The air in the nursery had changed.
It was a subtle shift, a change in pressure, like the moment before a storm breaks.
Where once there was only softness and lullabies,now a new tension hummed,
a silent question hanging in the sunbeams that danced with dust motes.
Leo felt it. His infant mind, a vessel for an ancient soul, was a seismograph
for the emotions of those around him.His mother's love was still a constant sun,
but now,sometimes, a cloud of worry passed across it, a shadow of the unease
that had taken root since the day he spoke the forgotten word.
But it was his father's presence that had transformed entirely.
Before, the Duke's visits were brief, formal inspections of his heir.
Now,he came more often, and he stayed longer. He did not coo or coddle.
He observed.He would sit in a high-backed chair carved with the Eldoria hawk,
a silent sentinel,his granite eyes fixed on his son.
It was a gaze that stripped away the layers of helpless flesh and bone.
Leo felt it peeling back the artifice of his infantile gurgles and clumsy movements,
probing for the consciousness that hid beneath.It was the look a general gives a map,
searching for hidden weaknesses,for the lie in the terrain.
He knows, the thought whispered through Leo's mind, a cold trickle of dread.
Not what I am, but that I am more than I seem.
Under that relentless gaze, Leo learned a new skill: performance.
He became an actor on the stage of his own crib.He practiced vacant, drooling smiles.
He deliberately fumbled his toys,sending them clattering to the floor.
He forced his eyes to lose their focus,to stare with the blank, wondering innocence
expected of a babe.It was exhausting, a constant, draining masquerade.
One afternoon, the Duke did not merely watch. He brought a test.
He entered the nursery, his boots echoing on the stone. In his hand, he held two objects.
One was a simple,polished wooden rattle, carved with harmless, playful animals.
The other was a dagger.It was a miniature version of his own, its blade dulled,
but its shape,its balance, its very essence was that of a weapon.
Valerius knelt by the rug where Leo sat. He placed the rattle before him.
Leo,following his script, reached for it with a clumsy, swiping motion, batting it away.
He produced a gurgle,the picture of infantile disregard.
Then, the Duke placed the dagger before him.
The air crackled. The object was wrong in this sunlit room of soft things.
It was a shard of the outside world,of duty and violence, intruding upon the sanctuary.
And Leo, for a fatal second, broke character.
His eyes, for just a moment, sharpened. They did not see a toy.
They saw the craftsmanship.The functional, unadorned hilt. The way the light
caught the subtle curve of the blade,designed for penetration, not for play.
It was an object of purpose,and his ancient soul, the soul of a man who understood history's bloody tapestry, recognized it instantly.
He did not reach for it. He did not gurgle. He stared at it, his head tilted in an assessment that was far, far too old for his face.
He felt his father's gaze like a physical weight.
When he realized his mistake, it was too late. He quickly looked away, letting his face go slack, and let out a fussy whimper.
The Duke did not move. He did not speak. The silence in the room was profound, broken only by the distant call of a hawk outside the window.
After a long moment, Valerius slowly retrieved the dagger. He looked from the blade in his hand to the face of his son, who was now diligently trying to put his own foot in his mouth.
"A child is drawn to bright, noisy things," the Duke said, his voice low and devoid of its usual declarative certainty. It was a statement seeking confirmation, finding none.
He stood up, his large frame casting a long shadow over Leo.
"You look at the world with old eyes,my son," he murmured, the words not meant for anyone else. "You see the weapon, but not the toy. I do not know what that means."
He turned and left, taking the cold, sharp truth of the dagger with him.
Leo was left alone on the rug, the innocuous rattle lying forgotten beside him.
The performance was over.The curtain had fallen. And he knew, with a certainty that chilled his blood, that his most discerning audience had seen through the act.
The love was still there. But it was now guarded, tempered by a wariness, a need to solve the riddle he represented. He was no longer just a son to be cherished.
He was a puzzle to be deciphered,a strange and unexpected variable in the Duke's carefully calculated plans for the future.
The gilded cage was still a cage, but now the keeper was watching,
and he knew his bird could sing in a language lost to time.
To be continued...