The summons came three days after the gathering.
Ernest sat in his father's study, the smell of parchment and wax heavy in the air. Maps covered the walls, books of law and ledgers lined the shelves. Duke Reinhardt sat behind a broad oak desk, his presence filling the room like iron. Lady Isolde stood beside him, her pale hands folded, her eyes bright.
"It is time," Reinhardt said, voice sharp as steel. "You will attend the Royal Academy when you turn eight. Every heir of rank does. There, you will learn alongside the sons and daughters of high houses. Allies will be forged. Enemies as well. It is the true battlefield of nobles."
Lady Isolde's smile softened the weight of his words. "The academy is where you will grow, Ernest. Tutors and lessons can only go so far. Among peers, your path will be shaped."
Ernest stood with perfect posture, hands at his sides, his black eyes calm. "I understand."
His father leaned forward, gaze narrowing. "Do not mistake this for schooling alone. The academy decides the kingdom's future. Weakness there is weakness for Aldery. You will not fail me."
"I will not disappoint you."
Reinhardt studied him for a long moment before nodding. "Good."
Isolde stepped forward, brushing a lock of hair from her son's forehead. "I will have your attire prepared. Tutors will redouble your studies. You will shine."
Ernest lowered his gaze respectfully. The mask of dutiful heir held steady. But behind his calm eyes, his thoughts sharpened like blades.
An academy of heirs. Wolves without masks. The perfect stage.
The days that followed pressed hard against him.
Sword drills filled his mornings, the clang of steel echoing through the courtyard as knights sparred. Reinhardt oversaw personally, barking orders, his voice cutting through sweat and pain.
"Again!"
Ernest lifted the wooden training blade, his small hands steady despite the ache. His body lacked strength, but his movements were precise, efficient. His cousin, larger and louder, jeered when Ernest faltered in speed, but stumbled when faced with his cousin's silent, unblinking stare.
The boy's grip loosened, his swing went wild. Reinhardt's scowl deepened. "Pathetic."
Ernest lowered his blade, lips curving faintly. Even steel bends under fear.
Afternoons were lessons of law, history, and politics. Tutors droned, drilling details of treaties and bloodlines. Ernest listened, memorized, and deliberately stumbled now and then to hide his pace. They praised him nonetheless.
"Brilliant boy," one said."Uncanny," another muttered under breath.
Evening brought magical theory. Incantations and circles, carefully explained in slow, cautious tones—as if he were any ordinary child. Ernest absorbed it all, though he hid the truth: his mastery of mana was deeper, darker, his Voice a weapon no tutor could imagine.
He played the student. Dutiful, patient. Mask unbroken.
Whispers drifted through the estate as servants prepared for his departure.
"The young master leaves soon for the academy…""He's brilliant, but… doesn't he unsettle you?""Those eyes. As if he's judging us. Watching.""Still, he is the heir. Perhaps the academy will temper him."
Ernest passed them in the halls, their words pricking his ears like needles. He did not slow, did not react. But within, his thoughts turned cold.
The mask is enough. Their fear is proof.
One night, he slipped into the forest again. The moon bathed the trees in silver, the shadows thick and familiar.
Wolves crouched in the brush. Goblins lingered at the edges of clearings. With a single word, he bent them.
"Silence."
They froze, their growls stilled.
"Obey."
They bowed.
Ernest walked among them, his small frame cloaked in the authority of his Voice. He refined, tested, sharpened commands until the night itself seemed to kneel.
Deeper still, the corrupted guardian loomed where he had bound it weeks ago. The ogre-like beast, fissures of mana glowing faintly across its flesh, stood unmoving until Ernest approached. Its head lowered, obedience absolute.
Ernest studied it for a long moment, his eyes gleaming coldly. Even this remains bound. My will does not fade. The academy will not weaken me. I will enter with chains on my strength, but still, I am predator among prey.
He left the beast in the woods, his steps silent as he returned to the manor.
The night before departure, the Aldery estate held a farewell feast. Lords from surrounding lands attended, raising goblets, offering congratulations.
"To the heir of Aldery!" one toasted. "May he bring honor at the academy!"
Ernest bowed politely, speaking the words expected of him. His smile was small, practiced, fleeting.
Some nobles left whispering. "So calm, that boy. Too calm.""Prodigy, yes… but he unnerves me.""Perhaps the academy will soften his edges."
Duke Reinhardt dismissed their mutters with a glare. "Fools mistake composure for weakness."
Lady Isolde smoothed her son's hair, her voice warm. "Let them whisper. You will shine."
Ernest lowered his gaze politely. Inside, his lips curled faintly. Whispers are proof they see but shadows. The truth remains mine alone.
Dawn came.
Servants bustled, carrying trunks of clothes and books. The Aldery crest was polished into a gleaming shine upon the carriage door. Knights stood ready, their armor glinting in the morning light.
Ernest stood in his chamber as his mother adjusted his collar, her eyes bright with pride and worry. "You will write to me often. And remember—smile, even if you do not feel it. Charm is as strong as steel."
"Yes, Mother."
Reinhardt entered, carrying a sword sheathed in black and silver. He held it out, the weight of the Aldery name heavy in the gesture. "You are my heir. Take this. Bear it with strength."
Ernest accepted the sword with both hands, bowing his head. "I will."
The Duke's hand rested briefly on his shoulder, firm and final.
At the steps, the carriage awaited. Servants bowed, knights saluted. Ernest climbed inside, his parents watching. The door shut with a hollow thud.
The wheels turned. The estate fell away.
Ernest sat in silence, gazing out the window as the world passed. His reflection stared back—pale, calm, eyes black as glass.
The forest was my crucible. The nobles, my stage. The academy will be my chorus. And I…
His lips curved faintly, a whisper threading through the clatter of wheels.
"…I will be the Voice that commands it all."
The carriage rolled toward the horizon, carrying not a boy, but a predator cloaked in innocence, toward a battlefield yet unseen.