The heavy oak door clicked shut behind Greyson, sealing the vacuum of power he left in his wake.
Moments later, the room softened.
The door opened again, but this time the intrusion was not a shifting of shadows, but a flood of warmth. Ariel entered. She brought with her the scent of morning—fresh linen and rosewater— dispersing the lingering ozone smell of the Butler's presence.
"You are awake," she smiled, crossing the room to lift him from the crib.
Her touch was different. Where Greyson's handling was precise and clinical, Ariel's was encompassing. She washed the sleep from his face with a warm cloth, a ritual Stars endured with stoic patience. He understood the necessity of hygiene, even if the indignity of being powerless to wash himself chafed at his pride.
They moved to the dining hall for the morning meal. It was a cavernous room where the morning sun bled through stained glass, painting the long mahogany table in pools of ruby and azure light. Stars was placed in his high chair—a gilded wooden tower that elevated him to eye level with the seated giants.
Darran was absent, likely attending to the invisible mechanics of the estate. But Greyson was there. The Head Butler stood by the arched entrance, his back to the wall, his stillness so absolute he seemed less like a man and more like a piece of architectural support.
Servants moved in a choreographed dance, placing silver platters of fruit and warm porridge. Stars watched them closely. He looked for the flicker, the spark, the violation of physics he had witnessed earlier. He looked at their hands. Nothing. They were just hands again, lifting covers and pouring milk.
He had to know.
He turned to his mother. She was spreading jam on toast, huming a melody that lacked structure but possessed a soothing resonance.
Stars gathered his breath. His vocal cords were still instruments he was learning to tune; they lacked the range for the complex questions burning in his mind. He couldn't ask, 'What represents the catalyst for the spontaneous combustion I witnessed?'
He pointed a small, chubby finger at the nearest maid, then at the oil lamp on the wall.
"Fire," he croaked. The word was rough, a single syllable pushed through lips unaccustomed to speech, his vocal cords still not robust.
"Hand. Fire."
The silver knife in Ariel's hand paused. The room seemed to hold its breath. By the door, Greyson's eyes shifted, locking onto the child with the intensity of a hawk sighting movement in the grass.
Ariel looked at the lamp, then down at her son. Her expression didn't darken with worry; instead, a soft, conspiratorial smile bloomed on her face. She reached out and lowered his hand.
"You have sharp eyes, my little Star," she whispered, wiping a speck of porridge from his chin. "Too sharp for one so small."
"Fire," he insisted, frustration bubbling in his chest. He needed data. He needed confirmation.
"Not yet," she said softly, but the command was absolute. "The world is full of energies, Stars. Things that burn and things that heal. But you are barely a year old. Your bones are soft. Your spirit is still knitting itself together."
She leaned in, her voice dropping to a murmur intended only for him.
"We do not play with the spark until we understand the ash. You will understand. In due time."
She offered him a spoon of sweetened oats, effectively ending the interrogation. He accepted the food, chewing thoughtfully. In due time. It was a postponement, not a denial. The variable existed; he was simply unauthorized to access it.
After the meal, she did not return him to the nursery. Instead, she carried him to the solar, a sundrenched room filled with tapestries that depicted great beasts and men in armor. She sat him on her lap, facing the window that overlooked the sprawling grounds.
"Look," she said, gesturing to the expanse of the estate.
"You wonder about the fire. You wonder about the gates," Ariel began, her voice taking on a narrative cadence, like a bard reciting a history. "You must understand who you are before you understand what you can do."
She smoothed his hair, her hand resting protectively over the crown of his head.
"We are the Myers. It is not just a name, Stars. It is a pillar. In this Empire—" she waved a hand vaguely at the horizon, leaving the geopolitical label undefined "—there are those who rule, and those who support the sky so the rulers do not fall. We are the pillars."
Stars listened, filing every word. Pillar. Support. Structural integrity of the state.
"We are respected," she continued, her tone shifting, a steel edge creeping into the softness. "We are revered. And by many, we are feared. Power does not ask for permission, my son. It simply is."
She turned him so he faced her. Her eyes were serious now, devoid of the playful motherly light.
"You are a child of this House. You are loved—oh, you are so loved—but you carry a weight you cannot feel yet. We do not burden the young with the heavy books of history. Not yet." She kissed his forehead.
"At two years," she promised. "When the second winter passes, the books will open. The tutors will come. The official learning begins. Until then... be a boy. Watch the birds. Feel the sun. Let your mind rest, for it will have centuries of work to do."
She set him down on the rug, surrounded by wooden blocks and soft toys. Then, with a final caress of his cheek, she stood.
"Play, Stars."
She left him there, bathed in sunlight.
Stars sat amidst the toys, motionless. He picked up a wooden block—a simple cube. He turned it over in his hands.
Two years.
He had a timeline. He had a countdown. The "Official Learning" was a scheduled event. Until then, he was in a holding pattern. He looked at the door where Greyson stood guard outside, then at the window where the world waited.
He placed the block on the floor. Then he placed another on top of it.
He would wait. He would watch. And when the clock struck the hour of his second year, he would be ready to tear the secrets from this world, one page at a time.