Four years changed a child more loudly than three weeks ever could.
Alaric Voss Ecthellion was no longer a swaddled babe beneath painted constellations, helpless and wordless while the palace sharpened its knives around him. He had become a small prince with steady feet, a straight back, and eyes that watched the world with a focus that unsettled grown men. His hair—still that strange interlacing of silver and gold—had thickened and begun to fall in soft, unruly strands that refused to lie neatly no matter how patiently Gina tried to comb it. There was strength in him even now, in the way he carried himself, in the way he looked at people as if he could see through them.
Some said it was Aurora's fire.
Some said it was Lune's cold clarity.
Alaric said nothing about either, because he had learned early that explanations were handles other people used to grab you.
Yet not all of those four years had been spent only surviving palace currents and learning which smiles meant danger. Some of those years had been shaped in quieter ways—by training that no courtier would call glamorous, and by companionship that the palace would prefer to turn into leverage.
Mana training had begun when he was old enough to sit still without toppling and old enough to follow instructions without turning them into a game.
It started with breath.
Asimi would sit with him on Starfall's sitting-room carpet—new carpets, chosen by her, not the crown's appointed taste—and place two fingers lightly against his sternum.
"Feel your heartbeat," she would say softly, metallic eyes calm. "Not just the sound. The movement. The rhythm."
Alaric would close his eyes, small hands clenched in his lap, and he would listen to his own body the way a man listened to a storm outside a window. At first, it was only heart and breath and the tiny aches that came from a child's muscles still learning coordination.
Then, slowly, there had been something else.
A faint warmth beneath his ribs that did not feel like blood. A pressure in his limbs that seemed to respond to focus. When he inhaled deeply and imagined drawing cold moonlight into his lungs, he felt a thin, cool thread of energy gather at the base of his throat. When he imagined sunlight pouring through his bones, there was a warmer sensation, heavier, more stubborn.
It was strange.
Deva were supposed to be bound cleanly—Lune or Aurora. Silver or gold. Grace or strength. Mana regeneration or physical regeneration. Yet whenever Alaric trained, he felt… both. Not fully. Not cleanly. More like two rivers trying to share the same bed.
Asimi had noticed.
She did not say the word anomalous to his face, but Alaric saw the concern in the careful set of her lips when his mana flow stuttered between cold and heat.
So Asimi had brought tutors quietly—an Imperial Faith acolyte of Lune for one week, an Aurora cleric for the next—keeping it subtle, keeping it lawful enough that even the crown's watchers could not accuse her of secret heresy within her own faith.
And Gina had watched every tutor like a hawk watches a mouse.
Because mana training was not just spiritual discipline in this world.
It was power cultivated in the body.
It was the kind of thing people wanted to influence early.
Even without Spheres unlocked, even without spells, Alaric had learned to move mana. He could guide it to his hands to warm his fingers on cold mornings. He could push it into his legs until his small body felt lighter, quicker. He could still the frantic panic of a nightmare by drawing that cool thread of moonlike energy down into his chest until his breathing slowed.
It was not magic in the grand sense.
But it was the first step toward it.
And alongside training had come Dawn.
Dawn Angelique arrived at Starfall Manor for the first time when she was old enough to walk without stumbling constantly, a small girl wrapped in pale silver and jet-black accents that hinted at her house's taste. Her hair was black as night even then, thick and glossy, and her eyes were a royal blue that seemed to hold a subtle glow in certain light, like the sky just before sunrise.
She was only a child, yet she carried the faint weight of expectation behind her, the same way Alaric did. Not as heavily—yet. But it was there, in the way her attendants corrected her posture, in the way she was taught to curtsy properly before she was taught how to laugh freely.
The first time Dawn saw Alaric, she stared at his hair with unabashed fascination.
"You look like morning," she announced, voice bright and utterly unfiltered.
Gina, standing behind Alaric, stiffened as if expecting insult.
Dawn tilted her head. "Like when the night doesn't want to leave and the sun doesn't want to wait."
Alaric had blinked at her, then—against his better judgment—had smiled.
Because the palace did not speak like that.
Children should, and yet palace children often didn't.
They became careful too early.
Dawn was careful in some ways—she watched adult faces, she mimicked etiquette—but she still had that spark, that willingness to say what she meant without gilding it.
Over the months, their play became routine, though "play" in an imperial context often looked like lessons disguised as leisure. They played with carved wooden beasts and practiced polite greetings with dolls dressed as nobles. Dawn loved stories, especially ones about monsters and heroes. Alaric—James Silver behind those young eyes—found himself telling her simplified versions of old campaign tales, careful not to reveal too much, careful not to sound insane.
Sometimes, when the manor's halls felt too cold with unseen watchers, Dawn's laughter warmed the air in a way Asimi's Bardsong could not.
Gina disliked those visits.
Not Dawn herself. Gina had little patience for cruelty, and Dawn was not cruel. Gina disliked the Angelique crest at Starfall's gate. She disliked Duke Tabris's polite smile when he occasionally accompanied his daughter and spoke softly about alliances and "old practices." She disliked the way every kindness in the palace came with a shadow.
But even Gina could not deny the simplest truth:
Alaric was less alone when Dawn was near.
So when Alaric began insisting, with the quiet stubbornness of a child who had been taught the value of truth, that he wanted to see Asmora with his own eyes—Asimi did not forbid it.
She merely kissed his forehead and said, "Bring me truth. Not stories."
Then she pressed a hand to his chest and added softly, "And guard your mana. Do not waste it on pride."
So now, at four years old, Alaric sat in a carriage rolling west from the capital, cloak snug around his shoulders, the faint warmth of gathered mana tucked carefully inside his ribcage like a candle protected from wind.
Gina rode with him as Head Maid, not merely attendant but shield.
Outside the narrow window, Almeric's stone and iron gave way to open land and winter fields. Above them, griffons cut through cold air as the Knights Gallant flew in loose formation, their white-and-gold armor flashing when sunlight found it. Their wingbeats were a steady rhythm overhead, like the pulse of the Empire traveling with him.
The retinue was modest by imperial standards, yet heavy enough to turn heads in every village they passed.
Head Maid Gina Othel.
Three maidservants loyal to Asimi.
A squadron of the Knights Gallant mounted on griffons.
A stonemason with tools wrapped in oiled cloth.
A woodcutter with hands like knotted rope.
Ten laborers with wary eyes and strong backs.
A surveyor who clutched his maps like holy scripture.
And at the center of it all, Alaric—small lord of a village he had never seen.
"You must keep your cloak closed," Gina murmured, tugging it tighter. "The wind will bite you. And if you catch cold, I will be the one blamed."
"I do not like being wrapped like a parcel," Alaric replied, voice small but firm.
Gina's amber eyes narrowed. "You are a parcel," she said bluntly. "A precious one. Precious things are stolen."
Alaric's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. He closed his eyes briefly and inhaled, not for comfort but for training.
He drew the cold thread of mana up from his belly, guided it with slow patience into his hands. Warmth blossomed in his fingers. The chill that had been creeping into his knuckles eased.
Gina noticed immediately. Her gaze sharpened. "Do not do that too often," she warned quietly. "Not on the road."
Alaric opened his eyes. "I am not casting," he said.
"Mana is mana," Gina replied. "If someone is watching—"
"Someone is always watching," Alaric murmured.
Gina's jaw tightened, because she could not argue that.
The journey took days.
The western highway began well-maintained and proud, then gradually grew rougher as distance from the capital loosened the crown's grip. Stone blocks became uneven. Ditches filled with dead leaves. The road dipped where earth had settled. The carriages rocked, making maidservants gasp.
Alaric watched the land more than the road. He watched swollen streams, dark water moving fast even in cold season. He watched the scars left by flooding—banks collapsed, fields still uneven where water had once carved through.
Floods leave memories, he thought. The land remembers longer than the court does.
On the morning they crested a low rise and Asmora came into view, the village greeted them not with banners, but with a silence that felt bruised.
Asmora sat in a shallow basin between gentle slopes, clustered around a river that should have been its lifeline. The river now looked like a threat held on a leash—wide, restless, its banks uneven where water had once chewed them raw. A few half-rotten wooden posts jutted from the water like broken teeth, remnants of a bridge that had not been rebuilt. The main road into the village was packed mud hardened by cold, pitted with old ruts.
Houses stood in loose rows, most built of wood with stone foundations. Some foundations had cracked. A few homes leaned as if exhausted. Smoke rose thinly from chimneys. Children watched from doorways, faces solemn. Adults gathered in small clusters near the central square—if it could be called that—hands tucked into sleeves, eyes wary.
No one cheered.
No one smiled.
A prince arriving did not mean salvation to people who had learned promises often came wrapped in silk and delivered empty.
The carriages rolled to a halt near the village's largest building—a communal hall with a sagging roof and patched walls. The Knights Gallant descended from the sky in a controlled sweep, griffons landing with heavy grace. The villagers flinched at the beasts, stepping back instinctively.
Gina stepped down first, boots crunching on frost. She turned and offered her hand to Alaric.
He took it and descended carefully, chin lifted.
He was small. But the way he stood made him seem larger than his height. No crown, no heavy jewels—just a navy cloak with a silver-and-gold clasp, and eyes that didn't avert.
A village elder approached hesitantly, a weathered Human with a beard gone gray. He bowed as deeply as his spine allowed.
"Your Highness," he said. "Welcome to Asmora. I am Elder Marrec."
Alaric inclined his head. "You are in poor condition," he said simply.
Some villagers stiffened. Shame, anger, exhaustion—different faces wore different reactions.
Elder Marrec bowed again. "Aye. The flood took much. We rebuilt what we could. But we lack stone. We lack timber. We lack coin."
Gina's gaze hardened. "You lack imperial attention," she muttered too low for most to hear.
Alaric heard.
He stepped forward into the square and began taking stock the way he might have once taken stock of a settlement in a campaign: structures, resources, morale. He did it without theatrical sympathy, because pity would not rebuild anything.
He turned to the surveyor. "You will map everything," he instructed. "Roads, foundations, riverbanks, fields. Full survey within seven days."
The surveyor blinked, startled at being commanded by a four-year-old. "Y-yes, Your Highness."
To the stonemason: "Inspect foundations. Determine reinforcement versus rebuild."
To the woodcutter: "Identify usable timber. Do not strip the land."
To the laborers: "Assist them. Follow their instruction."
The village watched, and the mere fact of orders made some shoulders loosen. Direction was a kind of hope.
By midday, Alaric stood inside the communal hall before Elder Marrec and several villagers. The hearth smoked because the chimney was cracked. The air smelled of damp wood and old soot.
"You have been neglected," Alaric said. "That ends now."
Elder Marrec's eyes flickered. "With respect, Your Highness… we've heard such words before."
Alaric nodded. "Then judge me by what I do."
He lifted a small hand. "To rebuild, we need coin."
Gina's shoulders tensed.
Alaric continued anyway. "Starfall Manor will be sold."
Silence dropped like a stone.
Gina's head snapped toward him. "Absolutely not," she hissed, forgetting court etiquette for a heartbeat. Then she recovered, but her eyes still burned. "Your Highness—Alaric—no."
Elder Marrec stared. "The manor in the capital?"
"Yes," Alaric replied.
Gina stepped closer, voice low and fierce. "That manor is your foothold. Your visibility. Your place in the capital. It is—"
"A monitored cage," Alaric said softly.
Gina's mouth snapped shut. The villagers did not understand the full meaning, but Gina did: the hidden passages, the peepholes, the reports.
Alaric looked at the villagers. "A manor is stone. A village is people. People can work. People can fight. People can be loyal."
His gaze held theirs. "If I make Asmora prosperous, you will defend it. You will defend me."
Some villagers flinched at the bluntness, yet none could deny the truth beneath it. Loyalty was often bought—better to buy it with bridges and bread than with fear.
Elder Marrec's hands trembled. "You would do that… for us?"
"For my fief," Alaric replied. "And because the strong must protect the weak."
Gina's jaw tightened at the echo of imperial doctrine, but she did not argue further in front of the villagers.
Alaric turned to one of Asimi's loyal maids—Lysa, steady-eyed and quietly brave. "Lysa," he instructed, "return to the capital with my letter. Begin the sale of Starfall Manor. Quietly if possible. Quickly if not."
Lysa swallowed, then bowed. "As you command."
Gina looked as though she wanted to snatch the letter and feed it to the hearth. She did not—only because she had learned that Alaric's will, once set, did not yield easily.
The afternoon became motion. Laborers hauling debris. The stonemason marking cracked foundations with chalk. The surveyor pacing with measuring tools. Villagers watching, then slowly joining, as if testing whether this was real.
But Alaric was not satisfied.
A fief was not only its village. It was its land.
So when the sun began to sink and the air sharpened, he insisted on surveying the large hills on the edge of his property.
Elder Marrec frowned. "Those hills? Naught there but scrub and rock. And old stories."
"Old stories grow from old things," Alaric replied.
Gina protested immediately. "It's cold. The ground is uneven. And you are four."
Alaric looked at her. "I am also your lord."
Gina's lips pressed thin. Then she exhaled sharply and turned to the Knights Gallant captain. "Foot escort," she ordered. "No flying. Stay close."
So they went on foot.
Alaric walked bundled in his cloak, boots crunching on frost. Gina hovered close enough to catch him if he stumbled. The knights followed in armored wedge, their breath fogging the air. Alaric kept his mana tucked tight in his chest, using it sparingly to steady his limbs on steeper parts of the climb.
At the crest of the second hill, he stopped.
An archway stood there, half-buried, as if the earth had tried to swallow it and failed. Pale stone pillars rose with delicate carvings that did not match human craftsmanship. The curve of the arch was elegant, almost musical. Dead vines clung to its base. Moss stained the stone green-black.
Along the inner curve were inscriptions—thin, flowing characters, too intricate to be human. They reminded Alaric—James Silver behind young eyes—of the stylized elvish script from old Dungeons & Dragons books.
That looks like D&D Elvish, his mind whispered, awed despite the cold.
Gina stepped forward, gaze narrowing—then froze.
Because the archway was not empty.
A faint shimmer hung within it, invisible until the right angle—like heat haze, like glass, like a sheet of water suspended in air.
A magical barrier.
The Knights Gallant tensed, hands near sword hilts.
"Your Highness," the captain said, wary, "there is old magic in that stone."
Alaric approached slowly. Gina's hand shot out, catching his sleeve. "No," she hissed.
"I will not touch it," Alaric said.
He stepped close enough to feel it. The air before the archway was cold, yet there was a subtle pressure, like standing too near a storm about to break. The shimmer brightened faintly, revealing layered runes—patterns interwoven like a net.
Beyond the barrier, he could see ruins: broken stonework, collapsed walls, stairs descending into shadow. A world behind the archway, sealed away and waiting.
Alaric raised his hand, stopping inches short.
The barrier reacted.
A pulse of pale light rippled outward, silent but undeniable, pressing gently against the air as warning. It did not burn him, but it made his skin prickle and his gathered mana tighten instinctively, as if his body recognized something older and stronger than itself.
Gina's grip on his sleeve tightened. "We leave," she said, voice strained.
Alaric stared a moment longer, memorizing the inscriptions, the rune patterns, the way the barrier's light pulsed like a heartbeat.
A locked door on his land.
A secret buried beneath hills while his village starved.
He turned away and began descending with the knights surrounding him, Gina still tense at his side.
Behind them, the barrier shimmered faintly in the dying light, guarding its ruins with silent, ancient refusal.
In the basin below, Asmora waited—broken, hungry, and newly stirred by the presence of a prince willing to spend his own "gift" to rebuild them.
And in Alaric's mind, three threads tightened together like a braid:
Mana, slowly cultivated in secret breath.
Dawn, a friend whose warmth was real even if the palace tried to price it.
And a sealed gate on his fief, promising that the past—like the palace—had not finished sharpening its teeth.