Elarion 3 years old:-
The morning air was crisp, brightened by the faint gold hue slipping between the garden leaves outside his study. Elarion had just turned three.
At an age when most noble children struggled to hold a wooden sword upright, he stood calmly—already at the Second Rank.
A monster in bloom.
That's what the whispers would be, if anyone saw past the divine veil cloaking his core.
But no one would, until he permits.
He made sure of it.
His daily lessons were about to begin.
The door creaked open.
Two men entered—together, but they couldn't have been more different.
"Good morning, young master," said Marcus, his theory tutor. Tall, in a soft green robe, warm-eyed and gentle as ever.
He knelt, offering a scroll with a bright smile. "We'll start with the foundations of strategy, arithmetic, and basic empire law. Slowly, of course. No rush."
Beside him walked the swordsmanship instructor—cold, expressionless, his grey tunic pressed and clean. He didn't kneel. He only scanned Elarion's stance.
"He can walk. He can lift. We begin stance drills today."
Marcus gave a half-laugh, "Let him breathe, instructor. He's just a child—"
"No," the man replied calmly. "He's not."
There was no malice. Just truth.
And Elarion remembered them.
Both of them.
In his previous life, these two had been his instructors too.
Marcus had remained kind—naively so—but sincere. He never raised his voice, never judged. He taught like someone who believed in the boy, even when the world had long stopped doing so.
The instructor, on the other hand, had been cold, calculating—but never cruel.
He corrected when needed, gave space when necessary. His silence never stung. He was not one of those men who pretended to be strong with arrogance; he simply was.
And Elarion had respected that.
He know they both are not danger.
Elarion turned toward Marcus with the faintest dip of his chin. "You may begin."
And so they did.
One taught with scrolls and soft words.
The other struck his shin when his footing wavered.
Neither frightened him.
Because in truth, they weren't strangers.
Just two pieces of his former life… quietly returning to his side.
The instructor would be there again in the future—part of his section.
He could already sense it. The man's eyes were too sharp to miss what others did.
Elarion didn't fear pain.
He feared weakness.
And that fear would be gone soon enough.
---
⟡
Just after noon, when the last set of drills ended, Elarion remained seated in the practice courtyard—silent, unmoving. His breaths were even, the wooden sword balanced across his knees.
A maid approached.
She bowed with quiet grace. Older, sharply trained, dressed not in delicate fabrics but the uniform of elite palace staff. Her hair was pulled back, her face unreadable.
Her face covered with the typical mask of Crimsonveil.
No distractions.
"Master Elarion," she said softly. "The Lord has requested your presence for dinner."
He looked up briefly.
Then stood without a word.
---
⟡
The private hall was nearly empty. No guards. No retainers.
Just one long table.
And at its end, his father.
Dressed in deep navy robes, the man sat like stone—straight-backed, hands folded, unreadable eyes fixed on the doorway. Elarion entered. He didn't bow, didn't smile. He simply walked to his seat and sat.
The food had already been served.
Neither reached for it.
Silence stretched.
Eventually, his father spoke, voice quiet. "Swordsmanship began today."
"Yes."
"He struck you?"
"Twice."
"Good."
A few seconds passed.
"Marcus still talks too much?"
Elarion's tone didn't shift. "Yes."
A pause. His father reached for the wine but didn't drink.
"You are learning well."
Elorian's fingers stayed still beside his cup. "I will not disappoint."
"I know."
No praise. No warmth.
But it was enough.
After that, they ate. Quietly. Efficiently.
No one interrupted.
And when it ended, his father stood first. "You may return."
Elarion stood too, offering a single nod before leaving the hall.
---
There was no embrace. No unnecessary words.
But that was the way of their family.
And for now, it was enough.
No, it was more than enough.
Their is no pretending, the fact that he loves the most.
---