By the time Rogue could run the length of the courtyard without stumbling, whispers of monsters had already seeped into his young ears.
It was impossible not to hear them. The servants spoke of nothing else.
He would sit with a wooden sword clutched in his hands, swinging it clumsily at invisible foes, and their voices would drift over him in hushed, urgent tones.
"Another farmstead was burned," said Madeleine, her hands busy scrubbing linens though her eyes flicked often to the boy. "Cattle slaughtered. The family gone. Only blood left in the hay."
"Aye," muttered a footman beside her, lowering his voice. "The villagers say they saw pale shadows with fangs. Vampires, perhaps. The Church sent the White Gloves. They'll take care of it."
"The White Gloves…" Madeleine's lips pressed thin. "Little more than children with steel. They're no Witch Hunters."
"They'll do what they can," the footman said. "Better than nothing."
Rogue swung his toy sword harder, pretending not to listen. But the words burrowed deep. He had never seen a vampire. Only shadows in stories, and the dark looks adults gave each other when they thought he wasn't listening.
Later that week, he overheard another pair of guards as they tightened the drawbridge chains.
"The river's no longer safe," one said. "Fishermen dragged under. Some say water wraiths, others say beasts from the Chaos storms."
"The White Gloves again?"
"Yes. They're stretched thin, running from village to village. Half their number never return."
A heavy silence followed. Then: "If even the weak hunters fall so often… how long before the strong are not enough?"
Their words weighed on the boy, though he scarcely understood their meaning. What he did know was this: the world beyond the walls was full of monsters, and men bled to keep them at bay.
The courtyard became Rogue's kingdom.
Here, under the eye of Guillaume de Braye, the scarred captain of guards, the men trained daily with sword, axe, and spear. Their shouts rang out as steel clashed against wooden posts. Their boots struck the earth in rhythm.
Rogue would sit on the stone steps, his crimson hair catching the sun, eyes fixed on the swords. He mimicked their movements, wooden toy clutched in both hands. He swung until his arms ached, until sweat stung his eyes.
One afternoon, Guillaume noticed the boy's persistence. He approached, his shadow falling long over Rogue. "That toy won't cut much, young master," the captain said, his voice rough but not unkind.
Rogue looked up, panting. "Then give me a real one."
A few of the guards laughed. Guillaume did not. He studied the boy for a long moment, then shook his head. "Steel is heavier than dreams. But keep swinging. One day, your arm will be ready."
From that day, Rogue's place in the courtyard was never questioned. Guards began correcting his stance, showing him where to place his feet, how to grip tighter. Some mocked him gently, others with respect. The boy drank in every word.
When his father saw him, Henri frowned but said nothing. Pride and worry warred in his gaze.
Yet for all his play and practice, Rogue's curiosity stretched further than the courtyard walls.
He would slip from the kitchens, dart through side passages, and emerge near the stables where the fields began. From there, the forest loomed in the distance, its black edge swallowing the horizon.
The first time he wandered too close, a maid shrieked and dragged him back by the wrist. "My lord! You mustn't! The woods are no place for children."
"But I wanted to see," Rogue protested, eyes still fixed on the tree line. "What's out there?"
"Death," she whispered, her face pale. "Death and worse."
Guards echoed the same whenever they caught him straying.
"Stay within the walls, young master.""The monsters do not care for noble blood.""You shine now, but light only draws them closer."
Still, Rogue's gaze always turned outward. The courtyard was not enough. The castle halls felt too small. Even as a child, he yearned to see what lay beyond the safety of stone.
One evening, the boy slipped further than before. The drawbridge had been raised, but there was a side gate in the wall, kept unbarred during daylight for servants fetching water. Rogue found it and slipped through, clutching his wooden sword.
He ran across the outer field, grass brushing his ankles, until he reached the shallow rise that overlooked the forest. The trees stretched endlessly, black and waiting, their tops swaying as though whispering to him. The air smelled of damp earth and rain, and in the distance, thunder rolled like the growl of some ancient beast.
Rogue stood there, breathless. His small chest rose and fell, his wooden blade gripped tight. His eyes widened, not with fear, but with awe. "One day," he whispered, "I'll go out there. And I won't be afraid."
Behind him, a voice shouted, panicked. "Young master!"
Madeleine came running, skirts hiked up, her face stricken pale. She seized his wrist, her grip trembling. "You mustn't! What madness brought you here? If your father knew—"
Rogue looked back at the trees, reluctant, but the maid tugged hard. "Back inside. Now."
The world beyond the walls faded as he was dragged toward the gate, the black forest swallowed once more by stone. Yet as the heavy doors closed behind him, Rogue twisted for one last glance over his shoulder.
The trees still swayed. The storm still grumbled. And though the castle's walls shut him in, his heart remained fixed on the darkness outside.