The morning sun spilled golden light across the long dining hall of House Aldery. The smell of roasted meats, buttered bread, and fresh fruit lingered in the air as servants moved with practiced grace. At the head of the table sat Duke Reinhardt Aldery, broad-shouldered and stern, his mere presence silencing the room. Lady Isolde sat beside him, elegance draped across every motion of her pale hands.
Between them sat Ernest.
Four years old, pale-skinned, silent as ever. His dark eyes absorbed everything, though his small hands moved with a dutiful calm as he cut his food.
"You eat too little," his mother chided softly, brushing back his hair. "A growing boy needs strength."
Ernest did not argue. He cut a piece of bread and ate, chewing slowly, properly.
Reinhardt's gaze lingered on him. "Your tutors say you already memorize texts far beyond your years. Your recitations are flawless."
"Yes, Father," Ernest replied evenly. His tone was neither boastful nor humble—merely factual.
The Duke's eyes narrowed. "A boy must not only know books. Sword drills begin next spring. You will not be spared because of wit."
"I understand. I will not disappoint you."
Silence followed. Servants whispered at the edges of the hall, though not too loudly. Ernest caught every word anyway.
"…he's too calm, like a grown man in a child's skin…""…uncanny. Those eyes feel wrong.""…but he is the heir to Aldery. Perhaps this is greatness."
Ernest drank from his cup, his lips curving faintly against the rim. Let them whisper. The mask is all they'll ever see.
The rest of the day passed as expected. Tutors filed in with books and lessons. Ernest absorbed everything with ease, his sharp mind grasping details before they were fully explained. But he made mistakes on purpose—pausing too long before answering, stumbling once when reading aloud. Just enough to seem normal. Just enough to lower suspicion.
The tutor smiled warmly, fooled.
Perfection invites questions. Flaws make the mask stronger, Ernest thought as he closed the book in front of him.
When he passed the maids in the corridor, their whispers pricked his ears.
"…doesn't he frighten you? It's like he's always watching—""Quiet! He's the Duke's son."
His steps didn't falter. But his lips curved slightly. Yes. Be unnerved. Fear keeps you blind.
When night fell, the estate grew quiet. Guards paced their rounds, torches flickering in the halls. Ernest sat at the small desk in his chamber, candlelight washing over the notebook open before him. Its pages were filled with uneven scrawls—childish handwriting that looked like doodles to anyone else. But each mark was a record: commands tested, results noted, failures dissected.
"Sleep — instant, but predictable.""Kneel + Kill — layered, efficient. Low cost.""Feed on self — effective against Direwolf. High resistance.""Mass Obey — unstable. Attracts divine gaze."
He dipped his quill again, lips pressed thin in concentration. Every command must be tested. Refined. Perfected. Wolves, goblins, Direwolves—each step sharper than the last. The gods will not bow to clumsy words.
Closing the notebook, he slid it beneath his bed. The moon was high. Shadows stretched long. He rose.
Time to hunt.
The forest greeted him with silence. The deeper he went, the more familiar it became—the hush of leaves, the faint glow of eyes in the dark. Tonight he sought not survival, but refinement. Wolves by a stream raised their heads, snarling as he approached.
"Kneel."
They dropped instantly. Too weak. Too easy.
"Break your legs."
Cracks split the air as bones shattered. Their howls tore through the night. Ernest's face didn't change.
"Protect me until death."
The crippled beasts staggered upright, forming a shaky circle around him, growling at shadows. Ernest watched, coldly analytical. Useful as shields. Fragile nonetheless.
He turned his back and left them to their misery.
Further in, he found goblins squabbling over scraps near a fallen tree. Their guttural screeches filled the clearing.
"Silence."
They froze mid-cry, eyes wide in shock.
"Blind yourselves."
Claws raked across eyes. Screams rose as blood streamed down their faces.
"Kill each other."
The clearing became chaos, shrieks splitting the night until the ground was wet and red. Ernest stood at the center, calm, watching until the last goblin fell.
Better. But crude still. I need sharper words.
Blood soaked into the earth. The moon lit his pale face as he stared upward. Soon.
Days blurred. By morning, he was the obedient heir—reciting history, correcting servants politely, bowing his head at his father's stern lectures. At meals, he spoke little, always listening. By night, he vanished into the woods, refining his Voice in blood. Wolves and goblins alike became subjects of endless experiments, their suffering written into his hidden notebook.
But whispers spread.
Knights returned from patrols with strange reports. A goblin nest burned to ash, no survivors. A Direwolf carcass discovered, mutilated by wounds no sword could explain. Echoes of screams in the forest at night.
In the great hall, Ernest listened silently as a knight bowed before his father.
"My lord, something stirs in the woods. Too many strange deaths. Some men fear it's… unnatural."
Reinhardt's eyes blazed like steel. "Then they are cowards. Fear is for peasants. Double patrols. Cut down whatever beasts linger. There are no demons in my lands."
Ernest lowered his gaze, hiding the faint curl of his lips. No demons, Father. Only me.
That night, he stood once more at his chamber window, the hidden notebook heavy beneath his bed. Moonlight silvered his face, his eyes glinting like sharpened blades. The knights feared what they could not name.
"If they fear it," he whispered, voice steady, merciless, "then it belongs to me."
He slipped into the shadows again, the forest swallowing him whole.