Elias sat by the window of his new quarters, the early sun spilling over the courtyard stones. The familiar clatter of drills reached him — boots, swords, shouts. Not a prison, yet not freedom either. Every step of a soldier, every barked order, every careless glance told a story, and Elias cataloged it all silently.
He had survived the pit, the questioning, and the lord's gaze. Now, he walked among shadows, not chains. He had no name for this—no status, no title—but he understood one thing clearly: he was being studied as much as he studied the world.
A young squire ran past, almost colliding with him. Elias caught a glimpse of their exchange: names of knights, rumors, scraps of conversations. He smiled faintly. Even in freedom, the world moved as though it were unaware of him. And yet, he was never unnoticed.
He traced the architecture with his eyes: arrow slits, guard posts, stairways, kitchens tucked into corners. Every structure held a purpose. Every guard had a route. Patterns. Weaknesses. Strengths. He whispered them to himself like a foreign tongue: "Supply lines, patrol gaps, latrine locations… vulnerability."
The mark on his arm throbbed faintly, almost impatiently. A whisper tickled at the edge of his mind — something ancient, something that knew what he observed even before he consciously cataloged it. Elias flexed his hand, pressing lightly where the faint burn glimmered beneath his sleeve. Not a tool, not yet. But a presence.
Kael knocked and entered quietly, holding a stack of ledgers. "The morning reports, if you would," he said, eyes wary. Elias gestured, and Kael laid them before him. He scanned names, counts, delivery times — gaps leapt out like bright sparks. His mind, ever analytic, re-ordered, suggested, refined.
"Here," Elias said finally, pointing. "Stores are misallocated. Grain moves slower than it should. The patrols intersect redundantly. You could double efficiency with minor shifts."
Kael blinked. The words came practically, clearly, as if he had been running operations all his life. Elias shrugged, as if it were obvious. "From my homeland," he added casually. No further explanation.
The young squire returned, bowing awkwardly. Elias observed the boy's nervous glance, noting the unspoken calculations in the squire's posture: fear, curiosity, caution. The boy reminded Elias of himself weeks ago — a newcomer, learning the rhythms of a world not his own.
Hours passed in quiet analysis. Elias moved from reports to watching the kitchens, the guards' routines, the quiet tangle of daily life in the keep. Everything was a lesson, everything a potential weapon — or a tool. He tucked away what he saw for later, for times when words would not suffice.
As night approached, he retired to his chamber. Alone, he touched the mark. It glowed faintly, warm beneath his skin. Whispers rose, soft and unintelligible. The words from the mad prophet returned to him: "The stone drinks blood… the mark endures… chains will break…"
He flexed his hand, staring into the faint glow. He did not understand. He feared it. And yet, he felt… anticipation. Not for power, not for glory. For a place in a world that had not made room for him.
Elias exhaled slowly. Freedom was a dangerous thing. And yet, it was here.