Rogue discovered the problem with his left eye the same way most noble heirs discover ruin: by accident, curiosity, and a maidservant in the wrong place at the wrong time.
It began on a soft spring afternoon. The castle smelled of polished brass and fear. Rogue was sitting in the library, a massive chamber filled with books he had no interest in, pretending to read something titled The Proper Conduct of Devout Youths.
The book had three chapters on obedience and one very insulting passage about freckles.
He sighed, leaned back, and rubbed his temple. His left eye — the strange one, the dark one — had been itching all morning under the cloth the priests had wrapped over it. They claimed it was to "contain lingering corruption." Mostly, it just smelled like incense and sweat.
Rogue tugged the cloth down for a moment to scratch. He didn't even notice Elise entering until she gasped.
The young maid stood in the doorway holding a tray of tea, looking as startled as a deer that had accidentally walked into a cathedral. The moment his uncovered eye met hers, the air shifted. The light in the room thickened, as if something invisible had snapped taut between them.
Elise blinked once, then again. Her pupils dilated, and her lips parted slightly as a blush spread across her cheeks. The tray tilted in her trembling hands, the cup rattling against the saucer like a drumbeat announcing disaster.
Rogue blinked, confused. "Are you alright?"
Elise didn't answer. She took a slow, deliberate step forward — then another. Her breath quickened. The tray finally slipped, spilling tea all over the carpet, but she didn't even notice.
"Um," Rogue managed, half standing now, unsure whether to run or apologize.
She stopped right in front of him. Her eyes, glassy and unfocused, searched his face as though she were under a spell.
He felt something—an invisible tug in his mind, like threads pulling tight. It wasn't unpleasant, just… wrong. His left eye throbbed faintly, humming with a low warmth that spread across his face and down his chest.
He gasped and pulled the cloth back over his eye.
Elise blinked rapidly, her face returning to its normal color. Her hands shook as if waking from a dream. "I— I'm sorry, my lord," she stammered, looking down at the ruined carpet. "I don't know what came over me."
She fled before Rogue could answer, leaving a trail of tea and confusion.
Rogue sat down hard on the chair. He felt his pulse pounding in his temples. "What in the Light was that?"
The only response was the quiet drip of tea from the table.
That night, he couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the faint pulse behind the left one — steady, patient, alive. It wasn't evil. It wasn't kind either. It was like something that waited to be used.
By morning, curiosity had won over caution. (A pattern that would define much of his life.)
He decided to test it.
The next day, he found another servant — a laundress carrying linens down the hall. He waited until she passed close, then pulled the cloth down slightly, just enough for his left eye to see.
The effect was immediate. The woman froze mid-step, color rushing to her face. She stared at him, lips parting, hands clutching the sheets as if they were the only thing tethering her to reality.
Rogue panicked and covered the eye again. The spell broke.
She blinked rapidly, shook her head, and hurried off without a word, leaving a trail of freshly folded confusion in her wake.
So it wasn't just Elise.
It wasn't coincidence.
It was him.
Or rather, it was the thing inside him — the darkness that had fused with the light, the unholy balance of power that the priests whispered about but never understood.
He spent the rest of the afternoon staring into a mirror with the eye covered, afraid to see what would happen if he didn't.
Two evenings later, curiosity returned for round three.
Elise brought him his nightly draught — a potion that tasted like someone had steeped socks in mint water. She always knocked softly, always smiled nervously, and always left quickly.
This time, as she poured the drink, Rogue caught sight of her reflection in the glass of the window. The way her hair caught the candlelight. The way her lips moved silently as she concentrated on not spilling anything.
The warmth in his left eye pulsed again.
He hesitated. Then, against every sensible thought in his head, he lifted the cloth just a little.
The world slowed.
Elise's hand stopped mid-motion. The cup slipped, forgotten, hitting the table with a muted thud. Her eyes locked on him—glassy, soft, entranced.
She stepped closer, and Rogue's breath caught.
"Elise," he said, but it came out like a whisper.
Her pupils were wide as moons. She was trembling slightly, though not from fear. Her hand reached for his face, fingertips hovering near his cheek, her lips parting as she leaned closer—
A sharp gasp broke the spell.
Céleste stood in the doorway.
Her expression was the exact blend of horror and disbelief unique to mothers catching their child in a situation that defies polite vocabulary.
"Elise," she said calmly. Too calmly. "You may go."
The girl jerked back as if woken from a trance. "M-my lady, I—"
"Now."
Elise fled so quickly she nearly left the tray behind.
The door closed. Céleste turned to her son, who looked like someone caught mid-theft with no idea what he'd stolen.
"Maman," he began, voice cracking. "I can explain—"
"Oh, I am certain you can," she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "And I will require a very good explanation indeed."
She crossed the room, knelt beside him, and tilted his chin up so he had to meet her eyes. The tone was firm but gentle, the same tone she'd used when he was four and set fire to the kitchen curtains by trying to "help with candles."
"Tell me," she said. "And speak the truth."
Rogue swallowed hard. Then he told her everything — about the itch, about Elise in the library, about the laundress, and finally about what just happened.
When he finished, silence settled like dust after a battle.
Céleste rose, pacing slowly. "So," she murmured. "Your left eye makes women lose their wits."
Rogue winced. "I didn't mean to—"
"No, no. I'm sure it's the most innocent mind-control in history."
"Maman!"
She sighed, pressing her hand to her forehead. "My son, the Church will burn entire towns for less."
He froze. "Then… what should we do?"
"We tell no one."
"But—"
"Rogue," she said, turning back to him with quiet intensity, "if a priest learns your eye can twist hearts like that, they will call it corruption. And if your father tells them otherwise, they will simply call it a deeper corruption."
Rogue stared at the floor. "I didn't want to hurt anyone."
"I know." Her voice softened. "You're not wicked. You are... different. That is enough to frighten them."
She took a slow breath. "Your father must hear of this, but only him. No one else. Do you understand?"
He nodded.
"Good. And keep that cloth on your face. Until I say otherwise, you are not to remove it for any reason."
That night, Céleste told Henri everything.
The Baron sat behind his desk, silent for so long the candle burned down to a stub. When she finished, he leaned back, eyes narrowed in thought.
"Are you certain?" he said at last.
"I saw it with my own eyes. The girl was nearly—" she stopped herself, "—enchanted."
Henri rubbed his temples. "Light above… first the curse, now this."
He stood and began pacing, boots thudding against the wooden floor. "If the Church hears of this, they will claim he carries a demon. They'll demand he be tested— or worse, exorcised."
"Which would kill him," Céleste whispered.
"Yes."
They exchanged a look that held the weight of two people who had already buried too many secrets.
Finally, Henri spoke again. "We will keep this within our walls. The fewer who know, the better. The Church's protector may be arriving soon, and I don't trust their kindness."
He turned to his wife. "Have the priests focus their attention elsewhere—perhaps on blessing the livestock or checking the well. I'll… handle our son."
"What will you do?"
Henri's jaw tightened. "I'll make sure no one sees that eye again."
The next morning, Henri appeared in Rogue's room holding a small wooden box.
Inside, nestled in linen, lay a finely crafted eyepatch — not a strip of cloth, but polished black leather, stitched carefully with golden thread in the shape of a faint sunburst.
Rogue stared at it. "You made this?"
"Had it made," Henri said. "By the tanner who owes me far too many favors."
He lifted the eyepatch and fastened it gently around Rogue's head. The leather was cool against his skin, soft but firm.
"This," Henri said, adjusting the strap, "is not to hide your shame. It's to hide the world's ignorance."
Rogue blinked his right eye. "Does it… help?"
Henri stepped back, studying him. "You look like someone who has survived something terrible. That will keep most people polite."
Céleste, standing in the doorway, smiled faintly. "And now the priests will think it's a holy charm to contain the Light. Everyone wins."
"Except me," Rogue muttered.
"Especially you," Henri said, but his tone was softer than his words. He placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "Keep it on, always. Until you are strong enough to control what's inside you."
Rogue nodded.
When they left, he stood before the mirror. His reflection stared back — one golden eye shining bright, the other hidden behind the smooth black leather.
He tilted his head. For the first time, he didn't quite recognize the boy looking back at him.
The patch made him look older. Stranger. Like someone in a story he hadn't agreed to star in.
He managed a small smile. The reflection smiled too, but just a heartbeat later than it should have.
That night, as the castle settled into uneasy peace, Rogue lay awake listening to the wind against the shutters. He touched the edge of the eyepatch gently.
It was strange — comforting, and yet heavy. A reminder that something in him could twist hearts with a glance.
"I'll be careful," he whispered into the dark.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, the faintest hum of power answered — amused, patient, waiting.