Soren was eight years old when he finally noticed how the air grew heavy whenever he entered a room.
It had been four years since his arrival at the estate, and much had changed within that timeframe.
He had grown taller, though only slightly, and his steps had become steadier.
His mother often reminded him that he should "walk like a noble," and so he did.
His back was straight, and he took small, steady strides.
Whenever he was seated, he would neatly fold his hands on his lap.
He obeyed every instruction, still clinging to the hope that his efforts would win his mother's smile.
But no smile came.
The warm glow that once wrapped his childish heart, the glow of innocence, was dimming.
He had begun to understand things, things he wished he did not.
The dinner table was the same as always: long, polished and shining in candlelight.
Sofia, his mother, sat at the head, smiling faintly.
His father sat at her left, as unreadable as ever, and to her right sat Freya, sitting proudly, her back straight and every word measured with elegance.
Alice, one year younger than him, hummed and smirked whenever he made the slightest mistake.
Soren tried to follow everything his mother had once taught him.
Knife in the right hand, fork in the left, chew slowly, do not speak unless spoken to, these were all lessons that had been drilled into his head over years of tutoring.
But today, his fingers shook, likely from hunger.
The knife slid as he tried to slice the meat, producing an unpleasant screech.
Alice giggled.
"How clumsy," she said, her eyes gleaming with mockery.
Soren's heart tightened.
He wanted to ignore her, but his ears burned red, and his hands trembled even more.
"Clumsiness," Sofia said softly, "is unbecoming of one who bears the Arden name."
Her tone was gentle, almost soothing, but the words pierced him deeply.
Soren bit his lip, trying not to cry.
He swallowed the meat quickly, even though it was tasteless.
"Y-yes, Mother…" he whispered, his voice barely reaching across the table.
••✦ ♡ ✦•••
That night, when the house grew quiet, Soren cried into his pillow.
He pressed his small hands against his eyes, ashamed of the tears that would not stop.
Why?
Why could he never do anything right?
His mother's lessons were etched into his mind.
He practised them every day, but no matter how hard he tried, her voice never softened, and Alice's giggles only grew louder.
It was then, for the first time, that Soren wondered if something was wrong with him.
••✦ ♡ ✦•••
Fortunately, there was still light in the gloomy Arden estate.
That light was Freya.
Late one night, she came into his room, carrying a small mana lamp.
Her steps were quiet yet graceful, even when she was tired.
She sat on the edge of his bed, brushing his hair gently away from his face.
"You did well today," she said softly.
Soren sniffled, his eyes red.
"No… I messed up again. Mother said—"
"Forget what she said," Freya interrupted gently. "You're trying your best. That's what matters."
Her words were medicine for his wounded heart.
For a moment, he let himself believe them.
"Will you… stay?" he whispered.
Freya hesitated, then nodded.
"Only for a little while."
He fell asleep holding her hand, his tears finally drying.
But even then, he noticed something he hadn't before.
Freya's hand slipped away sooner than it used to.
••✦ ♡ ✦•••
By the time he turned nine, the changes were clearer.
Freya was busier.
She often trained with the knights, her hair tied back as she sparred in the courtyard.
When she wasn't training, she was studying with tutors.
Politics, history, diplomacy.
Things Soren barely understood.
He watched from afar, his eyes filled with longing.
She still smiled at him, ruffled his hair when passing by, and hugged him tightly whenever something was wrong, but her visits grew fewer.
One afternoon, he waited for her in the garden, holding a flower he had picked, knowing it was her favourite.
He wanted to give it to her, just as he had when he was younger.
Hours passed, and the sun sank.
She never came.
When he finally trudged back to his room, Alice was waiting by the door.
She saw the wilted flower in his hand and laughed.
"Waiting like a lost puppy," she sneered. "Do you really think Freya has time for you?"
Soren's face burned.
He wanted to shout back, to tell her she was wrong, but the words were stuck in his throat.
All he could do was clench his fists until his nails dug into his skin.
Alice laughed louder, her voice ringing in his ears long after she left.
••✦ ♡ ✦•••
It was also at nine that he discovered the truth about the servants.
He had believed, in his childish naivety, that they were at least neutral.
They wore professional smiles when they passed him and bowed when required, but one day he overheard them.
"Poor boy," one servant whispered in the hall. "He still thinks he can be a real noble."
Another chuckled.
"Best not to get too close. The countess would disapprove."
Their voices faded as they walked away, leaving Soren frozen in place.
He bit his lip hard, desperately trying to hold back his bubbling emotions.
'So even they…'
That night, Soren cried harder than ever before.
For the first time, he realised he was truly alone.
••✦ ♡ ✦•••
When he turned ten, the tears came more quietly.
He no longer sobbed loudly into his pillow.
Instead, he buried his face in silence, letting the pain eat away at him bit by bit.
He had learned that crying too loudly only invited more ridicule.
Alice once barged into his room after hearing him, laughing so hard that she nearly fell over.
So now, he cried quietly, trembling under his blanket, trying to make himself small enough to disappear.
He still clung to Freya when she was near, but her visits had become rare treasures.
Every time she left him, he felt the distance grow.
And though he was only ten, he understood what it meant.
No one would stand beside him forever.
Not Alice.
Not his mother.
Not his father.
Not even the servants.
One day, perhaps not even Freya.
The thought terrified the boy, who had never left the estate.
Yet, it was also becoming a reality.
The estate was quiet at night, but it was not peaceful.
He sat at the edge of his bed, knees pulled up, staring at the wall.
The blanket slipped from his shoulders, falling to the floor.
He had stopped crying hours ago, but the dampness still clung to his cheeks.
His small hands trembled as he clasped them together, as if he were praying.
Though he wasn't sure who he was praying to.
He remembered how Freya used to come in at night, carrying her lamp, and how she would hug him tightly.
She still came, sometimes, but her visits felt like dreams, warm yet short, fading the moment he reached for them.
"Why… why don't they like me?" He whispered, though no one could hear him.
••✦ ♡ ✦•••
Mornings were cold.
The early light slid through the windows into the small room.
Soren dressed himself carefully, as his mother had taught him to do.
He still did it, even now.
He still obeyed.
He left his room quietly and walked down the hall.
He passed a pair of servants who bowed politely as they always did, but their eyes slid past him, already looking elsewhere.
He lowered his head, clutching his hands behind his back in the way that Mother had once said was proper.
He kept walking.
••✦ ♡ ✦•••
That evening, Freya found him sitting in the library.
She looked tired, her hair tied back from training, but she still smiled when she saw him.
"You're here," she said softly, stepping closer.
Soren blinked up at her, startled.
"I… I wanted to read," he mumbled.
There was only one book open in front of him, but he wasn't reading.
Every time he tried, the letters blurred together, his eyes too heavy with sleep.
Freya crouched down, meeting his eyes.
"You're doing well, Soren."
The words still warmed him, but they didn't feel as bright as they once had.
He stared at her, as if trying to memorise her face.
"You're busy now," he said quietly.
Freya hesitated, then brushed a hand through his hair.
"I'll always come when I can."
He nodded, but his hands clenched tightly in his lap.
Somewhere deep down, he already knew that their meeting would only grow more infrequent.
••✦ ♡ ✦•••
That night, when he lay in bed, he didn't cry.
He just stared at the ceiling, his small body curled beneath the thin blanket.
In the darkness, his small voice echoed in the hidden-away room.
"Am I… really an Arden?"
No one answered.
The only sound was the distant wind brushing against the windows.
He closed his eyes, but sleep did not come quickly.
————「❤︎」————