House Arvayne did not announce its power.
It existed, and the world adjusted around it.
The estate rose from the hills like a silent monarch—ancient stone walls carved with sigils older than the current kingdom itself. Tall spires pierced the sky, not in arrogance, but inevitability. Every brick whispered of lineage. Every corridor carried the weight of decisions that had once changed borders.
Lucien observed it all from a cradle lined with enchanted silk.
His eyes—too calm for an infant—tracked movement, shadows, servants, mana flows.
Efficient layout, he noted.
Defensive enchantments layered beneath aesthetics.
Not a frontline war house… but a political anchor.
House Arvayne was not famous for producing heroes.
It produced survivors.
Counts, advisors, marriage-brokers, kingmakers.
The kind of family that stayed standing no matter which banner fell.
Lucien approved.
Servants moved carefully around him.
Not gently—carefully.
Because even they knew.
This child was a Count's son.
The youngest.
The least important.
And yet… something about him unsettled them.
"He doesn't cry much," one maid whispered.
"Strange," another replied. "Babies cry."
Lucien heard everything.
And learned.
Expectation: Crying.
Deviation noticed.
Conclusion: Adjust behavior.
That night, he screamed.
Not weakly.
Not desperately.
Perfectly timed.
Just loud enough to summon attention.
The servants rushed in panic. The noble lady followed moments later.
Lucien's mother.
Lady Evelyne Arvayne.
She stood beside the cradle, posture straight, eyes sharp as polished obsidian. Her beauty was the cold kind—chiselled by discipline, not softness. Her hair was bound tightly, as if even loose strands were unacceptable.
She did not rush to pick him up.
She observed.
Lucien cried harder.
Arms flailing. Face red. Breath hitching.
Convincing.
Only then did she move.
Her hands were cool as they lifted him.
The crying stopped instantly.
The room froze.
Lucien buried his face against her chest, fingers clutching fabric.
A performance.
Lady Evelyne's eyes narrowed—not in anger, but calculation.
"…Interesting," she murmured.
She didn't smile.
But she didn't hand him back to the maid either.
Lucien marked it.
She watches.
She tests.
She protects quietly.
Dangerous woman.
Useful too.
His father was a different presence altogether.
Count Alaric Arvayne did not often appear in the nursery. When he did, the air itself seemed heavier. Mana clung to him like an obedient beast—compressed, disciplined, old.
He stood once at Lucien's cradle, hands clasped behind his back.
"This one?" he asked.
"The youngest," Lady Evelyne replied. "Born weak."
Count Alaric studied Lucien.
Lucien let his eyes water. Let his lips tremble.
Weakness, displayed.
The Count turned away.
"Ensure he survives," he said calmly. "Nothing more is required."
And that was that.
Lucien understood instantly.
No expectations.
No pressure.
No attention.
A perfect position.
The brothers arrived days later.
First came Cassian Arvayne, the eldest.
Even at fourteen, he carried himself like a future ruler—broad shoulders, sharp jaw, confidence honed by constant praise. He was already a prodigy with the sword, his mana affinity praised by instructors.
He glanced at Lucien once.
"…That's it?" Cassian asked.
"A baby," their mother replied flatly.
Cassian lost interest immediately.
Second was Darius Arvayne, two years younger than Cassian, yet far more dangerous.
Where Cassian burned bright, Darius smoldered.
Sharp eyes. Quiet steps. A mind always working.
He leaned closer to the cradle.
Lucien met his gaze—and deliberately looked away, whimpering.
Darius frowned.
"He's… nothing," Darius said.
Lucien screamed softly.
Darius recoiled, annoyed.
"Yes," Lady Evelyne said. "He is."
Lucien recorded the reactions.
Cassian: Prideful. Blind to irrelevance.
Darius: Observant. Competitive. Potential threat.
Both manageable.
For now.
Months passed.
Lucien grew.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
He learned the rhythms of the household. The unspoken hierarchy. Which servants bowed lower. Which ones were spies for other houses. Which guards were loyal to coin, and which to blood.
He learned mana.
Not by touching it.
By watching it.
The way it pooled in his father's presence.
The way it flickered around his brothers.
The way it barely stirred around himself.
Good.
Expectation matched reality.
At night, when no one watched, Lucien experimented.
Not with magic.
With control.
He regulated his breath. Slowed his heart. Suppressed instinct.
This body was fragile—but obedient.
A vessel that could be trained.
Then—
The household changed.
The servants whispered more.
Healers visited.
Lady Evelyne stayed indoors.
Lucien felt it before he heard it.
Life.
New.
Familiar.
The day his little sister was born, the estate felt… warmer.
Lucien was carried into the chamber, more as an afterthought than intention. Cassian and Darius stood at the side, already bored.
The infant was placed beside him.
Small.
Soft.
Pink-cheeked.
Her mana—unformed, gentle—brushed against his consciousness.
And something cracked.
Not logic.
Not control.
Something older.
Something he hadn't felt since… before.
Lucien stared at her.
She squirmed. Yawned.
Tiny fingers brushed his.
And suddenly—
His chest ached.
Unwanted.
Unplanned.
Dangerous.
Emotion.
For the first time since his rebirth, Lucien forgot to act.
He didn't cry.
Didn't calculate.
Didn't perform.
He simply watched her breathe.
…Mine.
The thought startled him.
Not possession.
Responsibility.
A shield instinct formed before he could dissect it.
If the world burned—
She would not.
If the family fell—
She would stand.
Lucien tightened his tiny fist unconsciously.
So this is the flaw, he realized calmly.
Acceptable.
That night, Lucien cried again.
Harder than ever before.
Servants panicked. Lady Evelyne arrived immediately.
"He won't stop," a maid said nervously.
Lucien clung to his mother desperately, tears soaking her sleeve.
Lady Evelyne looked down at him, then toward the room where the newborn slept.
Her eyes softened—just slightly.
"You sense it," she murmured.
Lucien hid his face.
Good. Misinterpretation.
From that day on, Lucien changed his strategy.
He cried when ignored.
Clung when held.
Hid behind skirts.
Stumbled when learning to walk.
A perfect image formed.
The weak child.
Teachers sighed.
"Hopeless."
Servants pitied.
"Poor thing."
Cassian ignored him entirely.
Darius watched… then dismissed him.
Lucien smiled inwardly.
Years passed.
Lucien perfected the borrowed smile.
Big eyes.
Shy nods.
Soft voice.
Inside—
A mind mapping futures.
His family became data points.
Mother: Shield. Silent guardian. Never provoke unnecessarily.
Father: Authority. Distant. Use reputation.
Cassian: Sword. Point outward.
Darius: Knife. Keep at distance.
And his sister?
Anchor.
Lucien held her hand often.
Protected her from sharp corners. From cold drafts. From raised voices.
They laughed when she laughed.
Lucien learned to laugh too.
A real one.
Rare.
Hidden.
One night, as he lay in bed, staring at the dark ceiling, Lucien made a vow.
Not aloud.
Not emotionally.
But absolutely.
This family will never be my enemies.
They will be tools…
or shields.
A pause.
Then—
Unless necessary.
Lucien closed his eyes.
The mask was secure.
The stage was set.
And somewhere deep within his soul, something vast and patient waited for the day he would stop pretending to be small.