POV: Sylas | Age 12 | Night before leaving for House Virelles
Word Count: ~1,250
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The study of Lord Thareon Eriden was always cold.
No hearth fire, no paintings, no comfort. Just shelves lined with aging scrolls, a cracked ledger bound in wyvern leather, and a desk too large for the shrinking pride of a forgotten house.
Sylas stood in the doorway, silent, as always.
> "Come in," said his father, not looking up from the papers. His voice, flat and practiced, had no warmth. It never did.
Sylas entered. Three steps forward. Hands behind his back. Eyes lowered. He did it without thinking now — like breathing.
The clock ticked. Thareon scratched a final signature onto parchment, blew the ink dry, then finally looked at his son.
> "You leave before sunrise."
Sylas nodded. "Yes, Father."
> "You'll wear Virelles colors, but never forget who you are. You're still Eriden… even if in name only."
The irony wasn't lost on either of them.
> "Repeat your assignment," Thareon said.
> "I am to serve Lady Seraphina Virelles as her personal attendant. I am to obey her commands without question. I will speak only when spoken to. I will not act unless permitted. I will not claim my house name unless instructed."
> "Good."
Thareon stood, his boots silent against the stone. He crossed the room and looked out the tall, narrow window overlooking the barren courtyard below.
> "The daughter of Caedric Virelles is not like the others. She is… gentle."
The word came out with disdain, as if it tasted rotten.
> "She smiles too easily. She apologizes for stepping on leaves. That girl has grown up without knowing how vile the world truly is. It will eat her alive."
> "Then why send me?" Sylas asked quietly.
His father turned slightly.
> "Because while she is soft, her future is not. That girl will inherit influence, power, and enemies. And I need someone beside her who can listen when no one speaks… and move when others hesitate."
> "A protector?"
> "A shadow," Thareon corrected. "One that bends, blends, and disappears when needed."
Sylas looked down. "And if she doesn't want a shadow?"
> "Then serve anyway. Obedience is not permission. It is duty."
He turned fully now, eyes like stone.
> "You were not born to be loved, Sylas. You were born to serve a greater purpose. Most noble sons are raised to inherit. You… are raised to pay off debts."
Sylas flinched, but did not speak.
> "I've seen you," Thareon continued. "Watching the stars when you think no one is looking. Reading books on magic theory and engineer's scripts. Drawing strange devices in the margins of your reports. You're curious, but quiet. Smart, but forgettable. That makes you… ideal."
> "For what?"
> "To disappear."
Thareon walked past him to the shelf. He took a small wooden box and opened it, revealing a faded silver pin — the Eriden crest. A coiled serpent around a broken gear.
He handed it to Sylas.
> "Don't wear it. Keep it. Hidden. When people ask who you are, lie. If they press, bow. If they dig, say nothing."
Sylas held the crest gently. It was lighter than he expected. It felt like a memory. Like something borrowed from someone else's life.
> "What if I fail?" he asked, his voice nearly a whisper.
> "Then you will not return."
> "What if I succeed?"
Thareon paused. For a long time.
Then:
> "Then you might earn the right to ask that question again."
Sylas looked up. His hands were trembling slightly, though he kept them behind his back.
> "Why did you choose me?"
Thareon sat back down, fingers laced.
> "Because you're the only one who wouldn't fight back."
Sylas opened his mouth… then closed it.
> "You think I'm weak."
> "I know you are."
The words cut deeper than any blade.
> "But I also know weakness is easier to mold than pride. And you, Sylas, are very… moldable."
The silence between them stretched. For once, Sylas didn't want to break it.
But he did.
> "Why name me after your brother then? The one who died in the war?"
Thareon blinked. "You were named to remind me of what was lost."
> "Not what was hoped for?"
> "Hope is a fool's inheritance."
Sylas's fists clenched behind his back.
> "Then what am I to you, really?"
> "A piece," Thareon said calmly. "On a board too large for sentiment."
Sylas stared at him. He felt nothing and everything at once. Emptiness swelling into a pressure behind his ribs. A single question sat on his tongue.
> "Did you ever… wish I were different?"
Thareon didn't answer right away.
Then, with a voice as flat as ever:
> "No. I wished I had less to lose."
---
When Sylas stepped out of the study, the night air hit him like water — cold, sharp, and cleansing.
He didn't cry.
He hadn't in years.
But in his chest, something shifted.
Not hate. Not rebellion.
Resolve.
If he was to disappear, then he would do it on his terms. Quietly. Intelligently. Without the chains of anyone's expectations.
He looked at the crest in his hand.
And for the first time in his short life…
He made a decision.
He would serve Seraphina Virelles.
Not for Thareon.
Not for House Eriden.
But for himself.
Because something about that girl — with her soft voice and sunlight eyes — felt like a future that wasn't built from scraps.
And maybe, just maybe...
That was worth following.
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End of Chapter