The years passed quickly, though Ernest Aldery counted each one with cold precision.
At seven years old, he stood in the grand dining hall of House Aldery, the morning sun filtering through stained glass windows and painting the marble floors in crimson and gold. The room was filled with the quiet clatter of silverware, servants moving silently along the edges, and the low murmur of conversation.
His father, Duke Reinhardt, sat at the head of the long table. A man of iron posture and a gaze that cut sharper than any blade. His mother, Lady Isolde, was beside him, her pale fingers delicately holding a goblet as if the world itself was fragile glass.
Ernest sat between them, small but composed. His hair was dark, his face pale and sharp for a boy his age. He cut his bread neatly, chewing with perfect manners.
"You are too quiet again," Lady Isolde said, her voice gentle but laced with worry. "Children should laugh more. A smile, perhaps?"
Ernest lifted his gaze to hers, and a faint curve touched his lips. Controlled, precise. It vanished a heartbeat later.
His father's eyes remained on him, hard and weighing. "Your tutors tell me your memory is unmatched. You recite whole passages of law without error."
"Yes, Father," Ernest replied evenly. His tone was neither proud nor meek—simply factual.
Reinhardt grunted. "Good. But wits alone won't keep a blade from your throat. Your sword lessons begin this spring. I'll not have my heir hiding behind words alone."
"I will not disappoint you."
The Duke nodded once, satisfied, and returned to his meal.
But Ernest heard the whispers anyway.
From servants carrying dishes—"…he's too calm. Like a man, not a boy.""…unnerving, isn't it? His eyes—"
Ernest sipped from his cup and lowered his gaze. His lips curved faintly. Yes. Be unsettled. Be wary. The mask holds.
His mornings passed with tutors. Mathematics, history, magic theory. Their words washed over him like shallow waves, easily absorbed, easily bent. He had long surpassed the pace of their lessons, but he hid it carefully.
When asked to translate a passage, he stumbled once, deliberately, then corrected himself. When quizzed on trade routes, he hesitated just long enough to appear human.
One tutor clapped his hands proudly. "Truly a prodigy, my lord. At this rate, he'll outstrip his peers before he even reaches the academy."
Another frowned, shifting uneasily. "Prodigy, yes… but when he looks at me, I feel… judged. As if…" He trailed off, unable to finish.
Ernest bowed his head politely, hiding the glint of cold amusement in his eyes. They see only what I wish them to see.
Later, alone, he wrote in his hidden journal with childish scrawls that masked the sharpness of his notes:
"Obey hunger = effective in groups. Best against beasts.""Layered commands: Kneel → Kill → Silence. Less wasteful.""Observation: stronger wills demand precision. Never overextend."
He slid the notebook back beneath his bed, the candlelight flickering across his pale face.
The courtyard rang with the clash of steel. Knights sparred, sweat gleaming on their brows, their blades sparking as they struck. Ernest watched quietly from the steps, his arms folded. His father barked corrections, each word sharp as a lash.
The boy's dark eyes lingered on their movements. Strong, yes. Disciplined. But brute force, nothing more.
Strength wins battles. My Voice wins wars.
Still, he understood. This body of his, frail and young, would one day need steel to match his words. He could not afford to remain weak.
A boy his age—his cousin, bold and boisterous—ran up to him, wooden sword in hand. "Ernest! Why don't you ever join? Afraid you'll get knocked down?"
Ernest turned his gaze on him. Calm. Cold. Silent.
The cousin faltered, words drying in his throat. He shifted uneasily, muttered something, and ran back to the sparring yard.
Ernest's lips curved faintly. Yes. Even without my Voice, fear obeys me.
That night, the moon hung high and silver. The manor slept. Ernest moved silently through the halls, slipping into the forest as he always had.
The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp soil. He found wolves near a stream, their glowing eyes catching the moonlight. They snarled low, teeth bared.
"Protect me. In silence."
His words rippled through them. The wolves froze, then lowered their heads. Without a sound, they formed a ring around him, eyes scanning the trees.
He walked among them, testing, refining.
"Flee."
They bolted into the shadows, silent as ghosts.
"Tear each other apart, but do not scream."
The pack convulsed, jaws snapping, tearing into one another in eerie silence. The night swallowed their blood and broken bodies.
Ernest's eyes gleamed as he watched, calm and merciless. Noise attracts eyes. Precision ensures survival.
When he returned to his chamber, he recorded it all in his notebook, each experiment carefully logged. To anyone else, the scribbles looked like a child's play. But to him, they were the architecture of power.
The next morning, his father summoned him to the study. The room was lined with shelves of tomes, maps stretched across the table, the Aldery crest gleaming on the wall.
Reinhardt's voice was iron. "The noble gathering is in a fortnight. All high houses will be there. This year, you will join us. It is time you step into society as my heir."
Lady Isolde touched Ernest's shoulder gently. "Remember, appearances matter. Smile, even if it feels false. Nobles value charm as much as strength."
Ernest bowed his head. "I understand."
Inside, his thoughts sharpened. A new stage. Masks upon masks. Nobles are no different from wolves—hungry, prideful, desperate to climb. They will obey my Voice as surely as the beasts of the forest.
That evening, Ernest stood before his mirror. The boy reflected back at him was pale, sharp-eyed, his face calm beyond his years. Not innocent. Not childish.
The mask of the heir.
He raised his hand, pressing his palm to the glass. His reflection stared back coldly.
"The forest obeyed my Voice," he whispered softly, almost reverently. "The nobles will too. And the gods… the gods will watch."
His lips curved faintly.
"And they will kneel."