The skies were red that morning, a color too deep and violent to belong to dawn. It was the red of rust and old wounds, spreading like spilled wine across the horizon. The clouds hung low, bruised with smoke and ash. Beneath them, the air was thick enough to choke on, tasting of iron and burnt powder. Somewhere beyond the mist, the thunder of distant cannons rolled like the groaning of a dying god.
Children fought that war now. The smallest of them were no taller than a musket's stock, their faces still round with the traces of infancy. Some could barely lift the weapons they carried. The officers liked to make dark jokes about them, laughing with the kind of humor that came from exhaustion. "Should we give them wine for courage or grape juice for comfort?" they would say. And everyone laughed, because silence was worse.
The rifles were rushed, fragile, and treacherous. Their barrels warped in heat, their bolts misfired without warning. More comrades fell from the faults of their own making than from the enemy's bullets. The empire was built on the promise of progress, but even progress had turned on its master. Men began to whisper that the clever minds of engineers had become the hands of madmen.
In a room far removed from the gunfire, a boy stood in the corner, small against the high stone walls. His father's voice filled the chamber—calm, sharp, commanding.
"Father—" he began.
The man's gloved hand rose at once, silencing him with precision. "Save it for later, Andras."
The words were clipped, final. The Lord of House Thrasocorvus did not look up from the map before him. His uniform, immaculate and stiff with embroidery, glowed faintly under the light of the oil lamps. Not a single stain marred it. His medals gleamed coldly, each one a quiet testimony written in other men's blood. He looked like a painting come to life, too polished to belong to the world of dust and flesh.
"Your Grace," spoke another man, bowing slightly, his tone a careful blend of fear and formality. "The capital has sent word. It concerns His Imperial Majesty's condition…"
The rest dissolved into indistinct murmurs.
The table was a chaos of crumpled parchment and wax-sealed letters. A half-empty decanter of amber liquor trembled with every strike of thunder outside. The air was a battlefield of its own, filled with the smell of tobacco and aged wood, paper dust and sweat. The smoke from cigars hung thick in the rafters, curling like restless spirits.
Andras watched in silence. His father and the other officers bent over the maps as if the lines drawn there could change fate. They spoke of troop movements, casualties, supply chains—things that meant nothing to him, yet everything to the world. The boy's eyes, wide at first, slowly dimmed. The warmth that he had brought into the room merely evaporated against the cold machinery of war.
He lowered his gaze, watching the shine of his father's boots rather than the man himself. Those boots were polished every morning, cleaned by hands that did not belong to their owner. They reflected his own face faintly, warped and small.
"Young lord," came a low, practiced voice from behind him, "might you wish to attend your sword lessons?"
It was Joshua, the butler. His presence was always a gentle shadow, composed and patient, but tonight even he seemed dimmed by the air of war.
Andras did not turn at once. "My lessons begin later," he murmured. "After I read with Mr. Polluck." His voice was soft but carried the faint tremor of a child trying to sound grown.
Joshua gave a polite smile. "Then perhaps you might visit the archery field, my lord. Sir Kynt awaits, and the weather is still forgiving."
Andras hesitated. The stormlight through the window caught the pale curve of his cheek. "Then will Father take me hunting, like he promised?"
Joshua's hand came to rest lightly upon the boy's shoulder. "Yes," he said after a pause, his tone both careful and kind. "I believe His Grace will, very soon."
It was a gentle lie, one meant to keep hope breathing.
The boy's eyes brightened. His mouth broke into a grin that revealed the innocence the world was already trying to take from him. "Then I'll practice hard!"
He ran through the marble hall, his laughter echoing against the vaulted ceilings. Servants stepped aside, bowing as he passed, and the air stirred with the faint scent of soap and candle smoke.
"Careful, my lord!" Joshua called out, though he already knew the child would not listen.
Andras's laughter carried down the long corridor, into the courtyard where the scent of oil and metal replaced that of cigars and politics. The training ground was alive with the rhythm of practice: swords clashing, arrows whistling, men shouting orders into the wind.
As the boy ran, his hair caught the light like pale fire. The soldiers bowed slightly, murmuring greetings. They watched him not as one of their own, but as something distant and untouchable—a creature born of silk and destiny.
He took a bow from one of the trainees, his fingers clumsy but eager. "Sir Kynt! Teach me how to shoot like the Goddess of the Moon!"
The knight turned toward him, his armor scratched and dented, his eyes softened by pity. He knelt, the movement slow and deliberate. "It would be an honor, my lord."
Andras's laughter filled the air again, ringing over the sound of steel. The men paused in their drills, if only for a heartbeat, to watch him. Some smiled. Others looked away. To them, he was not a boy but a symbol: the living heir to a lineage that commanded them, the embodiment of privilege they could never touch. Beneath the surface of their bows, admiration mingled with envy and bitterness.
Time in the manor moved differently. Days blurred into one another, each marked by the strict rhythm of study and discipline. Morning lessons began before sunrise, the candlelight casting long shadows on books filled with foreign symbols and ancient theories. Afternoons were devoted to etiquette, diplomacy, posture, and rhetoric. Evenings were claimed by combat drills, bruises, and exhaustion.
Andras endured them all, though sometimes he wondered if learning could make his heart feel smaller.
One afternoon, when the light slanted gold through the high windows, he sat across from Mr. Polluck in the study. The old tutor smelled faintly of parchment, ink, and dried herbs. His spectacles gleamed faintly in the lamplight. The room was silent but for the faint scratching of quills and the hum of faraway thunder.
"Mr. Polluck," Andras said at last, raising his hand. "I have a question."
The old man closed the heavy book before him. "Go ahead, my lord."
The boy tapped the table with his pen, hesitant. "What is the purpose of all these lessons? Why must I learn them?"
Polluck smiled, a small, tired smile. "Your lessons are meant to prepare you for the life you will inherit, my lord. Knowledge is the first armor of a ruler. It teaches you to lead, to endure, to decide."
Andras frowned. "So all of this is to make me ready?"
"In simpler words, yes," Polluck said.
The boy stared down at his hands, small against the desk. "And what if I don't want those duties?"
The tutor studied him quietly. The question hung between them, fragile as glass. Finally, Polluck sighed, adjusting his spectacles. "Then that is why it remains an if, my lord. Should you choose to turn away from what is expected of you, you must build your own path with the strength of your hands and the will of your heart. It will be harder, lonelier, but perhaps more honest. And there is no shame in serving the world, even without command."
Andras's lips pressed into a pout, the corners trembling slightly. "I guess so."
Polluck chuckled softly, the lines on his face deepening. "And that, my lord, is the beginning of wisdom."
The boy looked toward the window. Outside, the red sky had turned gray. The city's chimneys spat smoke into the heavens. Somewhere, a cannon fired in the distance, the sound faint but clear enough to tremble in his chest.
The lessons continued. The world burned. Andras, the boy who laughed like a spark in a dying hearth, would one day learn that no amount of knowledge could save him from the inheritance of war.