The heavy, silken silence of the study was broken only by the frantic beat of Athel's heart. He looked down at his mother's hand, which was gripping his own with a strength that bordered on desperation.
"What is it, Mother?" Athel asked, his brow furrowing as he searched her emerald eyes for an answer.
Octavia took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to steady the tremor in her voice. "It's… about you, Athel." She spoke slowly, as if each word were a precious, fragile thing. "Lord Leyhwin sees something in you—something rare. He wishes for you to train under his guidance. He is a man of immense, terrifying power, and he wants to share that knowledge with you."
She reached up, her palm warm against his bruised cheek, her touch lingering with a bittersweet tenderness. "He is a mage of the Seventh Circle, Athel. He believes you can match him… perhaps even surpass him. He says you possess a light that others do not."
Athel turned his gaze toward the Count, his breath catching in his throat. In the village, the stories of the Unification War were told in whispers, it was common gossip that Leyhwin Rodwell had been a lucky opportunist, a man who rose to power simply by being in the right place when the Great Houses fell. It had seemed impossible that one man could stand against the ancient, entrenched powerhouses of Rividia.
But as he looked at the silhouette of the man before him, Athel realized the gossip was a lie. Leyhwin hadn't been lucky, he had been the architect of his own legend. He had carved his title out of the civil war through sheer, unrelenting might.
A new emotion sparked in Athel's chest, burning away the lingering remnants of fear, admiration. Ignoring his mother's soft, cautionary tug on his sleeve, Athel stepped forward. His limp was still there, a reminder of Frederick's boots, but his posture was straight, his eyes fixed on the man behind the mahogany desk.
"My Lord…" Athel paused, drawing a breath that tasted of ozone and old books. "How can I become like you?"
His emerald eyes were unwavering, burning with a determination so fierce it seemed to cut through the dimming light of the room.
Leyhwin let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You want to become like me, boy?" He stood and turned his back to the room, looking out through the towering glass window. The sun had finally dipped below the horizon, leaving only a bruised purple streak across the Northern sky. "One as special as you… you could be far more than I have ever been."
He tucked his hands behind his back, his silver-blue hair shimmering in the twilight. "But that is a conversation for another time. You have endured enough for one day. My staff will see to your needs and help you get acquainted with your new reality. You must rest."
With a sharp, rhythmic clap of his hands, the doors to the study swung open. A small procession of maids and butlers entered with ghost-like silence, their heads bowed in absolute deference to their master. They fanned out, moving toward the mother and son with practiced grace.
"This way, if you please," the head attendant murmured, gesturing toward the hall. "Allow us to guide you."
Octavia recoiled slightly, her instincts flaring at the sudden influx of servants. She looked frozen, overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the hospitality being forced upon them. But Athel didn't hesitate. He stepped to her side and took her hand, his grip firm and reassuring. He didn't wait for her to move, he led her, his steps measured and certain.
Octavia looked at her son in wonder. In the span of a single afternoon, the boy she had protected in the cotton fields had vanished, replaced by a young man who walked through a Count's mansion as if he were born to it. For the first time since they had entered the gates of the North, the knot of anxiety in her chest loosened.