The sky that morning was a violent red, too deep and unnatural for dawn. It spread across the horizon like spilled wine, the color of rust and old wounds. The clouds hung heavy, bruised with smoke and ash. The air beneath them pressed on the lungs, metallic and acrid, carrying the scent of iron and burnt powder. Somewhere beyond the mist, the low rumble of distant cannons rolled steadily, like the groans of a dying god.
Children fought that war now. The smallest were barely taller than a musket's stock, their faces still soft with the remnants of infancy. Some could barely lift the weapons in their hands. Officers made dark jokes to dull the fear, laughter brittle and hollow. "Shall we give them wine for courage, or grape juice for comfort?" one said. And the men laughed, though it felt like swallowing smoke, because silence was heavier still.
The rifles were treacherous, warped in heat and prone to misfires. More men fell from their own weapons than from the enemy's. The empire had been built on the promise of progress, yet even progress now betrayed them. Whispers spread among the soldiers, that brilliant engineers had become the hands of madmen.
Inside the manor, far from gunfire, a boy stood in the shadow of towering stone walls. His father's voice carried across the chamber, calm and sharp.
"Father—" the boy began.
The gloved hand rose, cutting the word short. "Save it for later, Andras."
The words landed like iron. Lord Thrasocorvus did not lift his eyes from the map before him. His uniform gleamed, stiff with embroidery, polished to a fault. Not a single blemish marred it. His medals gleamed coldly, each one a testament written in the blood of others. He seemed almost unreal, a painting of authority brought to life.
"Your Grace," another man said, bowing with careful precision, "the capital has sent word concerning His Imperial Majesty's condition."
The conversation dissolved into murmurs as papers were shuffled and whispered words passed between officers.
The table before Andras was a battlefield of its own. Crumpled parchments, wax-sealed letters, and a half-empty decanter of amber liquor trembled with every thunderclap outside. The air was heavy with the scents of tobacco, aged wood, paper dust, and sweat. Smoke from cigars curled in the rafters, restless and clinging.
Andras watched silently. His father and the officers leaned over maps, speaking of troop movements, casualties, supply chains—the lifeblood of a war he could not yet comprehend. At first, his eyes had been wide with curiosity, but now they dimmed under the weight of the room. The warmth he carried into the chamber evaporated against the cold precision of command.
He lowered his gaze to the shine of his father's boots. Polished daily by hands that were not his own, they reflected a faint, warped image of the boy, small and distant.
"My lord," came a soft, deliberate voice from behind him. "Might you wish to attend your sword lessons?"
Joshua, the butler, stood quietly, a composed shadow, but even he seemed subdued by the room's tension.
"My lessons begin later," Andras murmured, "after I read with Mr. Polluck." His voice was soft, uncertain, carrying the tremor of a child trying to sound older.
Joshua inclined his head politely. "Then perhaps the archery field will suit you, my lord. Ser Kynt waits, and the air is still favorable for practice."
The stormlight from the window brushed the pale curve of Andras's cheek. "Then… will Father take me hunting, as he promised?"
Joshua's hand settled lightly on the boy's shoulder. "Yes," he said after a pause, careful and kind. "I believe His Grace will, very soon."
It was a gentle lie, meant to keep hope alive.
Andras's eyes brightened, and a grin spread across his face, revealing the innocence the world was already trying to steal. "Then I will practice hard!"
He ran through the marble hall, laughter echoing off vaulted ceilings. Servants stepped aside, bowing as he passed, the air carrying the faint scent of soap and candle smoke.
"Careful, my lord!" Joshua called, but he knew the boy would not listen.
Andras's laughter spilled into the courtyard, where the smell of oil and metal replaced that of politics and smoke. The training ground pulsed with movement: swords clashed, arrows whistled, men shouted orders.
The boy's hair caught the sunlight like pale fire. Soldiers bowed slightly, murmuring greetings, but their eyes were distant. He was untouchable, a creature of silk and destiny, far removed from the world they knew.
Andras grabbed a bow from one of the trainees, his fingers awkward but determined. "Ser Kynt! Teach me to shoot like the Lunar Goddess!" His voice rang out over the clang of steel and the whistle of arrows, bright and unrestrained.
The knight paused, turning toward him. His armor was scratched and dented from years of service, each mark a story the boy could not yet read. His expression softened, a flicker of pity in his eyes, but also patience. "My lord," he said carefully, kneeling so his gaze met the boy's, "it is not the bow or the arrow that makes one precise. It is the calm of your mind and the steadiness of your hand. Can you hold still enough to listen?"
Andras's chest rose with a mixture of excitement and frustration. "I can! I will! I want to—"
"Then you must start with control," Ser Kynt interrupted gently, a hand hovering near the boy's elbow to guide him if needed. "Strength without focus is wasted. Watch me first."
The knight drew an arrow, nocked it carefully, and let it fly. The thrum of the string, the arrow's whistle, and the satisfying thunk in the target echoed in Andras's ears. He stepped closer, eyes wide, absorbing each movement. "Like that?" he whispered, almost to himself.
"Yes," Ser Kynt said. "Now your turn. Steady your hands. Breathe. Remember the Lunar Goddess is not in speed, but in the patience behind the shot."
Andras nodded solemnly, gripping the bow tighter, his small fingers trembling with effort. The weight of the wood felt heavy, yet exhilarating. He glanced up at the knight, feeling a spark of pride that Ser Kynt had not laughed at him, that he was taking him seriously.
Time in the manor passed differently than elsewhere. Days blurred into one another, measured by the rigid rhythm of lessons and discipline. Mornings began before sunrise, candlelight stretching long shadows across books filled with symbols and theories. Afternoons were for etiquette, diplomacy, posture, and rhetoric. Evenings belonged to combat drills, bruises, and exhaustion.
Andras endured, though sometimes he wondered if all this learning could make his heart smaller.
One afternoon, golden light slanting through high windows, he sat across from Mr. Polluck. The old tutor smelled of parchment, ink, and dried herbs, spectacles catching the lamplight. Silence filled the room, broken only by quills scratching and distant thunder.
"Mr. Polluck," Andras said, raising his hand at last, "I have a question."
Polluck closed the book before him. "Go ahead, my lord."
The boy tapped the desk with his pen. "Why do I have to learn all of this? What is it for?"
Polluck offered a small, patient smile. "Your lessons prepare you for the life you will inherit. Knowledge is the first armor of a ruler. It teaches you to lead, to endure, to decide."
"And all of this is to make me ready?" Andras asked, frowning.
"In simpler terms, yes," Polluck said.
The boy stared at his hands. "And what if I do not want those duties?"
Polluck studied him silently. Finally, he sighed. "Then it remains an if, my lord. Should you turn from what is expected, you must build your own path with your hands and your heart. It will be harder, lonelier, but perhaps more honest. There is no shame in serving the world, even without command."
Andras pressed his lips into a trembling pout. "I suppose so."
Polluck chuckled softly, deepening the lines on his face. "And that, my lord, is the beginning of wisdom."
The boy looked toward the window. The red sky had faded to gray. Chimneys spat smoke into the heavens. A distant cannon fired, faint but trembling in his chest.
The lessons continued. The world burned. Andras, the boy who laughed like a spark in a dying hearth, would one day learn that no amount of knowledge could shield him from the inheritance of war.