If the Grant Estate was a fortress of logic, then its dressing room—on this particular evening—had become a battlefield of fabric, pins, and silent panic.
Lucas stood near the window, hands clasped behind his back, posture immaculate.
Inside, however, his thoughts were unraveling like poorly stitched thread.
Why are there so many people touching him?
Three tailors circled Dwayne like orbiting moons, adjusting seams, smoothing fabric, and whispering to each other in tense, reverent tones.
"Careful—careful! That's ducal silk—"
"I am being careful—"
"The embroidery must align with the House crest—"
Dwayne stood in the center of it all, arms slightly lifted, expression blank.
A small, stoic statue being aggressively accessorized.
"…Father," he said after a moment.
"Yes."
"The friction coefficient of this fabric against my dermis is causing a four percent decrease in my patience levels."
One tailor froze mid-stitch.
Lucas did not move.
"Also," Dwayne continued, tugging lightly at the cape draped over his shoulders, "this garment extension is aerodynamically unnecessary for indoor locomotion."
Lucas turned slowly.
Looked at the cape.
Then at Dwayne.
"It is for prestige."
Dwayne blinked.
"Define."
Lucas walked toward him, each step measured.
"Prestige," he said, adjusting the boy's collar with precise fingers, "is the currency of the weak-minded."
The tailors collectively forgot how to breathe.
"We must look," Lucas continued, voice quiet and dangerous, "like we own the room. So that those who rely on appearances will surrender before they even speak."
Dwayne considered this.
"…So it is a psychological weapon."
"Yes."
"…Acceptable."
The tailors resumed working.
Minutes later—
They stepped back.
And Dwayne turned.
Fully dressed.
A miniature version of the Duke.
Black uniform, tailored perfectly to his small frame. Silver embroidery traced elegant lines across the fabric like frozen lightning. A tiny ceremonial dagger rested at his side—not functional, but symbolically sharp.
Even his posture—
Straight.
Unyielding.
Lucas froze.
For exactly one second.
…This is dangerous.
The resemblance was… unsettling.
And—
Catastrophically—
Adorable.
His heart performed a brief, traitorous malfunction.
Maintain composure.
Lucas turned away slightly, covering his mouth with one gloved hand as if in thought.
"…You will walk on my left," he said.
"Why the left?"
"It is optimal."
"…Understood."
Behind them, one of the maids quietly wiped away tears.
---
The Royal Palace of Orbia did not whisper.
It announced.
Gold-leafed pillars rose like sunlit trees, their surfaces gleaming under chandeliers that shimmered like captured constellations. The air carried layers of expensive perfume, spiced wine, and something faintly electric—mana, woven subtly into the atmosphere.
Music drifted.
Laughter followed.
And beneath it all—
Judgment.
When Lucas entered, the room shifted.
Not loudly.
But definitively.
Conversations paused. Eyes turned. Fans stilled mid-motion.
"The Cold Duke…"
"He actually came…"
"And that child—"
Dwayne walked beside him.
Small.
Composed.
His gaze moved—not in wonder, but in calculation.
Too many variables.
Too much noise.
He catalogued posture, breathing rhythms, micro-expressions.
That man is lying.
That woman is anxious.
That one is pretending not to stare.
"…Their behavior is inefficient," he murmured.
Lucas didn't look at him.
"They are predictable," he replied.
Ahead, a voice rang clear.
"Duke Lucas Grant."
King Luther Valor stood at the center of the hall.
Twenty-five, with an easy smile that never quite reached his eyes. Golden hair, sharp features, and the kind of presence that filled space without demanding it.
Beside him, Queen Victoria—graceful, composed, watching everything.
Lucas bowed slightly.
"Your Majesty."
Luther's gaze shifted to Dwayne.
And sharpened.
"So this," he said lightly, "is the prodigy."
Dwayne met his gaze.
Unflinching.
"I am Dwayne Grant."
No hesitation.
No embellishment.
Luther smiled.
"A pleasure."
"…Statistically undetermined," Dwayne replied.
A pause.
Then—
The King laughed.
Bright.
Genuine.
"I like him."
Victoria hid a smile behind her fan.
"…He is efficient," Lucas said.
"Clearly," Luther replied. "We'll see just how efficient he is tonight."
---
The Children's Lounge was… chaos.
Soft cushions.
Bright tapestries.
Tables full of sweets and games.
Children running, laughing, arguing over trivial things.
Dwayne stood at the entrance.
Still.
Observing.
"…This is highly inefficient."
He walked to a quiet corner.
Sat down.
Pulled out a small notebook.
Began sketching the structural arches he had observed earlier.
If load distribution is uneven—
"Hi!"
Dwayne did not look up.
A shadow leaned into his space anyway.
"I'm Edgar!" the boy said brightly. "Do you want a candied plum? They're the best in the five kingdoms!"
Dwayne paused.
Looked up.
Prince Edgar Valor.
Blonde hair. Green eyes. Bright energy that felt like sunlight refusing to sit still.
In his hand—
A sugar-coated plum.
Dwayne stared at it.
Then at Edgar.
"The sugar content will induce a rapid insulin spike," he said calmly. "Followed by a cognitive decline."
Edgar blinked.
"…What?"
"Why would you celebrate a Gala," Dwayne continued, "by sabotaging your own brain, Prince?"
Silence.
Then—
Edgar grinned.
Wide.
Delighted.
"You're weird."
"…Correct."
"I like you!"
Dwayne stared at him.
Processing.
"…Why?"
"Because you say things no one else says," Edgar replied, popping the plum into his mouth anyway. "Everyone else just nods and smiles."
"…That is inefficient."
"Yeah!" Edgar said. "It's boring!"
He plopped down beside Dwayne.
"What are you doing?"
"Calculating structural integrity."
"Can I help?"
Dwayne hesitated.
"…You may observe."
"Okay!"
And just like that—
A variable attached itself.
Permanently.
---
It happened quickly.
As most unpleasant things do.
A group of older children approached.
Well-dressed.
Well-trained.
Sharp-eyed.
"You're the Duke's pet," one of them said.
Dwayne looked up.
"…Incorrect."
"You're adopted," another added. "That means you don't have real blood."
Dwayne tilted his head.
Processing response pathways.
Before he could speak—
The air changed.
Cold.
Heavy.
Behind them—
Lucas.
He didn't raise his voice.
Didn't move quickly.
He simply existed.
And the room bent around it.
"…Repeat that," he said quietly.
The children froze.
No one spoke.
Lucas stepped closer.
Each movement precise.
Controlled.
Terrifying.
"They were leaving," Edgar said suddenly, stepping in front of Dwayne.
Lucas's gaze shifted.
Then softened—slightly.
"…See that they do," he said.
The children scattered.
Gone.
Erased.
Silence lingered.
Lucas looked down at Dwayne.
For a moment—
Nothing.
Then—
His hand moved.
Rested on Dwayne's shoulder.
Heavy.
Warm.
Steady.
Dwayne stilled.
Processing.
Temperature: elevated.
Pressure: controlled.
Conclusion—
…Safe.
"…They are inefficient," Dwayne said.
"Yes," Lucas replied.
His hand remained there a moment longer than necessary.
Then withdrew.
---
Later that evening—
The King called for attention.
"Tonight," Luther announced, "we celebrate not only tradition—but talent."
His gaze found Dwayne.
"And rare minds should not be wasted."
Lucas already knew.
He could feel it.
"Dwayne Grant," Luther continued, "you will be granted early admission to Abrela Academy."
A ripple of whispers spread.
"…Effective immediately."
Silence.
Then—
"…A school?" Dwayne said.
Lucas looked down.
Dwayne looked up.
"There will be… more children?"
"Yes."
"…The social variables are becoming exponential."
"…You will adapt."
Dwayne frowned.
Deeply.
"…This is sub-optimal."
Across the hall, Edgar waved enthusiastically.
"We'll be classmates!"
Dwayne stared at him.
Then at the crowd.
Then back at Lucas.
"…I require additional processing time."
"Denied."
Lucas turned slightly.
Already planning.
I will need to prepare.
Uniforms.
Books.
And—
A small leather bag.
With his initials.
Lucas inhaled slowly.
This—
Truly—
Might be the death of him.
And yet—
As the music resumed and the Gala continued—
Something irreversible had already begun.
The variables were multiplying.
And for the first time—
Lucas did not intend to reduce them.