Chapter two -"Playing in the Court of Silence"
In the silence of marble halls, two children meet not as friends, but as question and riddle. The throne watches, the garden listens—and the lesson has yet to begin.
The golden-haired marquis leaned against the doorframe, arms folded with casual elegance.
"Oh? What a scene."
Alex Sayenar's voice floated through the room like silk draped over sharp glass. He tilted his head slightly, brushing back a stray lock of his golden hair, his smile faint and unreadable.
"It seems His Highness took my son's words as an unexpected slap. You should be more careful, Aiant. Even innocent phrases can awaken smoldering embers."
He sighed softly, almost to himself.
"We are a neutral house, after all. How tiresome… It's always difficult dealing with those who believe loyalty is something you can buy."
He clapped his hands once, as if remembering something, then added with amused detachment:
"But I'm glad you found that 'one person' you always talked about… the one you claimed you'd stay beside forever."
Aiant glanced sideways at him, bored.
"Still here, Father?"
Alex chuckled under his breath and turned lazily toward the door.
"You ungrateful little fox. See you around, Your Highness. I have greetings to deliver to His Majesty, as etiquette demands."
Then he left—his steps calm and deliberate, the kind of footsteps belonging to someone who always knew where he was going, and how long he had to keep watching from afar.
---
In a shadowed corner of the palace library, two boys sat side by side, flanked by towering shelves groaning under the weight of ancient books.
Prince Eswar, with his serene blue hair and a face too serious for a five-year-old, read quietly. Beside him, Aiant—older by three years—let his silvery eyes scan the pages with unsettling speed.
"What's the rest of today's schedule?" Eswar asked without looking up, his tone flat, mechanical.
Aiant answered instantly, as though the reply had been stored and polished days in advance:
"Session with Madame Argentina in ten minutes. Then a two-hour lecture in classical literature with Dean Eventer Setar. Lunch break. Military training until dusk. Dinner. Reading before sleep."
A brief pause.
Then Eswar muttered, not hiding his irritation:
"How many times have I told you not to talk like an old pocket watch—ticking the hours but deaf to its own ticking?"
Aiant replied calmly, unfazed:
"Didn't you ask me for the schedule, Your Highness?"
He shut his book gently, rose to straighten his clothes, and added, "Let's go to the terrace. This will be our last lesson with Madame Argentina."
Eswar stood as well, his movements as practiced and neat as ever, and the two boys left the dim corner behind, letting it sink once more into silence.
---
The sun had just begun to tilt westward, casting a warm golden hue across the smooth marble of the terrace.
Madame Argentina stood waiting, dressed in a simple violet gown and a gray lace shawl. A delicate ivory fan rested between her fingers, opening and closing with effortless grace.
She greeted them with a wide, measured smile:
"A morning filled with light to you both, Your Highness, Master Aiant."
Eswar answered with barely a nod. Aiant gave a small bow, his silver eyes betraying no emotion.
"My, such early seriousness," she said with a soft laugh, her gaze sliding over them with unreadable curiosity.
Neither boy responded. Silence cloaked the terrace.
A heavy moment passed before Madame Argentina flicked open her fan again and looked briefly down the stone corridor, as if expecting someone else.
Eswar spoke quietly, his tone edged with sarcasm:
"Is the lesson about to begin, or are we just chess pieces waiting for someone to move us?"
She didn't answer. Only a subtle, enigmatic smile touched her lips.
Aiant stood still, but his gaze wandered past the edge of the terrace, over the gray-spilled city below.
At that moment, a strange sense descended—as if something unseen had entered the room.
As if the terrace had shifted from a place of learning to a quiet stage, awaiting the first act of a play no one had written yet.
Madame Argentina's fan stilled in her hand. Her eyes gleamed faintly beneath the shadows, following a thread only she could see: a glance to the prince, then to the boy beside him... and finally, to the closed gate.
She was still smiling.
But in that moment—unknown to anyone—
her heart began to recalculate choices that were never part of the curriculum.
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