In the dark of a pitch-black night, the Laos Keep was in turmoil.
Servants hurried along the stone corridors, their hurried steps softened by worn carpets. Somewhere far below, the deep clang of the bell tower echoed twice, marking the hour. Torches guttered in their sconces as a storm rattled the shutters. In the main wing, the Baron's private chamber was lit by only a single candelabrum, its light casting long, thin shadows across the polished marble floor.
The Baron stood beside the bed, arms folded, a faint frown tugging at the edges of his mouth. His gaze was fixed on the small bundle in the midwife's arms.
"Is this mine?" His tone was not curious — there was no warmth, no awe — only a detached scrutiny, as though evaluating a defective purchase.
The midwife froze for half a heartbeat, unsure if he was jesting. He wasn't.
The Baroness leaned forward from her seat, her silk nightgown whispering against the cushions. She had expected a cry, a wriggle, perhaps a fierce grip of tiny fingers around her own. Some proof of vitality. But the child simply… stared. No tears. No flailing. Just a steady, unblinking gaze that seemed too focused for a newborn.
"How unnerving," she muttered, leaning back slightly. The longer she looked into those eyes, the more she felt a faint, irrational discomfort — like being observed from a great height.
The Baron's frown deepened. "A quiet child. I expected more."
"But at least he will be a good reason," the Baroness said, almost as if trying to convince herself. A reason for social gatherings. A reason for certain political moves. A reason to secure their line.
"True." The Baron turned away, already bored. Without even looking back, he gestured sharply to the midwife. "Raise him quietly. Don't expect much."
The midwife bowed deeply, her voice firm. "At once, my lord."
She glanced down again at the infant in her arms. The black irises — not dark brown, not even the grey-black of most newborns, but pure, ink-black — held her in place for a moment longer than she liked. She found herself swallowing before moving toward the door.
Outside the chamber, a line of servants stood at attention, each lit by the faint flicker of the wall sconces. The midwife's eyes scanned them, looking for the most suitable candidate. Her gaze stopped on the very last in line — a young maid with neatly tied red hair, light brown eyes, and a posture that spoke of discipline despite the late hour.
"You," the midwife said briskly. "You'll care for the boy. Starting now."
"Me?" The maid — Lucy — blinked, startled.
"Yes. The Baron's orders." Without ceremony, the midwife pushed the swaddled infant into Lucy's arms. "He's quiet. Keep him that way. No fuss, no trouble. Understood?"
Lucy nodded slowly, lowering her gaze to the child she now held. The tiny face was still, the black eyes fixed on her as though weighing something in silence. For a heartbeat, she felt as if she were standing at the edge of something vast and unknowable. The sensation was not unpleasant, but it made her skin prickle.
She didn't flinch. Instead, she shifted the child slightly to support his head and murmured, "Well then, little one… it seems we'll be seeing quite a bit of each other."
The midwife was already striding away, muttering about the strange stillness of the Baron's heir.
In the months that followed, Lucy learned the nature of her arrangement. The Baron and Baroness rarely asked after their son, save for the occasional demand that he be "presentable" for formal appearances. Meals were left entirely to her discretion, as were his lessons and daily routines. No one interfered; no one seemed to care, as long as the child remained quiet and out of the way.
It was a strange situation, but stranger still was the child himself.
He never cried without cause. Even hunger was met not with wails, but with a steady, silent stare until Lucy noticed. Loud noises, sudden movements — nothing startled him. It was as though he had been born already accustomed to the world.
One rainy morning, Lucy entered the small nursery adjoining her own quarters. The light through the narrow windows was muted, painting the stone walls in soft grey. She carried a small wooden bowl of mashed vegetables, steam curling faintly upward.
"Master Logos," she called softly.
The infant looked up from where he sat in a padded chair far too large for him. Four months old, and he held himself upright with uncanny steadiness, black eyes following her every step.
Lucy set the bowl on the side table and bent toward him. "You've been very quiet this morning."
He blinked once, as if in acknowledgement, but made no sound.
It was only when she leaned closer that she caught the faint, telltale smell. Her sigh was soft but exasperated. "Oh, Master Logos… how?"
He had soiled himself, and yet his calm expression had not wavered in the slightest. If anything, there was a glimmer of curiosity in his gaze, as though observing her reaction.
"Let's get you changed, Master," Lucy said, shaking her head with the smallest of smiles. She lifted him carefully, her movements practiced after months of similar duties.
As she worked, she spoke in an even tone, half out of habit and half in the faint hope it might encourage him to babble like other infants. "Most children your age would be screaming by now. You know that? I've looked after babies before, and none were this… composed."
No answer, of course. Just that calm, unblinking stare.
She finished, set him back in the chair, and retrieved the bowl of vegetables. The small silver spoon clinked softly as she dipped it into the mash and brought it toward him. "Now then, let's see if we can't put some color in those cheeks."
His eyes followed the motion, then the spoon entered his mouth without resistance. He chewed — slowly, deliberately — and swallowed.
Lucy froze. "Chewing? At your age?" She frowned slightly, though she wasn't truly surprised. In the past few weeks, she had already noted small but remarkable developments — his ability to focus on objects for minutes at a time, his unusually strong grip, and now this.
"Strange child," she murmured. "But perhaps not in a bad way."
Outside, rain pattered against the stone walls of Laos Keep. The fortress stood as it always had — black against the sky, silent and imposing. Somewhere deep in its halls, the Baron and Baroness were likely entertaining themselves with guests or correspondence from the capital, wholly unaware of the tiny heir in a side chamber, calmly eating mashed vegetables as if he had all the time in the world.
Lucy studied him for a moment longer, then shook her head and smiled faintly. "Very well, Master Logos. Let's see what sort of man you'll grow into."
The infant met her gaze without blinking.