for the crystal goblet placed beside his meal tray—raised it.
And tipped it.
Water slid from its rim like a blade through silk, spilling across the polished wood.
The silver tray became a lake.
There was no pause for drama. No triumph in his eyes.
He simply watched the ripples, and said—
"Still here. The world didn't end."
The silence afterward was heavier than any scolding.
The instructor's voice, when it returned, was quieter. Tighter. "What do you think you're proving?"
Elarion glanced up, not to challenge, but to study.
"That perfection should survive touch. If it breaks when nudged, it was never real."
----
The punishment followed. As expected.
Strikes. Pain. Measured discipline. All according to the doctrine.
Elarion did not flinch. Not because he was numb. But because pain was just another data point.
Another reaction to study.
Another proof of ownership.
He wasn't being broken. He was taking inventory.
Elarion simply absorbed it. Folded it into silence.
Every sting a confirmation: This is still just pain. I am still myself.
---
The instructor felt it—this wasn't rebellion for power.
> This was ownership of the body, of the pain, of the silence itself.
This boy didn't need to fight the system. He'd already stepped outside it.
Like a master observing a mechanism he once had to obey.
---
When told to sit, Elarion obeyed—not with submission, but sovereignty.
He wasn't testing limits. He was rewriting them.
And the look in his eye said it clearly:
> I no longer need your rules to exist. I know who I am without them.
No defiance. No submission.
Only ownership.
---
Later that night, while the boys were dismissed, he returned to clean the goblet and the tray himself. Quietly. Precisely. He restored the space he'd disturbed.
Not to erase it. But to finish what he began.
A boy asked him, later, "Why didn't you throw the sword away too?"
He paused, considering.
"That sword was given to me with rules. I broke the rules. But I kept the sword."
"Why?"
He looked down at the worn hilt resting beside his mat.
"Because not all tools need to be discarded when the hand changes. Some are just... redefined."
He gave a faint exhale, almost like a breath from thought rather than emotion.
"And because even tools have memory. I don't keep it out of sentiment. I keep it because I'm building something greater than pride."
"Like what?" the boy asked, frowning.
Elarion's tone remained flat, yet something distant shimmered beneath it.
"A kingdom."
---
The instructor later found the ledger entry for Elarion's record:
Compliance: Complete.
Control: Unshakable.
Risk: Rising.
He crossed out 'boy' from the notes.
And replaced it with a single word:
Heir.
----