The cell did not change.
Stone remained stone. Iron remained iron. The runes along the walls continued their dull, oppressive glow, humming softly as they crushed mana before it could fully form. Time passed not by sun or season, but by the slow deterioration of bodies and the quiet sharpening of a mind that refused to dull.
From the age of five onward, the boy's days became structured.
Not by bells or schedules, but by lessons—each one carved carefully into the limited hours his parents could still remain awake.
Lucien insisted on structure first.
"Knowledge without discipline becomes arrogance," his father said, sitting with his back against the wall, legs extended despite the pain it caused him. "And arrogance gets noble children killed."
That was how the lessons of noble etiquette began.
The boy learned how to sit properly, even on bare stone. Spine straight. Chin level. Eyes attentive, but never challenging unless invited. He learned the difference between a bow meant for equals, one for superiors, and the subtle incline reserved for royalty.
"Never lower your head too far," Lucien warned. "A man who bows too deeply teaches others that he expects to be crushed."
The boy practiced endlessly, rising and bowing until the movement became natural. He learned how to walk with measured steps, how to pause before speaking, how to listen more than he talked.
Elenora corrected him gently when his tone grew too cold.
"Courtesy is not a weapon," she told him one evening, her voice soft as she adjusted his posture. "It is a language. Speak it well, and others will lower their guard around you without realizing it."
He learned how to address nobles by rank, how to speak to commoners without condescension, how to mask displeasure behind polite neutrality.
Most importantly, he learned what not to say.
"What you hide," Lucien said quietly, "is often more valuable than what you reveal."
The boy absorbed it all without complaint.
He understood, even at that age, that these lessons were not meant for the cell.
They were meant for survival.
Alchemy came next.
Elenora could no longer brew potions. Her hands shook too much, and the suppression runes made proper mana circulation impossible. So instead, she taught him theory—deep, foundational knowledge that most apprentices never received until much later.
"Alchemy is not magic," she explained, tracing diagrams into the dust with slow precision. "It is agreement. Between substance and intent. Between law and will."
She taught him classification first.
Herbs that strengthened the body.
Essences that stabilized mana.
Catalysts that amplified reactions.
And poisons—always poisons.
"Never assume alchemy is benevolent," she said, eyes dark. "The same formula that heals can kill if the ratios shift by a breath."
He memorized everything.
Not just names, but properties. Not just effects, but interactions. How heat altered potency. How impurities corrupted results. How emotional state could subtly influence mana-infused brews.
"You don't force a potion to work," she told him, resting a trembling hand on his head. "You convince it."
Sometimes she tested him.
"If you had ironroot, moonwater, and a mana-stable vial, what could you make?"
"A low-grade fortification draught," he answered after a moment. "Or a toxin, if the ironroot is burned instead of steeped."
Elenora smiled faintly.
"You're listening."
He always was.
Swordsmanship was harder.
Lucien could not stand for long anymore. His mana core was shattered beyond recovery, leaving him with chronic pain that worsened each year. But the sword art he taught was not one of strength—it was one of precision.
"This is not a common style," Lucien said, voice low as he demonstrated a motion with empty hands. "It is the Valemont family art. Passed only to blood."
The boy mirrored the movement carefully.
The art focused on economy of motion. No wasted steps. No grand swings. Every strike aimed for tendons, vitals, openings created through pressure rather than brute force.
"Your opponent should feel like they're losing before they understand how," Lucien explained.
Without a sword, they practiced with imagination.
Footwork patterns etched into the dust.
Angles drawn with chalk-like fragments of stone.
Breathing techniques meant to align body and mind.
"Power comes later," Lucien said. "Control comes first. Always first."
The boy practiced until his legs shook and his lungs burned. Even then, he did not complain. Pain was familiar. Discipline was comforting.
At night, when his muscles screamed and sleep refused to come, he replayed the movements in his mind.
Again.
Again.
Again.
As the years passed, the lessons deepened.
By seven, he understood noble politics better than most court pages. By eight, he could recite dozens of alchemical formulas from memory and identify errors in advanced sword stances simply by watching.
His parents noticed.
Lucien watched him with an expression that hovered between pride and sorrow.
"You're growing too quickly," he said one night.
The boy tilted his head. "Is that bad?"
Lucien hesitated.
"…It means the world will not be gentle with you."
Elenora pulled the boy closer to her side, pressing a kiss into his hair.
"Then we'll give him everything we can," she said softly. "So he doesn't break."
The boy said nothing.
He already knew.
By the end of the third year, the cell felt smaller.
Not physically—but mentally.
The boy had outgrown it.
Not in body, but in presence.
His gaze was too steady. His silence too deliberate. His movements too controlled for a child.
And somewhere beyond the stone and iron, fate began to stir—uneasy at the thought of what was being shaped in the dark.