[Two Weeks Later][Location: Royal Academy Training Grounds][Time: Afternoon Combat Practice]
Sol sat on the stone bench at the edge of the training yard, his tiny legs swinging freely above the ground, and watched Marcus and Kieran spar.
He shouldn't have been so fascinated. Combat training for children this young was basic—wooden swords, protective padding, supervised by instructors who stopped anything before it became dangerous. It was play-fighting with structure, meant to build reflexes and discipline.
But Sol couldn't look away.
[Combat Analysis: Active]
His 847-year-old mind cataloged everything automatically: stance, footwork, blade angles, weight distribution, breathing patterns. Marcus and Kieran moved like children—clumsy, enthusiastic, unrefined—but beneath that, Sol could see the foundations of real technique.
Marcus lunged forward, wooden sword sweeping in a wide arc. Telegraphed by three full seconds—his shoulder dipped before the strike, his back foot shifted weight poorly, his grip tightened visibly on the hilt.
Kieran blocked but barely, stumbling backward. His defense was reactive rather than predictive. He wasn't reading Marcus's intentions; he was responding to the blade itself, which meant he was always half a second behind.
If Marcus adjusted his grip and came in low instead of high, Sol thought, Kieran's block would miss entirely. The opening is—
"Point!" the instructor called as Marcus's wooden blade tapped Kieran's chest.
They reset. Went again.
Sol leaned forward unconsciously, his analytical mind fully engaged. This was what he'd missed during his years as a researcher—actual combat observation. He'd spent centuries studying contracts and magical theory, but before that, in his younger centuries, he'd studied warfare. Strategy. The thousand tiny decisions that separated life from death in battle.
And these children, playing with wooden swords, exhibited all the same principles in miniature.
Marcus reset his stance. Better this time—feet shoulder-width, knees bent, weight centered. He'd learned from the previous exchange. Smart.
Kieran mirrored the position but with less confidence. His grip on the practice sword was too tight; his knuckles white with tension. Fear made people rigid, and rigidity made them slow.
They circled each other.
Marcus feinted left—not committing, just testing—and Kieran flinched.
He's reading Kieran's fear, Sol observed. Marcus isn't just fighting the body; he's fighting the mind. He's making Kieran expect attacks that won't come, so when the real one arrives—
Marcus struck high. Kieran blocked, relief visible on his face.
Then Marcus spun—surprisingly graceful for a nine-year-old—and his wooden blade caught Kieran's ribs from the side.
"Point! Marcus leads three to one."
Sol's eyes were wide, entranced by the tactical complexity hiding within child's play. Marcus had set up that spinning strike two exchanges ago by conditioning Kieran to expect high attacks. The psychology of combat distilled to its essence.
He didn't notice Marcus had seen him watching.
Marcus called for water break and approached the bench, his practice sword resting on his shoulder with deliberate casualness. Sweat dampened his blonde hair, his face flushed with exertion and satisfaction.
"Enjoying the show, brother?" Marcus asked, his voice carrying just enough volume for nearby students to hear. The word 'brother' dripped with sarcasm.
Sol looked up at him, caught off guard. "I was just watching," he said carefully.
"Watching very intently," Marcus observed. A smirk played at his lips—not friendly, but calculating. "Do you know how to fight, Sol? Did your orphanage teach you swordplay between begging for scraps?"
A few students laughed. Kieran looked uncomfortable but said nothing.
"No," Sol said honestly. "I've never held a sword."
"Never?" Marcus's smirk widened. "But you were watching like you understood what was happening. Like you could see the technique." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to something more dangerous. "Or maybe you were just impressed by your betters. Is that it? Were you admiring real nobility in action?"
Sol recognized the trap. If he claimed to understand the combat, Marcus would mock him for pretending to knowledge he couldn't possibly have. If he admitted ignorance, Marcus would use it to reinforce Sol's inferior position.
"I thought it looked difficult," Sol said, choosing a third option: appearing appropriately childlike. "You're both really good."
"We're adequate," Marcus corrected. "For our age and training. But thank you for the pedestrian compliment." He straightened, and his smirk took on a sharper edge. "Kieran, come here."
Kieran approached reluctantly, still catching his breath.
"I want to demonstrate something for Sol," Marcus said loudly enough for the growing audience. Several other students had paused their own practice to watch. "A real exchange. No holding back. Show him what actual combat looks like."
"Marcus," Kieran said quietly, "we just finished—"
"Are you tired already?" Marcus's tone shifted to challenge. "I'm not. And I want Sol to see what he's missing. What separates those born to the blade from those born to... whatever it is peasants are born to."
The instructor—a grizzled veteran named Captain Thorne—stepped forward. "Prince Marcus, if you're going to continue, keep it controlled. We don't need injuries."
"Of course, Captain," Marcus said with perfect courtesy. Then he looked at Kieran with eyes that promised otherwise. "Ready?"
Kieran took his stance, and Sol could see the tension in every line of his body. Fear. Resignation. The knowledge that Marcus was about to hurt him but unable to refuse because refusing a prince in front of witnesses would be social suicide.
Sol should have looked away. Should have recognized that his attention was making this worse. But he couldn't stop watching, couldn't stop analyzing, couldn't stop his 847-year-old tactical mind from cataloging every detail.
[Combat Analysis: Resumed][Emotional States:]
Marcus: Aggressive, performing, dangerous Kieran: Afraid, defensive, already defeated mentally Sol: Fascinated, concerned, unable to look away
[Prediction: This will end badly]
They began.
Marcus came in fast—faster than before, with none of the earlier restraint. His wooden blade whistled through the air with real force behind it.
Kieran blocked but the impact jarred him, sent him stumbling.
Marcus pressed the advantage, striking again and again, each blow harder than the last. The wooden swords cracked against each other with sounds that made Sol wince.
"You should've dodged," Marcus said conversationally, driving Kieran backward with a flurry of strikes. "Blocking wastes energy. Dodging preserves it. Basic principle."
Kieran tried to dodge the next strike, but Marcus had already read his intention. The blade came low instead of high, catching Kieran's ankle.
Kieran went down hard, his practice sword clattering away.
"Point," Marcus said, not waiting for the instructor. "Five to one. Match."
But he didn't stop.
As Kieran tried to rise, Marcus's blade came down in an overhead strike—controlled enough not to crack skull, but hard enough to hurt. The wooden sword caught Kieran's shoulder at an angle that made something pop.
Kieran cried out, clutching his shoulder, and Sol saw it: blood, seeping between Kieran's fingers where the wooden blade's edge had split skin despite the padding.
Wooden swords don't draw blood, Sol's analytical mind noted. Unless they strike hard enough to overcome padding and tear flesh through impact force alone. Marcus hit him with enough power to—
"You're bleeding," Marcus observed, his tone clinical, almost curious. He looked at his practice sword like he was surprised it had done that much damage.
Kieran's face was pale, tears starting to well in his eyes—not from pain alone, but from humiliation. Crying in front of other students. Losing so badly. Being hurt by someone who was supposed to be his brother.
"MAID!" Marcus called out suddenly, his voice sharp with command. "MAID! Help him, he's bleeding!"
Two servants rushed forward immediately, drawn by a prince's order. They knelt beside Kieran, one pressing a cloth to his shoulder wound while the other checked for other injuries.
Captain Thorne was there a moment later, his face stormy. "Prince Marcus, that was excessive—"
"It was an accident," Marcus said smoothly, all innocence. "I didn't mean to strike so hard. The momentum carried through." He looked at Kieran with perfectly performed concern. "Brother, I'm so sorry. Are you all right?"
Kieran nodded, unable to speak, his face burning with shame.
"We should get him to the infirmary," one of the maids said.
"Yes, yes, of course," Marcus agreed. "Take him immediately. And give him my apologies again. These things happen in training, but I feel terrible."
He sounded genuine. If Sol hadn't watched the entire exchange, hadn't seen the deliberate escalation, the calculated strikes, the precise moment Marcus had decided to hurt rather than teach—he might have believed it was an accident.
But Sol had watched. Had been unable to look away. And Marcus knew it.
As the servants helped Kieran to his feet and escorted him away—the boy still clutching his bleeding shoulder—Marcus turned back to Sol.
Their eyes met.
Marcus smiled.
Not the public smile he'd used for Captain Thorne. This one was private, sharp, meant only for Sol. It said: This is what happens when you watch me too closely. This is the price of your attention. Remember it.
Then Marcus turned to Captain Thorne. "I think I'm done for today, Captain. That was... upsetting. May I be excused?"
"Go," Captain Thorne said, his voice tight. "But we'll discuss appropriate force in tomorrow's lesson."
"Of course, Captain. I'm eager to learn proper restraint."
Marcus walked away, leaving his practice sword on the ground for servants to collect. Other students parted for him automatically, giving the crown prince space.
Sol sat on the bench, his tiny hands clenched into fists, his mind racing.
[Analysis: Complete][Conclusion: Marcus hurt Kieran to send a message to me][Message Received: "Your interest has consequences. Watch me again and I'll hurt someone else."][Threat Level: High (not to Sol directly, but to anyone Sol shows interest in)][Psychological Assessment: Marcus is more dangerous than initially calculated]
Captain Thorne approached Sol, his expression weary. "You should head back to quarters, Sol. Training's over for today."
"Is Kieran going to be okay?" Sol asked quietly.
"The healers will fix him up. Probably be sore for a few days, but he'll heal." The Captain paused. "That wasn't your fault, boy. Marcus is... competitive. Sometimes too competitive."
It was my fault, Sol thought. I should have looked away. Should have hidden my interest. Should have remembered that every action has consequences, especially in a place where a crown prince sees threats everywhere.
Sol hopped down from the bench and walked back toward the residential wing, his mind churning.
He'd made a mistake. A tactical error born from curiosity he should have controlled. His 847-year-old mind had gotten so absorbed in analyzing combat that he'd forgotten to consider the social implications of staring at Marcus with obvious fascination.
And Kieran had paid for it.
[That Evening][Location: Shared Quarters]
Kieran returned an hour before dinner, his shoulder bandaged and his arm in a sling. The healers had closed the wound—magical healing was standard at the Royal Academy—but had recommended he rest for a day or two.
He wouldn't meet anyone's eyes.
Marcus was already there, lounging on his bed with a book open but clearly not reading. "Brother!" he called out when Kieran entered. "You're back! How's the shoulder?"
"Fine," Kieran mumbled.
"Good, good. I really am sorry about that. Got carried away in the moment. You understand."
"I understand," Kieran said flatly.
Lyra was reading by the window. She glanced at Kieran, then at Marcus, then at Sol with a look that said: I know what happened. You all know what happened. And we're all going to pretend it was an accident because that's how this works.
Sol stayed quiet on his bed, attempting to read a primer on basic magical theory but unable to focus. His mind kept replaying the combat, analyzing what he could have done differently.
I could have not watched. Could have left when I saw them sparring. Could have hidden my interest behind a book or conversation with other students.
But he hadn't. Because curiosity was his defining trait, his greatest strength and his fatal flaw. Even reborn, even knowing better, he couldn't stop himself from wanting to understand everything he observed.
"Sol," Marcus called out suddenly. "Did you enjoy the demonstration?"
Sol looked up carefully. "I'm sorry Kieran got hurt."
"Oh, don't apologize to me—apologize to him! You're the one who was watching so intently. Making me want to show off." Marcus's smile was poison wrapped in silk. "I think we all perform a little harder when we have an audience, don't we?"
He's admitting it, Sol realized. Admitting he hurt Kieran because I was watching, but phrasing it so I take the blame.
"I wasn't—" Sol started.
"You were," Marcus interrupted gently. "You were completely entranced. Eyes wide, leaning forward. I've seen that look before on scholars when they study something fascinating." His eyes glinted. "What was so interesting? The technique? The strategy? Or just watching your betters demonstrate skills you'll never have?"
Sol had three responses available:
Admit he understood combat strategy (revealing knowledge he shouldn't have) Claim he was just generally interested (admitting Marcus's narrative) Deflect entirely (showing weakness)
He chose a fourth option.
"I was worried," Sol said quietly, looking at Kieran. "You kept getting pushed back. It looked like it hurt even before the accident."
Kieran looked up, surprised.
"Worried?" Marcus's tone sharpened. "About Kieran? How touching. The bastard concerned for the... other bastard." He sat up. "But if you were so worried, why didn't you say anything? Call for a stop? Alert Captain Thorne?"
"I didn't think it was my place," Sol said honestly. "I'm new here. I don't know the rules."
"The rule," Marcus said, standing and approaching Sol's bed with deliberate slowness, "is that you mind your own business. You don't stare at your betters. You don't analyze them like they're insects under glass. And you certainly don't sit there with that look on your face like you understand things you couldn't possibly understand."
He stopped in front of Sol, looking down from his significant height advantage.
"Do we have an understanding?" Marcus asked softly.
Sol met his gaze. "Yes."
"Good." Marcus returned to his bed. "Because next time you watch me that closely, I might mistake your interest for challenge. And I respond poorly to challenges."
The threat was clear: Watch me again, and I'll hurt someone again. Maybe Kieran. Maybe Lyra. Maybe someone else you show interest in.
It was brilliant, really. Marcus had found Sol's weakness in two weeks: curiosity and the inability to remain detached when people got hurt. And he was exploiting it perfectly.
Sol lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling, his mind already working on solutions.
[Problem: Marcus will hurt others to control Sol's behavior][Sol's Weaknesses Identified:]
Curiosity (cannot stop analyzing things) Compassion (cannot ignore others being hurt) Isolation (few allies to protect or defend him) Physical weakness (4-year-old body, Level 1)
[Possible Solutions:]
Avoid watching Marcus entirely (surrenders ground, admits defeat) Make allies strong enough that Marcus won't risk targeting them (long-term) Become strong enough that Marcus sees Sol as threat, not toy (very long-term) Find leverage over Marcus to force mutual deterrence (risky) Accept that people will get hurt and distance himself emotionally (unacceptable)
Sol's jaw clenched. Option 5 was out—he'd spent 847 years learning that caring about people was what made him different from tyrants like Wrath. He wouldn't abandon that now.
But the other options would take time. Months. Years, possibly.
And in the meantime, Marcus would continue being a threat. A subtle, politically protected, socially skilled threat who knew exactly how to hurt people without being held accountable.
Four more months, Sol reminded himself. Four months until I can contact the Thirteen. Until I have allies who can actually match Marcus's power and influence.
But four months was a long time to watch people get hurt because of him.
Sol closed his eyes and began meditating, using the technique Professor Aldwin had taught—or rather, the technique Sol had already mastered centuries ago and was pretending to learn now.
His mana pool expanded fractionally.
[MP: 52.3/52.3]
Progress. Slow, but steady. In four months, at this rate, he'd have maybe 80-90 MP. Still pathetically small compared to his former 10,000, but enough to start making simple contracts. Enough to begin building real power.
He just had to survive until then.
Without getting anyone else hurt.
Across the room, Marcus hummed quietly to himself, flipping pages in his book with perfect satisfaction.
And Kieran sat on his bed, arm in sling, staring at nothing.