A few months after his sixth birthday, Elias found himself gazing at the completed physical manifestation of his life's singular purpose: his Bible. The final section, a profound articulation of purpose and legacy, had been meticulously penned onto the last available piece of parchment. It was a slender volume, far smaller than the ornate, heavy tomes of Montala scripture, but in its quiet weight, Elias felt the gravity of a new world waiting to be born. He held it, a small, yet complete, universe of reason in his hands.
The text was clear, concise, and utterly devoid of the fantastical. It spoke of a Great Architect who set immutable laws, of human reason as the highest form of worship, of justice and empathy as universal virtues, and of a life lived in harmony with natural order. It was a philosophy for any sentient being, anywhere, a testament to truths that transcended local deities and man-made dogma. He tucked it carefully into its hidden niche, the satisfaction profound. Now, the real work began: propagation.
His recent observations of the Duke's Keep, and the increasing reports of hardship from the ducal territories, had solidified a long-brewing plan. The northern forests, home to the "untamed groups" Lord Arlen occasionally mentioned – communities that managed their own affairs, who preferred arduous, hidden trade routes to dealing with Montala's heavy hand – these were fertile ground. If his Bible truly held universal appeal, it would resonate there, where dogma might be thinner and self-reliance paramount. More importantly, these people represented a potential base of resistance, untouched by the direct oppression of Montala. He needed to see them, understand them, and, if possible, plant the seeds of his truth.
The request to Duke Theron was carefully orchestrated. During a rare, relaxed evening when Valerius was absent, Elias approached the Duke, feigning a child's boundless curiosity. "Father, I hear stories of the great forests to the north," he began, his voice bright and innocent. "Are there people there? Brave hunters and wise folk? I wish to see them! I wish to learn how they live without… without so many guards and so much… gold for the Church. Seraphina says they are like the wild birds, free!"
Duke Theron looked startled, then thoughtful. "The northern folk are indeed hardy, Elias. And independent. But the roads are rough, and it is no place for a child." He glanced at Lord Arlen, who was sipping wine, equally surprised by the unusual request.
"But Father," Elias pressed, his gaze earnest, "I learn all about the kingdom here. How can I know it all if I only see the inside of walls? To rule, one must know the people, even the wildest ones, no?" He subtly echoed the Duke's own pragmatic concerns about governance. "And Father Alaric says Phelena loves all her children, even those who live far from the cities. Perhaps I can learn of their faith, and share ours?" The last part was a carefully calculated bait for Valerius, should the request reach him.
Lord Arlen, ever the pragmatist, chimed in. "The boy has a point, Your Grace. Learning the lay of the land, and the nature of the folk who live on our periphery, is invaluable for future governance. Perhaps a small, well-guarded expedition, ostensibly to assess timber resources or map hunting grounds. It would give us eyes where Montala's reach is weakest." He paused, then added, "And it might provide a reason to speak with some of those independent groups, a way to gauge their loyalty, or their... concerns, without drawing too much attention."
The Duke considered, then sighed. "Very well. But it will be a short journey, with a full guard. And Valerius will be... consulted."
As expected, Valerius was indeed consulted. He initially scoffed at the notion, deeming it frivolous and dangerous. "The boy is still too young, Your Grace. And those northern tribes... they are often pagan in their leanings, ill-suited company for a noble ward." But Elias had anticipated this.
"Lord Valerius," Elias piped up meekly, "perhaps I can learn of their wild ways, and show them the true light of Phelena? Father Alaric says even the lost sheep can be brought back to the flock. It would be a pious duty for a future leader, to understand all of the Duke's people." He used Montala's own rhetoric against them.
Valerius's eyes narrowed. The idea of Elias, the Duke's ward, potentially influencing a pagan element, even in a small way, would be appealing to Montala's mission. And if Elias failed, or met trouble, it would validate Valerius's concerns. "Very well," Valerius finally conceded, a cold gleam in his eye. "But a priest will accompany the expedition to ensure the boy's spiritual safety, and to observe the conduct of these... wild children of Phelena." He ensured the escort would include a trusted, albeit low-ranking, acolyte.
The journey began two weeks later, a small party of eight: five of the Duke's stoutest guards, Lord Arlen (ostensibly to conduct the timber assessment), a nervous, newly appointed acolyte named Brother Tomas, and Elias. For a six-year-old, it was an arduous undertaking. The cobbled roads quickly gave way to muddy tracks, then barely discernible trails winding through ancient, sprawling forests. The air grew colder as they moved north, the perpetual dampness seeping into Elias's bones despite his thick wool cloak.
Every bump of the crude cart, every cold night spent under rough canvas, every meager meal of dried meat and hardtack, was a physical trial. Elias, accustomed to the relative comforts of the Keep, felt the strain in his young body. His legs ached from short walks, his fingers grew numb in the chill, and the constant physical discomfort was a stark contrast to his refined adult mind. He battled fatigue, the urge to complain, and the primal discomfort of being truly exposed. But each moment of discomfort was a lesson. He focused his aether, a constant, subtle warmth radiating just beneath his clothes, warding off the worst of the cold. He used minute air currents to dry his damp boots by the meager campfire, a trick he attributed to rubbing them vigorously. When Brother Tomas complained of the biting cold, Elias subtly warmed his own breath and blew it towards the acolyte, making it seem like a natural, if intense, exhalation. These small magical aids were vital, allowing him to endure the physical hardship while still maintaining his facade.
Brother Tomas, a timid man of faith, proved to be an unwitting blessing. He was more concerned with keeping warm and avoiding wolves than with observing Elias. Lord Arlen, meanwhile, was genuinely interested in the forestry, and saw Elias's "curiosity" as a harmless indulgence.
After nearly a week of travel, they finally reached the fringes of the first community – a cluster of sturdy log homes nestled deep within a clearing, surrounded by a tall, defensive palisade. These were the "Northwood Clan," known for their stoicism and their skilled woodworking. Their faces were weathered, their eyes wary. Montala's symbol was conspicuously absent from their homes or clothing.
Lord Arlen conducted his timber assessment, while Brother Tomas attempted hesitant sermons about Phelena. The Northwood Clan listened politely, but their expressions remained impassive. Their answers were brief, their reverence for Montala seemingly non-existent.
This was Elias's chance. While Lord Arlen was busy, Elias approached a group of children and their mothers, sketching figures in the dirt with a stick. He began to "tell stories" – not of Phelena, but of the "Great Designer of the forests," a benevolent entity who "made the trees grow straight and the rivers flow clean, not because we begged, but because that is His perfect plan." He spoke of universal justice, of the sun providing light for all, not just for those who prayed the loudest. He spoke of natural consequences, of kindness to one another as the truest form of harmony.
He drew upon the core tenets of his Bible, simplified for the audience. He saw flashes of intrigue in the mothers' eyes, a subtle nod or a shared glance. He "read" from a small, inconspicuous, rolled-up piece of parchment he had brought – not his true Bible, but a blank piece he pretended to read from, reciting passages from memory about self-reliance, the inherent dignity of honest labor, and the idea that truth was found in observation, not in inherited dogma.
"The Great Maker," Elias recounted softly, his voice clear in the crisp forest air, "He wants us to use our hands and our minds to build good homes, to grow good food, and to help our kin. Not to pay taxes to faraway priests for rain that comes anyway." He watched their faces. A flicker of recognition. A quiet, knowing smile from an old woman. Their attachment to Montala was indeed thin, perhaps non-existent. Their faith was one of pragmatism, of nature, of community—a perfect resonance with his Deistic ideals.
The journey continued to two more settlements, each presenting similar opportunities. The pattern was clear: these communities, existing on the fringes of Montala's direct influence, were ripe for a different kind of truth. They were weary of the Church's demands, their own traditions and practical understanding of the world aligning far more closely with Elias's philosophy. He didn't proselytize with fervor, but with quiet, logical storytelling, sowing seeds of reason.
Upon their return to the Keep, Elias was physically exhausted but mentally invigorated. Valerius's scrutiny was immediate, probing, attempting to discern any "unholy influences." But Elias's answers were simple, innocent recitations of "how strong the trees are" and "how kind the forest folk were," mixed with observations about their "simple faith." He even claimed to have "taught some children a few new prayers to Phelena," a lie that satisfied Valerius.
The journey had been a crucible, strengthening both his resolve and his practical skills. He had faced physical hardship and prevailed. He had confirmed the spiritual emptiness of Montala's hold in critical regions. He had laid the groundwork for future alliances, forging subtle connections that would be vital. His resistance to Montala was no longer a whispered thought but a tangible, spreading force. He was only six, but the pieces were moving. The path to becoming king of his own enlightened territory, a third of this fractured kingdom, was long, but each step was now imbued with purpose, leading him towards a future he would forge, brick by rational brick, word by truthful word.