The castle of de Foncé had never been this quiet— not even during funerals, tax audits, or Baron Henri's weekly shouting matches with the local tithe collector.
Rogue lay in his bed beneath a canopy stitched with the Sun God's sigil. The candles flickered with every breath he took, as if even the wax feared to burn too close. For the first time in weeks, he was awake and not screaming or glowing. It was progress.
Every morning began the same way: a priest would step into the room, sprinkle holy water across the floorboards, and whisper a prayer that sounded suspiciously like, "Please don't explode." Then came the doctor, who would tap Rogue's chest, nod solemnly, and leave with the speed of a man trying not to be cursed.
By the third week, Rogue could sit up without trembling. His mother insisted he eat soft porridge, while his father insisted he "chew something that bleeds." Between them, Rogue was starting to suspect recovery might kill him before the curse ever did.
When he finally rose from bed, the household reacted as though the sun itself had learned to walk. Servants bowed. Guards saluted. Someone released a dove that immediately collided with a window and died—a good omen by local standards.
Henri decided his son should "move about, but not too much." He ordered new locks on the doors, double patrols in the corridors, and a curfew that began at sunset sharp. The only ones allowed near Rogue were priests and maidservants who had passed what the Church called "the purity test" and what the servants called "the world's worst interview."
The de Foncé keep slowly transformed into a fortress-monastery. Bells rang for every prayer, guards marched in pairs, and even the kitchen staff now wore blessed charms. When one of them asked why, the steward answered gravely, "Because the boy sneezed once and the candles went out."
Rogue spent most of his days in the solar, staring out the tall windows. The fields outside looked the same as before, but the boy didn't feel the same. The world had grown quieter— or perhaps he had. He could feel something humming in his veins, two voices arguing under his skin: one warm and golden, the other whispering in violet tones he could almost understand.
He had not been outside since the forest incident. When he mentioned it once, Henri's face turned so pale the servants thought he was having a revelation. After that, Rogue decided not to bring it up again.
Instead, he walked the corridors under the watchful eyes of guards who pretended not to be afraid. The priests performed blessings twice a day— morning and evening— and once by accident during lunch when a candle fell over. The scent of holy incense became part of the castle's air, like the smell of bread and old stone.
Sometimes Rogue heard his father arguing behind closed doors with the clergy. The words were muffled, but he caught phrases like "permanent protection," "the Cathedral," and "if they think my boy's cursed, I'll curse them back."
He didn't know what it all meant, only that everyone tiptoed around him as if he might combust.
One evening Henri gathered the priests in his study. Scrolls, seals, and half-drained wine cups covered the table. The Baron's voice rumbled like distant thunder.
"You will write to the High Cathedral," he said, stabbing the table with his finger. "You will request a guardian— someone who can fight off whatever darkness comes next. A knight, a Witch Hunter, a demigod—I don't care, as long as they can keep him alive."
The eldest priest bowed. "It will be done, my lord."
"And write this, too," Henri added, pacing. "He carries both Light and Shadow within him. Send someone worthy."
The priest hesitated. "Those words may… attract unwanted interest."
Henri glared. "Good. Let them come. Maybe they'll finally realize how unwanted it is to be ignored."
The letter was sealed with the house crest and the wax of two candles— because one candle had gone out halfway through, and nobody was brave enough to light another near Rogue's name. By dawn, the messengers were galloping south toward the Cathedral, trailed by enough holy incense to fumigate a village.
New maidservants arrived the next day.
The first batch had quit en masse after one saw Rogue's mismatched eyes and fainted directly into a prayer rug. The new recruits were younger, quieter, and all wore small blessed medallions that smelled faintly of pepper.
Among them was a girl named Elise, sixteen, bright-eyed, and nervous enough to curtsy at chairs. She had soft brown hair and the kind of politeness that made older servants roll their eyes. Rogue found her presence oddly comforting— she didn't scream or cross herself every time he walked into a room.
Her first day was a blur of accidents: she dropped a tray, tripped over a broom, and once bowed so low she nearly set her hair on fire near a candle. Rogue couldn't help but laugh, which startled her into spilling tea on his sleeve.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, my lord!" she cried.
"It's fine," Rogue said, suppressing another laugh. "It was cold tea anyway."
From the doorway, Céleste watched with a small smile. For the first time in months, her son's laughter filled the hall. Even if it came at the expense of terrified servants, it was still laughter, and that was worth something.
As the weeks passed, the castle began to breathe again. The priests left one by one, muttering about divine protection and overdue salaries. Henri's temper cooled slightly, though he still ordered the guards to check every lock twice before sunset.
Rogue's routine became almost normal. He ate with his parents, walked the halls, and read old books about Witch Hunters— tales of grim heroes with wide hats and terrible fashion sense. He practiced sword swings with a wooden stick until the steward begged him to stop knocking over candelabras.
But the old energy never returned. The cheerful boy who once ran through the courtyard chasing stray dogs now lingered in corners, quieter, older somehow. He still smiled, but rarely reached his eyes— one gold, one dark beneath a strip of cloth.
The servants whispered that the forest had stolen something from him. Some said it had taken his innocence; others said it had given him something in return. Either way, the castle agreed on one thing: Rogue de Foncé was no longer an ordinary child.
Céleste often found him by the window, watching the horizon.
"What are you thinking about, mon chéri?" she asked one afternoon.
He shrugged. "Nothing. The forest, maybe. I can't remember much, but… sometimes I hear it."
Céleste forced a smile. "Then you must stop listening. Forests are terrible gossips."
Rogue laughed softly, and for a moment, she could almost believe the world was normal again.
At night, when the torches burned low and the keep grew quiet, Henri would walk the ramparts alone. He'd look down at the banners fluttering below, red with the golden sun of his sigil, and wonder how long he could keep their secret safe. The Church would send someone soon— a "protector" who might watch the boy for reasons beyond safety.
He thought of Madeleine, of her ashes merging with that dark ray, and of his son's eyes glowing two colors in the moonlight.
When the steward approached to ask if he wanted wine, Henri muttered, "No. The priests have already spilled enough."
The steward nodded wisely and left before the Baron could change his mind.
Rogue, meanwhile, was beginning to feel things he didn't understand— strange surges beneath his left eye, pulses of warmth that weren't quite holy. He said nothing of it, not yet. For now, he was content to walk the halls, to breathe air that smelled of candles and overcooked blessings, and to pretend life was as it had been.
Every now and then, Elise would bring him tea or chatter nervously about the weather, and Rogue would smile without realizing it. When she smiled back, he felt that hum again— gentle, persistent, waiting.
He had no idea what it wanted from him.
But the castle did.It watched.And in every flicker of candlelight, it seemed to whisper the same thing the priests did under their breath:
"Please don't explode."