Here is Chapter Five, continuing James's early development—now stepping into the subtle beginnings of intentional growth, secrecy, and his first attempts to understand power.
James was three when he began testing the limits of what only he seemed to sense.
The servants still treated him as an oddity, a quiet child who spoke rarely and caused no trouble. That suited him. Invisibility granted freedom.
He spent mornings in the lesser-used halls, where old tapestries sagged from damp and dust gathered in the corners. No one questioned a bastard child wandering so long as he remained out of the way.
It was there, in those forgotten corridors, that he felt the strange resonance again—faint tremors in the air, subtle bends in silence.
This time, he pushed.
Not with hands.
With thought.
Cognitive focus engaged. Spatial perception lattice forming. Neural overlap stable.
The air ahead of him rippled—just barely. As though light had stuttered without dimming. The distortion snapped back when his concentration broke.
He did not show frustration. He simply tried again.
And again.
When his body tired, he sat and listened—to footsteps, creaking beams, water dripping somewhere unseen. His mind mapped everything.
Recommendation: increase control through visualization. Anchor intent to fixed concepts.
He chose three: Line. Fold. Point.
Line — the path between two places.
Fold — the space between space.
Point — where thought could touch without touch.
The AI adapted around these anchors, weaving them into his growing awareness.
That evening, while the servants ate their meager supper, James sat apart with a crust of bread and a chipped cup of broth. Mira glanced at him from across the room.
"You're quiet today," she said softly.
He looked at her, unreadable. "I'm thinking."
She almost smiled, then seemed to catch herself and returned to her bowl. The others muttered about repairs, dwindling grain, and a messenger expected from the capital. No one mentioned him.
Later, as the hall darkened and the fires died low, James traced his fingers over the stone floor. Each ridge, crack, and seam felt like a map.
Environment memorization: complete. Short-range displacement attempt possible.
He closed his eyes.
Line.
Fold.
Point.
The air shifted.
To anyone watching, nothing changed. But James knew. His awareness had stretched an arm's length farther than his body, brushing the world like fingertips pressed against glass.
His breathing slowed, steady and controlled.
Then—a sound. Not near, but not far.
Footsteps.
Not a servant's.
He straightened, eyes opening.
Through the archway, a tall figure entered: the baron. Alistair Reed. His boots were muddy, his cloak travel-stained, his expression impatient.
Two servants trailed him, speaking of unpaid dues and a letter marked with the royal seal.
The baron didn't notice James.
He walked past him without a second glance.
But as he passed, James felt it again—the tug, the distortion, the hollow around a man who carried burdens he no longer questioned.
Not power. Not magic.
Decay.
Assessment: House Reed stability—unsustainable. Withdrawal inevitable.
James watched him leave the hall and disappear toward his private chambers.
When silence returned, the stone beneath James's palm felt different. Closer somehow. Softer to reach.
He closed his eyes once more.
Line.
Fold.
Point.
The world bent, barely—but enough.
He smiled for the first time in this life.
And no one saw.