As Isaac's second year broke, the politics of the Empire of Britton grew increasingly evident in ways even a child would notice. The lavish parties of his first birthday had been more than a show—they had been tactfully political moves, every gift and gesture intended to place the seven houses in relation to the incredible heir who appeared to unite traits from all of their houses.
The Veritas estate had become a meeting place for imperial politics, with members of each ducal family having reasons to come by more and more frequently. Isaac, whose steady strides now guided him along the marble corridors of his family's keep, watched these visitors with the sharp awareness that had characterized him from childhood. His latent gifts still manifested in the subtle yet unmistakable manner, generating attention that delighted as much as it worried his parents.
Duke Aldric had begun including Isaac in his daily rounds of the manor, in part for training and in part to observe how other people responded to his son being present. While taking one such stroll through the healing gardens, they were approached by a delegation from House Vermillion who had come unexpectedly in the dead of night.
At their leader was Duke Gareth Vermillion himself, his blazing red hair ablaze in the morning light like burnished copper. His very presence drew attention at once—not through fear, but through an aura of unflinching honor that seemed to radiate from his very person. Behind him followed a detachment of knights whose armor shone without even one scratch or dent, kept in perfect condition as befit their house's commitment to martial prowess.
"Duke Aldric," Gareth said, sliding from the destrier's back with the ease of a practiced knight. "Excuse the early morning, but matters of import must be spoken of."
Isaac stood in his father's arms, observing the two men shake hands in welcome. At his age, he could feel the tension between them—a not of hostility, but the wary caution of two predators who valued each other's power.
"News from the western marches?" Aldric asked, his tone diplomatically neutral.
Gareth's gray steel eyes flicked to Isaac, who was being inspected with clear curiosity. "Among other things. Your son becomes more remarkable by the month, if rumor is to be trusted."
As if in answer to the notice, Isaac extended towards Duke Gareth, his small fingers softly shining with the pale green glow that had become his trademark expression of power. The Vermillion knight's eyebrows ticked upwards, but his face stayed calm.
"May I?" Gareth asked, reaching his own hand out towards Isaac.
With Aldric's leave, the Duke of Vermillion delicately took Isaac's tiny fingers in his own. The instant their skin made contact, Isaac was flooded with something strange yet recognizable—the heartbeat of vows taken in blood, the resonance of fights fought for honor and not for reward, the weight of command that broke weaker men but hammered genuine knights into living legends.
"Amazing," Gareth breathed, his tone gentler than before. "The boy has more than Veritas running through him. There's something. older. Deeper."
The discussion that ensued, held in the seclusion of Aldric's study while Isaac played with wooden blocks at their feet, uncovered the first whispers of the larger game afoot throughout the Empire. Gareth discussed heightened bandit activity along the trade routes—not haphazard brigandage, but coordinated raids that appeared calculated to probe the Empire's reaction times.
"Someone is testing our defenses," Gareth said matter-of-factly. "Trying to see how fast we can react to threats, how well our homes work together in emergency situations."
"Any idea who?" Aldric asked, but Isaac could tell his father already had the answer.
"Draco's intel network would be my best bet, but they are not the only ones who can afford such operations. The question is whether this is external threat evaluation or internal politics."
Isaac, while seemingly preoccupied with his toys, listened intently to every word. His increased sensitivity enabled him to pick up on much more than an average two-year-old, and the implications sent shivers down his spine. As Marcus, in his other life, he had been betrayed by those around him. Now, as Isaac, he was starting to realize that betrayal could be on a much larger scale.
The Vermillion visit was soon followed within days by that of a delegation from House Belmont, but their entry could not have been more dissimilar. While the Vermillion knights had arrived in shining armor with military precision, the Belmont emissaries arrived like pious pilgrims might—in plain robes, on foot, with wagons full of medicines and provisions for the poor.
Lady Belmont herself had headed this group, her calm face shining with the kindness that had made her home famous across the Empire. She was a woman who seemed to be in a state of constant mild bliss, as though she perceived goodness in everyone she met and was thrilled by the discovery.
"Little Isaac," she replied on being introduced to him, going down to his eye level with a beaming smile. "I've heard so many good things about your talents."
Unlike Duke Gareth's calculated evaluation, Helena's exchange with Isaac was like being wrapped in sunlight. When she grasped his hands, Isaac saw visions of refugee camps where the healing efforts of his house had saved countless lives, of old foes welcomed into their lands and offered a second chance, of children who had lost everything finding new families among the Belmont retainers.
But under the heat, Isaac caught something else—a profound reservoir of sorrow. Helena had witnessed too much pain, had nursed too many dying, had watched too many wars destroy families. Her loving was not naive idealism but a deliberate decision to keep on loving even though love always hurt.
"Your mother tells me you have a special knack with plants," said Helena, holding up a small pot that held what seemed to be a dead plant—nothing but dry brown stems and wilted leaves.
Isaac gazed at the dejected little plant, then at Helena's hopeful expression. Automatically, he touched one of the wilted leaves. As soon as his skin contacted it, green vitality coursed through the stem. Leaves unfolded, buds formed and bloomed into dainty white flowers that wafted sweet perfume into the air.
Helena's eyes opened wide, but not in surprise. In wonder. "Magnificent," she whispered. "Isaac, do you have any idea what you just did?"
Isaac shook his head, not knowing how to answer. The plant had just seemed. alone. Reviving it had come as easy as breathing.
"This flower passed away three months ago," Helena told him softly. "It belonged to my grandmother, and I've kept it in hopes that one day. but real resurrection of life isn't healing, child. It's creation. You've given something that really was gone a second chance at life."
The words "second chance" rang through Isaac's heart with a force that left him gasping. Helena saw his response at once, her healer's intuition sensing pain even in so young a man.
"What is it, darling?" she asked, drawing him close to her body.
Isaac could not account for the recollection that had unexpectedly arisen—Marcus Thorne, dying alone in a cave, left behind by friends, given his own second chance by enigmatic divine intervention. But Helena knew that something significant had stirred him.
"Sometimes," she whispered, rocking him back and forth, "the most precious things are born out of the most profound pain. Your ability to bring life where there was none. that's not something that grows in comfort, little one. That sort of magic is born of knowing what it means to lose everything and hold on to hope anyway."
Throughout the subsequent weeks, Isaac came to realize the unique character of each ducal house as indicated by their representatives' visits and through his parents' descriptions. House Vermillion was virtue in its most perfect expression—its knights would die before they would betray their principles, and their lands were structured around the idea of chivalrous service. Their strongholds were training schools and schools of discipline where young nobles learned that real strength lay in defending others instead of mastering them.
House Belmont stood for mercy without limit. Their southern lands were the "Haven Lands" where anyone—refugee, outcast, erstwhile foe—could find refuge and an opportunity to start anew. Their strongholds were renowned for never closing their gates, their tables for never running dry, their healers for healing anyone who sought it out regardless of whether they could pay or not.
The difference was only heightened when Duke Lysander Azure made his promised visit. Where Helena had glowed with warmth and Gareth had exuded strength, Lysander existed in part in a different dimension. His colorless hair seemed almost white in some light, and violet eyes contained depths which seemed to contain galaxies.
Isaac was drawn to the Azure Duke in ways he did not know. As Lysander showed him a simple levitation spell—making a quill move through the air in intricate patterns—Isaac found his mind moving out instead of his hands, actually controlling the motion of the quill through what could only be explained by telekinetic power.
"Amazing," Lysander breathed, his normally affectless tone infused with real enthusiasm. "The kid doesn't merely have magical ability—he's naturally working arcane energies without receiving a single lesson."
This discovery resulted in Isaac's first genuine magic lesson. With Lysander's close supervision, he learned to perceive the mystical currents of energy that infused the world around them. The Azure Duke told him that most mages took years to learn to discern these currents, but Isaac could seemingly perceive them as easily as he perceived colors.
"Magic," Lysander said in his accurate, academic voice, "isn't a matter of making the world conform to your desires. Real arcane ability is gained from recognizing the natural flow of energy and learning to harmonize with it. Observe."
He pointed, and the space between them wavered. Gradually, the detailed three-dimensional map of the Empire appeared—not only the material geography, but the magical ley lines that bound holy places together, the currents of power among the seven ducal provinces, the ebb and flow of mystical forces following patterns older than humanity.
Isaac gazed in awe at the screen, but what left Lysander aghast was that the child started pointing to certain places on the map—places where the magical flows were constricted or running in unexpected patterns.
"How are you able to perceive those disturbances?" Lysander asked, truly bewildered.
Isaac couldn't put the words together, but he somehow knew that the disturbances were where the natural order had been distorted—usually through dark magic or evil influence. It was as if his strange abilities encompassed some type of magical vision that picked up corruption in the Empire's mystical underpinnings.
The potential was staggering. If Isaac could sense magical corruption, he may be able to act as an early warning system against threats that regular surveillance would be unable to detect. But such powers would also make him an irresistible target for those who had a preference for operating in darkness.
As if called forth by the mention of shadow work, Duke Serpentius Draco appeared that same night. Unlike the other ducal guests who had appeared with fanfare or modest pride, Draco merely materialized in the main hall as if he had been standing there forever. One instant the room was vacant save for the servants making ready for dinner; the next, the lean, tall man stood statuesque beside the great fireplace.
Isaac experienced a shiver as soon as he walked into the hall with his parents for dinner. Draco's amber-colored eyes locked onto him with an unnerving intensity that sent shivers down his spine, and the man's smile, thin-lipped and calculating, never reached those assessing eyes.
"Duke Serpentius," Aldric said with studiously controlled politeness. "We weren't expecting you."
"Expectations are such restrictive things," Draco answered, his voice holding that distinctive silky quality that managed to make even compliments sound like thinly disguised threats. "I like things to happen spontaneously. It shows one so much more about the nature of people."
Throughout the course of dinner, Isaac was watching the Draco Duke with that same intense interest one might watch a poisonous snake. Draco was certainly refined—his movements liquid as mercury, his speech sophisticated and intelligent. But something inherently evil emanated from him like the glow of a forge.
When servants served the courses of the evening, Isaac observed that Draco would never take anything to eat until other visitors had tried it first. Furthermore, the Duke wore small gadgets—obviously harmless trinkets—that Isaac's acute senses showed to be actually advanced poison sensors. It wasn't paranoia; it was the custom of a man who lived in a world where each meal could be his last.
"Young Isaac," Draco added, in a pause in conversation, his amber eyes concentrating on the boy with uncomfortable intensity. "I'm told you have extraordinary abilities. May I witness one?"
Isaac sensed that every adult in the room went rigid. His father's hand crept almost as far as it might toward his dinner knife, his mother's breathing becoming cautiously guarded. Even the servants appeared to lock into place, holding their breaths in anticipation of whatever was about to ensue.
"Perhaps another time," Duchess Lyanna said smoothly. "Isaac is quite young still, and his abilities can be unpredictable."
"Of course," Draco replied, but his smile suggested he found her deflection amusing rather than convincing. "Though I must say, unpredictability can be quite valuable in the right circumstances. Some of the Empire's most effective tools have been those that couldn't be easily categorized or controlled."
The term "tools" floated in the air like a sword. Isaac realized, even at his age, that Draco was not viewing him as a child or even a future duke. Isaac was in the mind of the head of House Draco a potential weapon to be bought, learned, and used according to whatever plans filled that brilliant, warped brain.
As the night wore on, Draco entertained the table with anecdotes of his travels—diplomatic missions to neighboring realms, trade missions to distant realms, scholarly research into ancient manuscripts. All interesting tales, but Isaac couldn't help but observe that each story seemed to have something to do with Draco gaining new information, new connections, or new influence over possible foes.
When Draco at last left—disappearing as mysteriously as he had arrived—Isaac was like a cloud of poisoned air had been removed from the castle. His parents were relieved, though they attempted to conceal it from the servants.
"What did you make of Duke Serpentius?" his father inquired of him later, during their regular evening discussion.
Isaac pondered the question seriously. "He smells like the plants in mother's garden that she warns me never to touch."
Aldric and Lyanna met each other's eyes. From toddlerhood, Isaac had recognized the essential fact about the Draco Duke—he was gorgeous, captivating, and totally lethal.
The procession of ducal visits did not cease during Isaac's second year. Duke Thane Rubrum rode in like a storm—giant, loud, flanked by warriors whose physical strength bordered on the impossible. Isaac gazed in awe as Rubrum retainers performed feats of strength that approximated the impossible: moving stones that would have needed machinery to move, running for days at a time without stopping, fighting combat drills that would have killed common soldiers.
But for all their focus on muscle, Isaac felt that Rubrum philosophy was more than just brawn. When Duke Thane knelt to talk with him, Isaac felt the presence of a man who knew that true strength was applying power to shield those who could not defend themselves.
"Strength without a goal is merely destruction," Thane said, his voice a deep bass that appeared to come from somewhere within his barrel chest. "Strength with a goal turns into justice. Never forget that, boy Isaac. The time will come when you are forced to decide whether to be strong or right. Choose both."
Quo Vadis representatives' visit turned out to be more ominous than Isaac had expected. Unlike the rest of the houses, which arrived with leaders or high-ranking nobles, Quo Vadis sent a group of priests whose names were concealed behind such elaborate ceremonial masks.
Their leader, who identified himself only as "Speaker of the Hidden Truth," performed what he said was a blessing ceremony for Isaac. It included burning bizarre incenses that caused the air to ripple with psychedelic effects, chanting in languages that came before the Empire, and giving Isaac things whose use was left purposefully unclear.
All along the ceremony, Isaac had the feeling as if invisible eyes were probing not only his body but also his soul. The priests appeared to be looking for something in particular, although they never indicated anything about what they expected to discover. When they finally left, they left behind tokens that made his parents extremely uncomfortable—books inscribed in unidentified scripts, talismans carved from substances that appeared to suck light from the air, and a small mirror that cast images that did not reflect truth.
"Faith is a lovely thing," his mother said later, carefully shelving the Quo Vadis presents in a locked chest. "But when fanaticism masquerades as faith, when obsession masquerades as devotion, it can lead people very far down dark roads. The Quo Vadis priests worship something they refer to as the 'Hidden Truth,' but sometimes truth is hidden for a reason."
By Isaac's second birthday, the trend of visits from all seven houses had become the new norm at the Veritas estate. Isaac had become the center of imperial politics—not because he had done anything to command attention, but because he existed as a child who in some way seemed to have the characteristics of every ducal house.
The actual birthday celebration was a more low-key affair than last year, at least in part due to Isaac's parents' growing unease about the amount of attention he was receiving. The representatives from all seven houses were present, but the gifts were less extravagant and the ceremony smaller.
But even in this smaller group, Isaac could sense the currents of tension building to become the characteristic of his world. The seven houses were positioning themselves in a way that indicated great changes were ahead for the Empire. Alliances shifted, old bargains were being renegotiated behind the scenes, and everybody seemed to be getting ready for something nobody would dare say out loud.
As Isaac blew out the candles on his birthday cake—a feat that took concentration to keep magical energy from surging out of his breath—he couldn't help but consider the future with a sense of both hope and fear. His powers were increasing every day, but so was the responsibility of meeting other people's expectations.
That evening, alone in his room, Isaac brushed his fingers against the Heart of Veritas pendant around his neck and silently vowed to the memory of Marcus Thorne. He would not be weak any longer. He would not be left behind any longer. But neither would he be a weapon for others to use.
Regardless of what fate lay ahead for him in the Empire of Britton, Isaac Veritas would meet it on his own terms.