As Reloua processed the plan, Teleu's thoughts drifted momentarily to her spiritual standing.
She was a Third Grade Initiate herself, walking the Merchant Route—a fitting choice for a princess of the Gold Land, where trade and wealth were worshipped above all else. The Merchant Route granted her advantages in negotiation, resource management, and the ability to sense value in people and objects.
But she was stuck. She had not advanced beyond the third grade of initiation, and given the Gold Land's disdain for spirituality, Teleu doubted she had any intention of progressing further.
That was a problem.
If Teleu was going to make use of Reloua—if she was going to be more than just a temporary ally—he needed her to understand the true depth of the mystical world. She needed to know what the tiers meant, what entities existed, what power could be gained.
But that conversation would have to wait. For now, it was enough that she trusted his counsel.
A sudden yawn broke the stillness.
Both Teleu and Reloua turned toward the palace entrance, where a small figure emerged, stretching lazily. Gyan, Reloua's younger brother, stumbled out into the morning light, his hand scratching his stomach, his eyes half-closed with sleep.
"Morning already?" the boy mumbled, blinking in the sunlight.
Reloua's expression softened instantly. "You're up early, Gyan. Did you sleep well?"
"I guess," Gyan said, rubbing his eyes. Then he noticed Teleu and straightened slightly, his gaze sharpening. "Oh. You're here."
Teleu inclined his head. "Good morning, Prince Gyan."
The boy studied him for a moment, then plopped down on the grass near the bench, still looking half-asleep but undeniably curious. "Were you two talking about something important?"
"Adult matters," Reloua said quickly, her tone protective.
But Teleu's gaze lingered on the boy.
He was impressed.
Gyan reminded him of himself at that age—sharp, observant, carrying a weight that no child should have to bear. The boy had been through tragedy. He had lost his mother. He had seen his sister nearly killed. And yet, he carried himself with a quiet resilience that spoke of intelligence and strength.
Teleu had seen it the day he arrived. The way Gyan listened. The way he asked questions. The way he watched people, as though cataloging every gesture, every word.
This child had potential.
And Teleu intended to cultivate it.
Reloua had made it clear: Teleu's first and foremost task was to guard her and Gyan. To keep them safe from the forces arrayed against them.
But Teleu had his own agenda.
He was going to mentor this boy.
Not out of altruism. Not out of kindness.
But because molding Gyan into something powerful—into someone who could stand on his own, who could navigate the mystical and political worlds with skill—would serve Teleu's own advancement.
To ascend from Elite to Master, Teleu would need to train three Apprentices to the Adept level. That was one of the requirements. And while Teleu had not yet reached Elite in all his Routes, the time would come.
Gyan could be one of those Apprentices.
But first, Teleu needed to know where the boy stood.
Had Gyan been initiated into the mystics of Nubia? Did he even know what the mystical paths were? Or was he still Disconnected, blind to the unseen realms?
Teleu would find out soon enough.
"Gyan," Teleu said quietly, his tone measured but carrying a subtle weight.
The boy looked up, surprised to be addressed directly. "Yes?"
"Do you know what it means to be Initiated?"
Gyan blinked. "Initiated? Like... the rituals the priests talk about?"
"Something like that," Teleu said.
Reloua frowned, glancing between them. "Teleu, what are you—"
But Teleu raised a hand gently, his gaze still fixed on Gyan. "Have you ever felt something you couldn't explain? Seen something out of the corner of your eye that disappeared when you looked directly at it? Heard whispers when no one was there?"
Gyan's expression shifted, becoming more serious. He hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Sometimes. Especially after my mom died. I thought I was imagining it."
Teleu's eyes gleamed with quiet satisfaction.
"You weren't imagining it," he said softly.
Reloua's frown deepened. "Teleu, what are you saying?"
Teleu glanced at her briefly, then back at Gyan. "Your brother," he said calmly, "has the potential to see beyond the veil. Whether he's been formally initiated or not, his soul is beginning to stir."
Gyan's eyes widened. "You mean... I can learn the mystical paths?"
"If you're willing to work for it," Teleu said. "If you're willing to understand that power comes at a price."
Reloua opened her mouth to protest, but Teleu cut her off with a look.
"He's already at risk," Teleu said quietly. "The forces targeting you won't stop. If Gyan remains blind to the unseen, he'll be vulnerable. But if he learns—if he advances—he can protect himself. He can protect you."
Reloua's jaw tightened, but she said nothing.
Gyan, however, leaned forward, his eyes burning with determination. "Teach me."
Teleu allowed himself the faintest of smiles.
"We'll see," he said. "First, we need to keep you both alive."
As he watched Gyan settle into the grass and Reloua's protective gaze soften toward her brother, Teleu became aware of something unexpected.
He felt himself talkative with these two siblings.
More so than usual. More than he had been with anyone in years.
It was not a feeling he disliked.
Teleu had become, by necessity and trauma, a man of few words. Cold. Calculative. His conversations were tools—measured, deliberate, stripped of anything that wasn't strategically useful. He spoke when speech served a purpose. He smiled when smiles opened doors. He offered warmth only when warmth was currency.
Most people found him unsettling. His silences were long and heavy. His gaze was sharp enough to cut. He had learned early that words could be weapons or liabilities, and so he hoarded them like a miser hoards gold, spending only when the return was guaranteed.
But here, in this garden, with Reloua's sharp tongue and Gyan's curious eyes—he found himself speaking freely. Offering advice without being asked. Explaining when he could have simply commanded. There was something in their resilience, their refusal to break despite everything they had endured, that reminded him of what he had once been.
Perhaps it was because they, too, were survivors. Perhaps it was because he saw pieces of himself reflected in them—Reloua's stubborn defiance, Gyan's quiet intelligence.
Or perhaps, buried beneath the layers of ice and steel he had wrapped around his heart, a fragment of the boy who had loved his mother still remained.
Whatever the reason, Teleu did not push the feeling away.
---
The morning sun climbed higher, casting long shadows across the garden.
And in the distance, the palace loomed—silent, watchful, filled with secrets and enemies yet to reveal themselves.
But Teleu was patient.
He had his own agenda. His own tasks to accomplish. His own goals burning like cold fire in the depths of his chest. The throne of Ankh. The blood debt owed for his mother's murder, his clan's assassination. The reckoning that awaited his uncle and every conspirator who had played a part in his family's destruction.
No matter who stood as enemies before him—nobles, mystics, kings, or entities dwelling in the unseen—he would crush them. Dead. Without mercy. Without hesitation. And he would walk across their corpses to claim his revenge.
The Gray Path had taught him this much: power required sacrifice, and victory demanded ruthlessness tempered by calculation.
He had walked this path through blood and shadow, through loss and survival.
And he would walk it further still—until the day he stood above them all, looking down at the ruins of those who had dared to stand in his way.