The silence in the Duke's Keep, fractured by Lord Valerius's sudden departure, felt like a palpable thing to Elias. It wasn't true quiet, of course – the clatter of kitchenware, the distant shouts of stable hands, the drone of Father Alaric's lessons, all continued. But the oppressive, calculating presence that had hovered over Elias for months was gone, leaving a vacuum that filled not with ease, but with the quiet hum of intense, internal activity.
Elias, still outwardly the curious, sometimes-distracted three-year-old, spent his days in a carefully orchestrated semblance of childhood. He built towers of blocks, giggled at Seraphina's stories, and patiently endured Father Alaric's rote recitations of Montala dogma. But beneath the facade, his mind raced, a complex engine now freed from the constant need for immediate, reactive deception. This was not a reprieve for rest, but for deeper planning.
His current age, still a tender three years, was both a shield and a cage. A shield, because who would suspect a toddler of orchestrating anything beyond a tantrum? A cage, because his physical limitations still dictated much of his interaction with the world. Yet, the absence of Valerius offered an unprecedented luxury: the freedom to observe without immediate repercussion.
From his vantage points – a window seat overlooking the main courtyard, a quiet corner in the Duke's expansive library where he was ostensibly "looking at pictures," even a lull in Father Alaric's lessons – Elias became an even more diligent student of his environment. He cataloged the guards' shift changes, the subtle inflections in Lord Arlen's voice when he spoke with the Duke, the flow of goods into and out of the Keep's stores. He noted the increasing frequency of hushed conversations among the servants, their worried glances at the dwindling stockpiles. The Church's grip, economic and spiritual, was indeed tightening.
His thoughts turned to the future, stretching far beyond the immediate concerns of iron and tithes. The Bible. His Bible. It was the keystone, the true weapon against Montala's insidious falsehoods. He spent long stretches recalling snippets, not just of verses, but of philosophical arguments, moral imperatives, and the underlying logic of Deism that had once anchored his understanding of the universe. The memories were fragmented, elusive, like grasping smoke. He mentally pieced together the concept of a single, benevolent Creator, a God who set the universe in motion with perfect laws but did not demand ritualistic appeasement or blood sacrifice. He remembered the core tenets: love your neighbor as yourself, do justly, walk humbly. And the crucial one, the monogamy, the faithfulness to one lover, a direct counter to the corruption he knew permeated Montala's higher echelons. How would he introduce it? How would a "three-year-old" possibly articulate such complex ideas, let alone write them?
The solution, he mused, would have to be organic, appearing as a natural progression of his burgeoning intellect. Perhaps through Seraphina, cultivating her curiosity to a point where she could absorb the ideas. Or perhaps, when he was older, as a "rediscovered" ancient text, presented with just enough mystery to pique interest without drawing immediate suspicion. The path would be long, fraught with peril, but this quiet, internal work was laying the foundation.
He considered Montala's vulnerabilities. Their power rested on two pillars: economic control (iron, land, tithes) and spiritual control (fear, dogma, the veneration of Phelena). Disrupting the economic flow was his current project with Duke Theron. But the spiritual hold was deeper, more insidious. It would require more than ledgers; it would require an alternative truth.
One afternoon, as Father Alaric momentarily stepped away from their lesson, leaving a heavily bound tome of Montala scripture open on the table, Elias's gaze lingered on the ancient script. He touched the vellum, the texture rough beneath his small fingers. This was Montala's word. But it would not be the last.
A quiet, determined resolve settled over him. Valerius's absence was a gift, not for idleness, but for cultivation. Every observation, every remembered fragment, every quiet plan was a brick in the foundation of the future he was determined to build. The seeds of doubt had been planted in the Duke's mind; now it was time to cultivate the seeds of truth within his own. The architect was at work, and the blueprint, though still hazy, was beginning to take shape.