The bells had not yet tolled noon, but the castle already felt suffocating.
Rogue pressed his back against the cool stone of a narrow corridor, holding his breath as the shuffle of skirts drew near. Madeleine's voice drifted closer, sharp and commanding as she scolded a younger maid for dropping linens.
He crouched lower, waiting, eyes narrowed with the impatience of a child who has played this game a hundred times before.
Always eyes on him. Always hands guiding, pulling, correcting. Guards muttered that he should not swing wooden swords unsupervised. Priests watched as though his every breath carried divine weight. Servants bowed too deeply, smiled too nervously.
To them he was not Rogue, a boy with scraped knees and restless feet. He was the glowing child, the baron's miracle. And a miracle must be guarded.
He hated it.
When Madeleine's footsteps faded, Rogue slipped from his hiding place, red hair glinting faintly in the shafts of light that cut through the arrow slits. His toy sword hung from his belt — no guard's steel, but carved oak smoothed by his constant grip.
He moved quickly, ducking into unused stairwells, sliding along passages where only dust lived. He knew the castle better than many of the servants. Every shadowed turn was his ally, every creaking board a test of his courage.
Rogue was nine now — no longer the babe cradled in whispers of omens. Yet he still felt caged, wrapped in a net of fear woven by everyone around him. They saw danger in every step he took beyond the walls. But what use was a sword if never drawn? What use was strength if never tested?
He pressed on, down toward the stables.
The smell of hay and horse filled his nose as he pushed through a side door. Stablehands were busy brushing coats and mucking straw, none paying attention to the small boy slipping past their legs. His heart beat fast, but not from fear. From excitement. From freedom.
And then he heard it.
A voice.
Soft at first, almost like wind through reeds. Then clearer, distinct. A child's voice.
"Come play."
Rogue froze. His head snapped around, eyes wide. The stable was empty but for the horses and men too busy to notice him. None had spoken.
The voice brushed against his ear again, lilting, sing-song. "Come play with me, Rogue."
His breath caught. It knew his name.
He swallowed hard, glancing about. No lips moved. No eyes watched. But the sound curled inside his head like smoke, tugging at something deep within him.
He should have run back inside, back to the safety of stone walls and stern voices. Instead, he stepped forward, toward the narrow postern gate near the stables.
It was rarely used, meant only for servants fetching water or wood. Two guards stood some distance off, laughing at a jest, their eyes elsewhere.
Rogue's small hands worked the latch. The gate creaked softly, but the guards' laughter masked it. He slipped through.
The world outside was bright, the fields rolling out in waves of green. Beyond, the forest loomed dark and endless, a black fringe against the pale sky.
The voice came again, stronger now, filled with mirth. "This way, Rogue. Don't you want to see?"
His pulse quickened. He ran across the meadow, grass brushing his boots, the wooden sword bouncing at his side. The air tasted sweeter out here, unchoked by incense and dust.
He reached the rise that overlooked the forest. The trees stretched vast and silent, their crowns swaying. No birds sang. The silence itself felt like breath held.
Rogue hesitated. His heart pounded. For the first time, doubt pricked him.
"Come," the voice coaxed, softer now, almost tender. "We can play where no one watches. No scolding, no rules. Just us."
His fists clenched. He thought of Madeleine dragging him from the walls, of Guillaume telling him steel was heavier than dreams, of priests muttering prayers over him as if he were a relic. Always someone watching. Always someone deciding for him.
No one had ever simply asked him to come play.
Rogue stepped forward, down the slope, toward the line of trees. The air grew cooler. A shiver ran up his spine, but he pressed on.
The forest swallowed him.
Under its canopy, the light dimmed, replaced by a strange green twilight. The air was damp, heavy with moss and loam. Roots twisted like gnarled fingers across the pathless ground.
He pushed forward, each step sinking into the silence. His small boots scraped against stone and soil. His breath grew loud in his ears.
The voice sang again, distant and near all at once. "Deeper. Just a little deeper. You'll like it here."
He followed, deeper into the forest no one dared enter, while the castle behind him bustled on, blind to the miracle child slipping into shadow.