The first light of morning spills through the nursery windows, casting pale gold across the wooden floors and the soft drapery that frames my crib. The house stirs around me—the shuffle of servants beginning their work, the muffled clang of the kitchen staff preparing breakfast, the faint creak of doors opening and closing as the great estate comes to life.

  But I have not slept.

  The night was long, and I spent every moment of it reinforcing my body, layer by layer, pushing my limits without drawing too much strain. My bones feel denser now, the structure beneath my flesh refined with mana. My muscles, still weak with infancy, hold a tension that wasn’t there the day before. It is slow progress, but progress nonetheless.

  The weight of exhaustion settles over me, not from sleeplessness—I have endured far worse—but from the constant, meticulous work of strengthening myself. My breathing remains steady, mimicking the slow rise and fall of an infant’s natural sleep, though inside, I remain fully aware. My fingers twitch slightly, testing the responsiveness of my limbs. There is improvement, but I must be cautious. Too much, too soon, and I will draw unwanted attention.

  Beyond the nursery walls, the estate hums with morning life. The faint murmur of voices reaches my ears—Marla speaking to Isla about the household tasks for the day, Isla responding in her quiet, measured way. Their movements are familiar now, part of the rhythm of my life here.

  The door opens softly, and Marla enters first, her pace unhurried, her presence as steady as the ticking of a grandfather clock. Isla follows behind her, her steps lighter, more deliberate. Lena rises from the servants cot, giving a tired nod to Marla and Isla as they enter. "He slept well," she says, rubbing at her eyes. "Didn’t stir once."

  Marla nods approvingly. "Good. We’ll see you in the dining hall." The nursery fills with the scent of warm linens and the faint trace of lavender soap.

  Lena gives me a final glance, then slips away down the corridor. Isla watches her go before stepping closer to my crib.

  Marla reaches my crib and leans over, her experienced hands gentle yet efficient as she lifts me. "Good morning, little lord," she murmurs, her voice a comforting hum. Her fingers brush against my cheek as she shifts me into her arms, and I force myself to remain limp, letting my head loll naturally as if still groggy from sleep.

  I hear Isla move closer, and even without looking, I can feel her hesitation. There is something different in the way she watches me today.

  "He's quiet this morning," Isla says softly.

  Marla chuckles as she sets me on the changing table. "And when is he not? Thoughtful little thing."

  Isla hesitates, then reaches out, her hands hovering just above me before she finally helps Marla with dressing me for the day. The moment her fingers press against my arm, she stiffens—just slightly. It is barely perceptible, but I notice it.

  She feels it.

  The density, the weight. I am heavier than I should be.

  She pulls back slightly, frowning. "He feels... solid. More than before."

  Marla gives her a glance, then waves a dismissive hand. "Titles change people, even babes. Growth spurts come early when magic is involved. The young lord is simply growing into himself."

  A convenient lie. A useful one.

  Isla doesn’t argue, but I see the flicker of thought behind her eyes, the way she mulls over the explanation. She is not convinced, but she does not press further. For now.

  Marla lifts me once more and carries me out of the nursery, with Isla trailing just behind.

  The scent of fresh bread and roasted meats greets us as we enter the dining hall designated for the household staff and attendants. The long wooden tables are already set, the warmth of the kitchen spilling into the space. A smaller table is prepared for me, my place set near Lena, who waits with an expectant smile.

  The hall hums with the soft chatter of the staff as they settle into their places, the morning routine well-practiced and familiar. The warmth of companionship radiates through the space—laughter, quiet murmurs, the occasional clatter of plates and mugs. The kitchen door swings open and closed as more trays are carried in, the rich aroma of buttered eggs and spiced sausage filling the air.

  As soon as Marla settles me in my chair, a plate is placed in front of me. For months, I have needed little food, sustaining myself well enough on milk and the occasional bite of fruit. But today, the hunger gnaws at me, deep and insatiable.

  I reach for the food without hesitation, small hands moving with the practiced ease of someone far older than a year. I force myself to eat with a measured pace, though I crave more, though every bite only fuels the growing hunger inside me. I cannot devour it too quickly, cannot reveal too much. But I eat. More than I ever have before.

  Lena laughs, brushing crumbs from my tunic. "Look at him go. He’s never been this eager to eat."

  "A strong appetite means he'll grow up big and sturdy," one of the older kitchen women comments as she walks past, setting down a tray of fresh rolls for the staff. "Though, with parents like his, that was never in doubt."

  Marla waves a dismissive hand. "The boy is growing. A proper appetite is good."

  Another woman, younger, pauses beside Lena, hands resting lightly on her own hips. "And speaking of growing, Lena, you're starting to show." Her tone is light, teasing, but there’s a fondness in her gaze. "You’ll be waddling about soon enough."

  Lena rolls her eyes but smiles, resting a protective hand over her stomach. "Not for months yet, but thank you for the reminder."

  Laughter ripples through the nearby staff, a small moment of joy shared between them. Even Marla smirks as she takes a sip from her mug. The warmth of the room is undeniable, a sense of community that exists despite the rigid structure of noble houses. These people have lived and worked together for years, some for decades, and the bonds between them are apparent.

  Yet one figure stands apart.

  Isla remains just behind my chair, silent, her presence almost a shadow. She does not join in the quiet laughter or the morning banter. No one addresses her, no one acknowledges her presence, yet she is always there, watching.

  I keep my expression neutral, keep my movements slow and deliberate. But I can feel the weight of Isla's gaze on me still, lingering, thoughtful.

  I am changing. And she knows it.

  For now, she says nothing. But I know she will be watching.

  The meal winds down as the kitchen staff begin clearing away the dishes. Marla sets down her mug with a decisive click against the wooden table, dusting her hands against her apron before turning to Lena. "Come on, then. Let's get you off your feet."

  Lena scoffs, waving her off. "I'm not that far along, Marla. I can walk just fine."

  "You can, but that doesn't mean you should refuse a little care," Marla replies with the sharp efficiency that has made her the head of the household staff for years. But beneath that, there is something else—a quiet kind of doting, reserved only for those under her charge.

  Lena sighs but doesn’t argue further. Marla falls into step beside her, walking at a measured pace, as if prepared to catch her at the slightest sign of discomfort.

  Behind them, Isla carries me with careful, steady hands. Her grip is firm, but not unkind, though there is a rigidity to the way she holds me. She moves with silent grace, effortlessly keeping pace as we make our way back to the nursery. She still has not spoken since noticing my weight, and the quiet between us is thick with thought—hers, and mine.

  The halls of the estate are filled with the gentle hum of the morning routine, servants moving efficiently about their tasks. The marble floors are cool beneath Isla’s measured steps, the soft swish of her skirts barely audible. The nursery door looms ahead, and as we step inside, I am settled down carefully onto the plush carpeted floor.

  Lena follows in after, easing herself onto a cushioned chair with a small exhale, resting a hand against her growing belly. She smiles down at me, though there is a glint of determination in her gaze. "Now, little lord, since you've gained a title, we best start making sure your lessons are proper." Her tone is light, but I can tell she means it.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  I school my expression into something neutral, something appropriately childlike. This will be tedious, but it must be endured.

  Lena reaches for the wooden blocks, each carved with a letter or number. She sets them in front of me, bright and expectant. "Let's start with the alphabet, shall we?"

  I suppress a sigh and reach for the first block, my fingers wrapping around the smooth wood. The letter carved into its surface is unfamiliar, but not entirely alien. The symbols of this world’s language hold a certain logic, a structure that I can unravel in time.

  Lena claps her hands together lightly. "That’s a good boy. This is ‘A.’ Can you say ‘A’?"

  I stare at her, expression blank. She waits, tilting her head expectantly, and I can feel Isla shift nearby, still watching. I have been careful not to speak too soon, and I will not break that now. Instead, I set the block down deliberately and reach for the next one.

  Lena exhales, but her smile does not falter. "Alright, alright, no rush. We’ll go through them all, and soon enough, you’ll be chattering away."

  The lesson continues, each letter carefully introduced, repeated, placed in simple sequences. To anyone watching, it might seem like an ordinary morning with a child struggling to grasp the most basic of concepts. In truth, I am memorizing everything, mapping the connections between symbols, finding their patterns, their repetitions. The more I understand, the more I can use this knowledge when the time comes.

  It is tedious, but necessary. I do not fight the pace Lena sets, nor do I rush ahead. I let her guide me, let her believe she is teaching, while I consume everything in silence.

  At one point, Lena sighs and leans back, rubbing her belly absentmindedly. "You are a stubborn one, you know that? Most children would at least try to mimic by now. But no, not our young lord. You just sit there and stare like you're solving a great mystery."

  I am.

  But I only blink up at her and pick up another block.

  Lena chuckles and shakes her head before stretching, her fingers kneading gently at her lower back. "Alright, little lord, I think that’s enough for today. My back is telling me it’s time for our midday rest."

  Marla, who had been overseeing from a nearby chair, nods in agreement. "A good lesson, even if he’s stubborn as a mule about talking. He’s learning."

  I set the last block down, already preparing for what comes next—being placed in my crib, feigning sleep while using the stillness to focus on mental exercises. It is a routine now, predictable, controllable. But as Marla moves to lift me, Isla’s voice breaks the quiet for the first time since morning.

  "Perhaps he does not need naps anymore."

  The words hang in the air, spoken plainly, but there is something beneath them, something edged. Marla pauses, glancing at Isla with mild surprise before letting out a soft snort. "He has always gone to sleep when we put him down, and I need the break. He will not need the nap soon enough."

  I shift slightly, my movements slow and drowsy, then let out a small yawn for effect.

  Marla smirks triumphantly. "See?" She scoops me up, cradling me as she stands. "A growing boy still needs his rest."

  Lena chuckles as she pushes herself upright, stretching once more. "Besides, if he does outgrow naps soon, I’ll enjoy the peace while it lasts."

  Isla says nothing, but as Marla carries me toward the crib, I catch it—a brief flicker of something sharp in her eyes, the barest narrowing of her gaze. A glare, quick and fleeting, before she smooths her expression back into impassive neutrality.

  It is the first time she has openly shown her suspicion.

  Marla settles me into the crib, tucking the blankets around me as I let my eyelids droop, sinking into the facade of sleep. The nursery dims as they draw the curtains, their voices retreating as they move toward the door.

  Marla’s voice is soft but firm as she speaks to Lena. "Come on, let’s get you off your feet for a bit."

  Lena sighs but does not argue. "I’m fine, Marla."

  "And you’ll stay fine if you rest when you should," Marla counters, guiding her toward the door with a steady hand on her elbow. "You’ve been on your feet enough this morning."

  Lena chuckles under her breath, shaking her head as they step into the hall. "You act as though I’m fragile."

  "Not fragile," Marla murmurs. "But you’re carrying more than just yourself now."

  Their voices fade as the door clicks shut behind them.

  The nursery falls into silence, save for the faint rustling of curtains in the breeze. Isla remains behind. It is her turn to watch over my nap.

  I wait, listening to the soft creak of the floor as she moves to her usual place. She does not leave the room as some of the others would. She does not sit idly with a book or busy herself with quiet tasks. No, Isla is different. She watches. She listens.

  This is my first nap since the naming ceremony, and I am eager to continue the reinforcements I started the night before. My body feels stronger, my limbs no longer as fragile as they were only a day ago. The foundation is set, and now I must build upon it.

  But it does not go as planned.

  The moment I begin to pull mana into my core, Isla shifts. A small, nearly imperceptible change in posture, but I notice it. She does not rise immediately, but something has disturbed her.

  I pause, waiting. She settles once more.

  I try again, drawing the energy inward, careful, controlled.

  The floor creaks softly.

  She moves. Footsteps approach the crib, slow and measured. Even with my eyes closed and my chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, I feel her presence hovering over me. She does not touch me, but she lingers, longer this time, as though she is searching for something unseen.

  I do not know what she is sensing, but this cannot be coincidence. She feels something.

  She stays longer than before, her breath quiet but present. Then, finally, she steps back. The floor shifts beneath her weight as she returns to her chair.

  I wait. The minutes stretch.

  I attempt once more, even slower this time, barely pulling in the faintest threads of mana.

  Isla rises immediately.

  This time, she remains standing by the crib for far too long.

  I do not move. I do not react.

  I will have to reserve mana and body refinement for the nights and for naps when she is not watching me. I do not know what instinct or knowledge she possesses, but she is too aware, too attuned to something just beyond her understanding.

  For now, I will stick to breath exercises and body tension training. Safe. Subtle.

  And I will watch her as closely as she watches me.

  The afternoon sun casts long beams of golden light across the nursery floor, illuminating the delicate dust motes drifting through the air. I hear the faint murmur of voices from the halls, the steady rhythm of the estate moving forward in its daily routine.

  Despite my efforts to remain alert, exhaustion presses against me, the night without sleep and the toll of my training catching up faster than I had anticipated. I feel it creeping in—the sluggish weight of fatigue, the slow betrayal of my own body. I force my breathing into a steady rhythm, resisting, willing my mind to sharpen. But the pull is insistent, and my limbs, so carefully reinforced, feel heavier than before. I cannot fight it. Not this time. Before I realize it, I have drifted into sleep.

  Something tugs at me—an image, blurred and distant, a memory I do not want to remember.

  Dark streets slick with rain. The hum of neon lights flickering above cracked pavement. The rhythmic buzz of a late-night store sign. The distant echo of footsteps, precise and deliberate, moving through the shadows. I move between them, careful, silent. The pools of light from street lamps are dangerous, the glow too revealing. A presence looms, approaching from behind—

  I slam back into wakefulness.

  The nursery is not as I left it.

  Marla, Lena, and Isla all stand over my crib, their expressions carefully composed, but something lingers in the air—an unease I cannot immediately place. Just inside the doorway, Havish stands, his posture stiff but unreadable. Something happened.

  I inhale sharply, subtly reaching out with my senses, scanning the room for anything out of place. Nothing. No disturbance in the mana, no shift in the flow of energy. Everything is exactly as it should be.

  And yet, I know that it is not.

  The tension in the air thickens as the door swings open, and my mother enters.

  Catharine’s presence commands the space instantly. Normally, her steps are measured, deliberate, regal in every way, but today, she moves just a fraction faster, her composure carefully held in place but fraying at the edges. Her gaze flickers between Marla and Havish as she strides toward the crib.

  "What is wrong?" Her voice is even, but it is not the cordial, composed greeting she usually offers. There are no small pleasantries, no quiet inquiries about my rest.

  Just that stark, unyielding command.

  The greatest indicator of the internal panic and stress she must be feeling.

  The first day after the naming ceremony, and already something has disturbed the routine.

  Marla opens her mouth, then hesitates. It is the barest flicker of uncertainty, but in a woman so steadfast, so confident in her role, it is jarring. The room stills, as if every occupant waits for her to find her voice.

  She clears her throat and tries again. "Nothing is truly wrong, my lady, only—" she stops, lips pressing together, her own words betraying her. She exhales sharply, her hands tightening in her apron. "That is not quite right. I would not have summoned Havish if there were nothing. But…" She looks down at me, searching for something—an answer, reassurance. "Now that he is awake, I find myself questioning whether it was necessary."

  For a heartbeat, the entire room seems suspended in the weight of her uncharacteristic doubt. Marla, the steady foundation of the household staff, unsure.

  It is Isla who breaks the moment.

  "Your Grace, the young lord seemed to suffer a night terror during his nap and did not wake at the normal time." Her voice is quiet but unwavering, smooth and direct. No stutter, no falter. "He has never thrashed so while sleeping."

  A pause follows her words, heavy and considering. I can feel the shift in the room, the way everyone subtly adjusts, awaiting my mother’s response.

  Catharine straightens, her eyes locking onto Marla first, then Havish. The hesitation is over. The uncertainty, irrelevant.

  "Havish, fetch the Archduke and the captain of the guard immediately. I want this matter understood."

  Havish bows without hesitation, turning swiftly and disappearing through the doorway. The tension in the room sharpens as unfamiliar men, guards I have never seen before, begin filing in, their presence shifting the quiet space of the nursery into something more akin to a war council. The air is thick with a silent urgency.

  Marla, always protective, steps forward. "My lady, may I take the young lord elsewhere? This is too much excitement for him."

  Mother does not waver. "No. He will stay until we have answers."

  Marla’s mouth presses into a thin line, but she does not argue further. Instead, Catharine’s attention shifts, her next command just as firm. "Take Lena to the kitchens. She does not need to be here. If I require assistance with my son, Isla will remain."

  Marla stiffens, just slightly, but inclines her head and moves to Lena’s side. The older maid gently ushers the pregnant woman from the room, whispering something too low for me to hear as they step past the gathered guards.

  I watch them leave, but my thoughts turn elsewhere. This is the third time my mother has favored Isla as my caretaker. At first, I thought it practical—Lena’s pregnancy progressing meant she would be less able to tend to me—but now, I wonder. Marla was Catharine’s personal maid when she was young, raised alongside her as the daughter of the previous Archduke.

  Yet it is Isla who remains.

  Who is she, truly?

  Before I can dwell further, footsteps echo in the corridor, swift and deliberate. The guards straighten. The air in the room shifts, like the drawing of a bowstring before release.

  Sven has arrived.

  And everything halts.