The Marquess' household was awake well before sunrise.
Lanterns burned in the corridors, their light dimmed by half-closed doors. Servants hurried along torch-lit passageways. Their shadows move on polished stone and carved Griffins. Brass basins clattered, cloth rustled, and the strong aroma of boiling herbs mixed with the coppery smell of blood.
Lady Jeanne's silken almond white hair clung to her damp forehead, strands escaping the tie and sticking to her pale face. She appeared frail beneath the sheets, thinner than she should have been, with faint gasps even between contractions. Nonetheless, her eyes remained open, unfocused but determined, as if pure determination alone held her awake.
Another harsh, gasping cry escaped her throat.
"Almost there, my lady," one of the midwives remarked softly. "Just a little longer."
The room held its breath.
A single shriek came out. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of it. A baby's cry cuts through the thick silence.
One of the midwives carefully lifted the baby and wiped him, checked his limbs and his breathing. The wail did not subside. If anything, it got louder, enraged by the world that had pulled him into the cold.
"A healthy boy," the midwife said.
The words seemed to loosen something in the room.
Servants rushed to Lady Jeanne's side, helping her drink and cleaning her. Her breathing was erratic and her face pale, yet when she turned her head toward the sound, her lips curved slightly.
"He's a loud one, isn't he," she muttered.
"Yes, my lady,' the midwife said with a slight smile. "Very loudly."
The door to the chamber opened.
The Marquess stepped inside, his coat still dusted from travel and his boots untouched by the servants who waited outside. He'd come straight from the capital, riding through the night without stopping. His expression did not change as his eyes swept the room, taking in the servants, midwives and her wife on the bed, but his hands clenched once at his side before remaining still.
He had arrived just in time.
The child was wrapped in cloth and held up for the Marquess to see.
His second son.
Red-faced, fist clenched, crying without restraint.
The Marquess did not speak. His gaze lingered on the child for a brief moment before shifting to the bed, to the woman who had given him another heir at the expense of her already precarious health. Something unreadable flashed across his eyes. Relief, or perhaps the weight of responsibility settling deeper than before.
Lady Jeanne noticed it.
Despite her exhaustion, she followed his gaze. A faint crease formed between her brows as she gathered her remaining strength.
"Is there anything on your mind, dear?" she inquired softly.
The Marquess looked at her then, as if pulled back from somewhere distant. For a brief moment, his expression faltered but only briefly.
He shook his head and moved closer to the bed.
"Nothing important," he replied. His voice was calm and steady. "I was merely thinking of a name."
Lady Jeanne exhaled softly. Her fingers tightened slightly in the blankets as she turned to face him.
"Have you decided?" she inquired.
The Marquess cast another gaze at the child. The baby had grown quieter, with little breaths rising and falling beneath the cloth.
"I have a few in mind," he continued. "But I wanted to hear yours."
For a moment, she looked up at the ceiling as if searching her thoughts through the haze of tiredness.
Her voice barely above a whisper, she replied, "Fre—"
_____________________________________________
"—derick...Frederick...young master Frederick, please wake up."
Below the pile of quilts, a low moan sounded. Half of his face was buried in the pillow when the youngster shifted. "Five more minutes..."
"Absolutely not."
The curtains were yanked open.
Bright, brutal morning light filled the room. Frederick defended himself by hissing and covering his head with the blanket, but it's too late.
Chess stood next to his bed with her arms crossed and discontented. Her maid's uniform is clean and wrinkle-free, her dark hair tied back nicely, as though she had been up for hours already.
"One...two...three...four...five." She paused deliberately. "Your five minutes are up." She said flatly.
Frederick blinked up at her from beneath the blanket. "You didn't even give me five minutes."
Chess answered without wasting a beat, "I did, I just counted more quickly."
She reached down and tugged the blanket away in one smooth motion
"Hey—!" Frederick flailed instinctively, the sudden chill biting at his skin.
He sits up at last, although it was more of a defeated slump into sitting than a dignified rising. His lids were heavy as if they might close again at any second. His hair caught the morning light that poured in through the tall windows.
Like his father's, it was dull black but his hair had a white fringe at the front that slid across his brow like spilled milk over ink. It neatly sparkled in the sunlight, contrasting strikingly with the darker strands.
Frederick yawned dramatically, stretching his arms as if he had already accepted his fate. "Fine. I'm awake. See? Fully awake."
He rubbed his face, blinked twice, then nodded with exaggerated seriousness.
"Very awake."
Chess did not respond while Frederick kept sitting there.
Waiting.
He is familiar with her routine. She will remind him that his instructor is already waiting in the courtyard, that his outfit has been prepared, that breakfast is ready and that warm water is heated for washing. Once she had listed everything, she left to fetch something else.
And the moment the door closed...
He will dive back under the blankets.
Frederick tried to appear convincing by straightening his back. He even took a deep breath, as though he was regaining his strength to stand.
Chess watched him in silence.
"...The water has been prepared," she said at last.
There it was.
"Your uniform is pressed and laid out."
As expected.
"Your boots are cleaned."
Naturally.
Frederick nodded sagely, as though deeply moved by her competence. "Excellent work as usual, Chess. Without you, the estate would really fall apart."
Chess took one step backwards toward the door.
Frederick's muscles tensed.
Almost there.
"Then I shall leave you to change," she said.
"Yes, yes." Frederick waved one hand leisurely and said with graceful generosity, "You may go, I'll get up right away."
She paused at the doorway.
Frederick sits perfectly still. He is holding his breath and his eyes open just enough to appear functional.
There was a beat of silence.
Then Chess turned, walked back to the bed and snatched up the blanket.
Frederick's eyes widened. "Wait."
She folded it once over her arm.
"Chess."
She adjusted it neatly.
"Chess."
"I will be sending this to the laundry," She said calmly and gave him a flat look.
Then she walked out of the room with the blanket draped over her arm, closing the door softly behind her.
Frederick stared at the now hopelessly exposed bed. The morning air felt significantly colder.
"...Tyrant," he muttered.
He then washes himself, splashes his face with warm water until the last of sleep loosens its grip, combs his hair just enough to keep the white fringe from sticking up at an absurd angle and dresses in the neatly pressed uniform Chess had prepared.
When he arrived at the dining room, breakfast was already laid out. Fresh bread, eggs, stewed vegetables, and tea still steaming faintly.
Frederick ate quickly at first.
Then slower.
Then much slower.
Warm food settled comfortably in his gut and with it came a familiar heaviness. His eyelids drooped. The chair suddenly felt far too cozy.
Training.
Right.
Instead, he fixed his gaze on the window.
The gardens beyond the manor were bright in the morning light that illuminated the expansive, well-kept and quiet grounds outside the manor. The hedges were disturbed by a gentle breeze. It appears peaceful. Inviting.
A short nap wouldn't hurt.
Just a small one.
Training would still be there afterwards. Training was always there.
Frederick stood, brushed crumbs from his sleeves and left with the collected dignity of someone who was absolutely on his way to his responsibilities.
At the corridor's fork, he turned left. The training grounds were to the right. The garden path stretched ahead, sunlit and mercifully quiet.
Frederick give himself a satisfied nod.
See? perfectly planned.
He had almost reached the shaded archway leading into the inner garden when a shadow fell across his path.
Frederick stopped.
Stood there is Owen, his personal guard with his arms folded across his chest.
Tall, broad-shouldered, clad in light training armor despite the early hour. His expression was not angry. Not disappointed.
Frederick blinked once before greeting him.
"Good morning," he said cautiously.
"Good morning, young master," Owen replied.
A beat passed.
Owen tilted his head slightly. "Young master."
"Yes?'
"Why," Owen asked, "do you think I'm standing here?"
Frederick considered the question seriously, glancing at the hedges then back at Owen.
"...Admiring the scenery?"
Owen did not blink nor reply.
Frederick straightened, clearing his throat. "Ah, I see...Of course. It all makes sense now."
"Does it?"
"Yes," Frederick said confidently. "You are slacking off."
Silence.
"You see," Frederick continued, gesturing vaguely toward the garden. "I was just on my way to retrieve you. I have no one to spar with at the training grounds. Imagine my surprise to find you here getting dreamy with those gardens.
Owen stared at him.
Frederick nodded gravely. "Very disappointing behavior."
A long pause followed.
"The training grounds," Owen said calmly, "are in the opposite direction."
Frederick glanced behind him. Then back to Owen.
Owen's lips twitched barely. "Shall we proceed, young master?"
Frederick looked longingly toward the shaded benches beneath the garden trees. The breeze stirred again, cool and inviting.
Then he sighed dramatically.
"Fine," Frederick muttered. "Lead the way."
Owen simply turned and started walking at a steady pace toward the training grounds.
Frederick trailed behind, dragging his feet just enough to convey his displeasure.
When they got there, the training grounds were already bustling.
Behind the estate walls was a broad expanse of dirt field, bordered by wooden racks filled with practice swords and spears. Rows of dummies stood, some recently fixed, others bearing scars from countless strikes.
And at the center...
Mr Samlet, the Fechtmeister or instructor, stood waiting.
Two practice swords rested in his hands, one tapping anxiously against his shoulder and the other dangling carelessly at his side. His boots shifted restlessly against the dirt, the heel grinding into the ground in short, irritated motions.
It was obvious he had been waiting.
Frederick slowed. Owen didn't
Mr Samlet's eyebrows furrowed as soon as he saw them.
"Young master," he called out, voice already edged with steel. "Sir Owen."
Neither man had a prompt response.
Mr Samlet strode forward, boots crunching on the gravel. "Would either of you care to explain," he began, voice rising with each word, "why the sun is already above the east tower before you decide to grace this field with your presence?"
Frederick opened his mouth, but Owen spoke first. "The delay was—"
"Unacceptable," Mr Samlet snapped.
His sharp gaze shifted to Owen. "You serve as his personal guard. If he wanders, you retrieve him. If he delays, you correct him. That is your responsibility."
Owen stood straight, unflinching. "Yes, sir."
Frederick pressed his lips together.
Mr Samlet rarely raised his voice, but when he did, it struck like a whip. His normally controlled composure had already losing it.
"And YOU," Mr Samlet continued, turning toward Frederick.
Frederick straightened automatically.
"Are nearly fifteen. Nearly old enough for the academy. And yet you cannot arrive at training on time."
Frederick took a breath and tried to look serious.
But then—
Mr Samlet abruptly turned back to reprimand Owen.
Frederick clapped a hand over his mouth. His shoulders trembled.
It was just too much to see Owen, flawlessly composed, taking criticism intended in part for Frederick.
A tiny sound escaped him.
Mr Samlet stopped talking.
He turned his head very slowly.
Frederick froze in the middle of a stifled laugh, his eyes wide with a fanciful innocence and his fingers still pressed to his lips.
"...Is something amusing, young master?" Mr Samlet asked in a low voice.
He instantly shook his head.
Mr Samlet's mouth clenched. His temple's vein quivered. That was the final fracture.
"TWENTY ROUNDS," Mr Samlet yelled, his voice echoing across the training area. "ALL AROUND THE MANOR." Right now.
Frederick blinked.
"And when you are done—" Mr Samlet gestured to the ground between them with the practice sword. "ONE HUNDRED PUSH UPS, IN FRONT OF ME."
Owen did not think twice. "Yes, sir."
Frederick stared at him. Back at Mr Samlet after that. Then at the vast expanse of the manor grounds beyond.
"Whaaaaattttt?!"