The first sounds of morning stir through the estate—distant footsteps, the murmur of servants beginning their duties, the faint clang of pots from the kitchens. The nursery is still dim, the glow from the hearth casting flickering shadows across the walls. I keep my eyes closed, feigning sleep, listening as the day awakens around me.

  Then, the nursery door creaks open. The patter of small feet hurries across the floorboards, uncoordinated and eager. A tiny hand slaps against the wooden frame of my crib.

  “‘Relus! ‘Relus! 'Ake up!”

  Clara’s voice is high and insistent, bubbling over with excitement. She can’t climb, not yet, but she grips the edge of the crib and shakes it, the weak tremor of her effort barely noticeable. Still, she does not stop, her impatience making up for her lack of strength.

  I remain still.

  Let her expect nothing from me. Let her come without fear.

  Clara shifts on her feet, her little hands patting at the mattress, the closest she can reach. “You say Mother! You say Father! Say ‘Clara’!”

  I crack one eye open, blinking slowly, as if I am just now waking. She beams, rocking back and forth on her heels, awaiting her prize. I watch her a moment longer, considering.

  She is small. Innocent. She does not understand what my silence meant, what my first words have set into motion. She does not need to.

  I inhale slowly, then exhale, my fingers shifting just slightly on the blanket. Then, I grant her request.

  “Clara.”

  A single word. Simple. Deliberate.

  Clara gasped so hard she nearly toppled backward, eyes wide as if I’d conjured lightning. Then, like a flood breaking free, laughter bubbled up, spilling from her tiny frame in delighted shrieks.

  "You say it! You say my name!"

  The softest sound of breath catches in the doorway.

  Lena stands just inside, her hands pressed to her mouth, her eyes shining. She has always tried to mask her concern for my silence, but now, all her relief comes spilling forth. “Oh, sweetling…” she whispers, voice thick with emotion. “You spoke again.”

  She takes a step closer, then kneels beside the crib, one hand reaching out to brush back my hair. “Such a clever boy,” she murmurs. “I knew you’d speak when you were ready.” Her fingers tremble slightly as they sweep along my forehead. “Your mother will be so happy. So, so happy.” Without hesitation, Clara flings herself at Lena, wrapping small arms around her mother’s neck in triumph, as if she has won some grand game only she understands.

  From across the room, the quiet splash of the washbasin signals another reaction. Marla, standing by the dressing table, does not look up immediately. When she does, her expression is careful, composed.

  “So sudden,” she murmurs, drying her hands, smoothing down a crease with slow precision. “Yet… perfect timing.”

  Lena turns, blinking away the wetness in her eyes, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  Marla hums, her fingers continuing their slow work. “Not bad. Just… unexpected.” She glances at me again, this time a touch longer. “Some children take their time, but they don’t choose a moment like that. Words come in spurts, broken and unshaped. Not with such precision.”

  Lena frowns, rocking back on her heels. “He’s just careful. Thoughtful. Nothing wrong with that.” She glances at me with warm fondness. “He’s always been a quiet one.”

  Marla does not argue, but something lingers behind her eyes. A calculation. A thought she does not speak aloud. She smooths down the same crease in her apron for the third time, though the fabric had long since settled. Her lips part, as if considering whether to speak—but she simply exhales, pressing her hands together. Watching.

  Near the window, Isla remains still. She does not celebrate, nor does she react like the others. Instead, she watches. Observes.

  I turn my head slightly, my eyes meeting hers. A flicker of something crosses her face—amusement, perhaps. Understanding.

  She knows. She always knows.

  Clara tugs at Lena’s sleeve, still caught up in her excitement. “Mama! Tell! Mama!”

  Lena laughs, lifting Clara into her arms. “Yes, yes, we’ll tell his mama,” she soothes, kissing the top of her curls. “But let’s not wake the whole estate, my little bird.”

  Marla does not move, her expression unreadable. Isla does not speak.

  I simply sit, silent once more, watching as the pieces shift around me.

  It is not long before Catharine arrives, her steps composed yet eager as she enters the nursery. The warmth in her expression softens as she kneels before me, brushing my hair back. “Come, my love. Your father wishes to see you.”

  I let her lift me without protest. I have anticipated this moment. It was inevitable. The study is his domain, a place where power is asserted and measured. I must see it for myself.

  Isla follows us through the halls, silent as a shadow. The estate is awake now, the murmurs of servants and the clinking of distant preparations filling the air. But I hear none of it—I am focused only on what is to come.

  Just before we reach the study doors, I turn my head toward my mother. My voice, though small, is clear.

  “Down. Walk.”

  She stops. Her eyes search mine, and for a moment, I wonder if she will refuse. But then, a quiet understanding flickers across her face. A small, almost wistful smile touches her lips, and she lowers me to the ground. Her hand remains in mine, steady and warm.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  We walk the last few steps together, and as the doors open, I take in the space that belongs to my father.

  I have been here before, though always in my mother’s arms. This time, I see the room differently—not from a child's vantage point, but from my own two feet. It is vast, lined with books of law, history, and war tactics. Heavy drapes block most of the natural light, making the space feel enclosed, almost suffocating. The scent of ink and parchment lingers in the air—sharp, precise, like him. Everything is arranged meticulously, with no trace of disorder.

  Sven sits behind his desk, his posture perfectly composed. He looks at me, then at Catharine. The moment stretches between them, something unspoken passing in the silence. Then, without a word, my mother kneels, wrapping her arms around me in a brief, firm embrace. She whispers, just for me to hear.

  “You will do well.”

  Then she rises, stepping back toward Isla, who inclines her head slightly before following her out, shutting the heavy doors behind them.

  I am alone with my father.

  I do not move. Neither does he.

  The silence stretched, thick and deliberate. A test. A game. I let it settle, unbroken, as the clock’s second hand dragged across the vast quiet. I would not be the first to speak.

  I return his gaze, unmoving.

  The weight of the moment settles over the room, pressing against my skin like an unseen force. The study feels vast yet suffocating, the air still, thick with expectation. The crackle of the hearth and the quiet scratch of the clock’s second hand are the only sounds. I know he is waiting. Measuring. He wants to see if I will break the silence first.

  I do not.

  Minutes pass. Or perhaps only seconds that stretch too long. Still, neither of us speaks.

  His gaze is unreadable, but I can see the flickers of thought behind his eyes, shifting like embers in the dark. He is calculating, assessing. I feel the weight of it pressing down on me, but I do not yield.

  Finally, he breaks the quiet. His voice is smooth, low, deliberate. “You are deliberate.”

  It is not a question. It is an observation. An expectation.

  I tilt my head slightly, meeting his gaze. “Yes.”

  The corner of his lips twitches, almost imperceptibly.

  Then, to my surprise, he moves. He rises from his chair, stepping around the desk before lowering himself to one knee before me. The shift in his posture makes the air feel different, less suffocating, more… personal. He reaches out, placing a firm but steady hand on my small shoulder.

  “When you were silent, I wondered if you were merely slow to find your voice,” he says, his tone quieter now, but no less measured. “Or if you were simply waiting for the right moment.” His grip tightens just slightly. “I see now it was the latter.”

  I do not respond. I do not need to. He searches my face for a moment longer, and then—relief flickers across his features. It is slight, restrained, but it is there. A breath releases from his chest, almost imperceptible.

  “I am glad,” he murmurs, his voice carrying something that is not just expectation, but something deeper. “We have much to do going forward.”

  Then, with that same quiet authority, he rises and leads me to the door.

  As soon as it opens, my mother is waiting. The moment she sees me, a breath of emotion washes over her features, and she steps forward without hesitation, gathering me into her arms. This time, she does not let go.

  But instead of returning me to the nursery, she turns, stepping out of the halls and into the gardens. The fresh air is cool, carrying the scent of early blooms and trimmed hedges. Sunlight filters through the leaves, dappled shadows playing across the stone path.

  For a moment, she simply holds me, her embrace lingering. Then she shifts, turning me slightly so she can see my face. “Why now?” she asks, her voice gentle, but laced with something deeper.

  I do not answer immediately. The wrong words would unravel what I have carefully built.

  She studies me, her fingers tracing along my back as if searching for something unseen. “You are full of surprises, my love.” A statement, not a complaint.

  I meet her gaze, letting the weight of the moment settle between us before finally speaking. “I wanted to wait for Father.”

  A carefully crafted answer. It implies longing for paternal approval rather than calculation.

  It is the answer she wants to believe.

  And she does.

  She exhales softly, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “You always were a thoughtful one,” she murmurs. “My son.”

  She holds me close, warm and protective. But beneath the joy, beneath the relief, there is something else lingering in her eyes.

  The day drifts by in the quiet sanctuary of the garden. My mother does not return me to the nursery, nor does she allow the duties of the estate to take her attention away. Instead, she walks with me along the stone paths, speaking in soft tones about the names of the flowers, the meaning of the trees that have stood for generations. She tells me stories of House Larkin, of its past rulers, its place in the kingdom.

  I listen, not because I am expected to, but because she is telling me things I need to know. The garden is more than a place of beauty—it is a place of history, of quiet power. And today, it is a place where she speaks to me not as a child, but as something more.

  As the sun dips lower in the sky, she finally carries me back inside. The warmth of the late afternoon lingers on her skin as she holds me close, whispering one last story, a tale of an ancestor who built the great library of House Larkin.

  When we return to the nursery, Isla is there waiting. Marla and Lena stand nearby, though they do not speak as my mother carries me in. Clara babbles cheerfully from her place on the floor, stacking wooden blocks with clumsy excitement. She glances up when we enter, but quickly returns to her game.

  Catharine holds me, longer than necessary. Her breath shudders, just once, before she pulls back, cupping my face as if memorizing the shape of me. 'My son,' she whispers, soft and reverent, as if claiming me for herself. Then, with a final deep breath, she turns to Marla.

  “It is time we discuss a tutor.”

  The words settle in the room like the first drop of rain before a storm.

  Marla nods, already prepared. “Lord Alistair Merrow has been suggested. He is well regarded, disciplined, and without close political ties to the court.”

  Sven’s voice enters the room before he does. “Then he is a good choice.”

  He steps inside, his presence commanding as always. His gaze flickers over me, then to my mother. “Choose wisely,” he says, though it is not truly directed at her. It is meant for me.

  The evening arrives with a quiet hush over the nursery. The warmth of the day fades into the cool embrace of night, and one by one, the nursery empties. Lena takes Clara home, Marla departs to attend to her other duties, and at last, Isla and I are alone.

  She moves through the room in her usual quiet way, securing the windows, adjusting the lamps, her presence a steady, unshakable force. The fire crackles softly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the walls. I sit up in my crib, done feigning the sluggishness of an infant preparing for sleep now that all the others are gone.

  But Isla does not lay down. Instead, she lingers near the hearth, her back to me. For a long moment, she says nothing.

  Then, in a voice so low it barely reaches across the space between us, she speaks.

  “You played your hand well.”

  She does not sound impressed. Nor does she sound disapproving. It is simply a statement, an acknowledgment of what has passed.

  I do not answer. I wait.

  She turns slightly, her sharp eyes flickering in the dim light. “You understand what you’ve done, don’t you?”

  It is not a question of words. It is a question of weight. Of consequences. Of paths that cannot be untaken.

  I meet her gaze, unblinking. Then, slowly, I nod.

  She exhales softly, running a hand down her face before straightening. For a moment, she seems almost weary, but the expression vanishes as quickly as it appears.

  “Good,” she murmurs. Then, a beat later, she adds, “You cannot undo it.”

  She does not elaborate. She does not need to.

  She moves to the bedside, adjusting the blanket over me as if I were truly just a sleeping child. Then, without another word, she turns and extinguishes the last candle, leaving the nursery in darkness.

  I stare at the ceiling, the weight of the day pressing down on me.