By the age of six, Lucien Arvayne had mastered something far more difficult than magic.
He had mastered expectation.
The Arvayne estate buzzed every morning with structured chaos—maids gliding through halls, knights drilling in the outer yards, tutors arriving with scrolls and rigid spines. Lucien walked among them with small steps and lowered eyes, hands folded nervously in front of him.
A perfect picture.
"Good morning, Young Master," a maid greeted softly.
Lucien flinched.
"O–oh! G-good morning…" he stammered, bowing too deep, almost tripping.
The maid smiled sympathetically.
Confirmed, Lucien noted. Reaction achieved.
He hurried away, cheeks red, pretending not to notice the glances exchanged behind him.
"Such a timid child,""So unlike his brothers…""Poor thing, born weak in a strong house."
The words followed him like incense.
Pleasant.Comforting.Useful.
The tutoring hall was a long chamber lined with bookshelves that stretched higher than Lucien's head. Sunlight poured in through tall windows, illuminating dust motes and the faint shimmer of mana wards woven into the walls.
Lucien sat at the far end of the table.
Always the far end.
Across from him sat his brothers.
Cassian lounged confidently, one arm draped over the back of his chair, sword practice bruises still visible beneath his sleeves. Darius sat straight-backed, eyes sharp, quill already moving as he reviewed yesterday's lessons.
Lucien hugged his own notebook to his chest.
The tutor, Master Helbrecht, cleared his throat.
"Today, we will review noble arithmetic and mana theory basics."
Lucien swallowed audibly.
Cue nervousness.
When the tutor's gaze swept toward him, Lucien shrank.
"Y–yes, Master?"
Helbrecht sighed.
"Lucien, tell me. If a trade caravan loses thirty percent of its goods to bandits, yet gains twenty percent profit due to scarcity—"
Lucien blinked rapidly.
Numbers swirled in his mind—clean, precise, obvious.
Net profit. Simple margin adjustment. Political implication: manipulation of scarcity.
But his lips trembled.
"I… I don't know…" he whispered, eyes watering.
Helbrecht pinched the bridge of his nose.
"As expected," he muttered. "You may sit quietly."
Lucien nodded quickly, relief flooding his face.
Inside—
Correct.
He watched as Darius answered flawlessly and Cassian scoffed at the simplicity of the problem.
Let them shine.
Lucien's pen scratched useless doodles in his notebook—flowers, crooked houses, childish nonsense.
In truth, each doodle marked something else entirely.
Seating positions.Eye contact patterns.Who interrupted whom.Who the tutor praised unconsciously.
Hierarchy confirmed.
Lucien's mask had layers.
The outermost was shyness.
Eyes downcast.Voice soft.Movements hesitant.
Beneath that lay emotional volatility.
If scolded, he teared up.If praised, he blushed excessively.If ignored, he fidgeted and sniffled.
Teachers found it exhausting.
Servants found it pitiful.
Both stopped expecting anything from him.
The deepest layer was strategic stupidity.
Lucien made mistakes—but never the same one twice.
He failed arithmetic but remembered stories.Forgot spells but memorized etiquette.Tripped over his own feet—but never into danger.
Patterns mattered.
People forgave randomness.
They distrusted competence.
By midday, the estate's corridors buzzed with gossip.
Lucien knew because he listened.
Not openly.
Accidentally.
He lingered near doorways. Sat quietly on stairs. Hid behind curtains with a book held upside down.
Servants talked freely around a harmless child.
"Young Master Lucien?" a guard chuckled. "Soft as cotton."
"Can't even hold a practice wand without shaking," another replied.
"I heard the Count barely acknowledges him."
"A shame. But perhaps a blessing. Power breaks fragile things."
Lucien pressed his back to the wall, eyes wide.
Excellent phrasing, he thought. Repeatable narrative.
Reputation was a living organism.
Feed it carefully, and it would defend itself.
Lucien measured influence the way others measured time.
Not in hours.
In reactions.
Who smiled when he entered a room?Who sighed?Who forgot him entirely?
He categorized servants by loyalty vectors.
Coin-loyal.Fear-loyal.Blood-loyal.
The old butler—loyal to House Arvayne itself. Useful.The head maid—loyal to Lady Evelyne. Secondary shield.The junior gardener—resentful, overlooked. Potential risk or asset.
Lucien never acted.
He simply remembered.
His mother watched.
Lady Evelyne never interfered openly, but Lucien felt her gaze often—sharp, measuring, distant.
Once, she summoned him privately.
Lucien entered her study with hesitant steps, fingers twisting together.
"M–mother…?" he whispered.
She gestured to a chair.
Lucien sat on the edge, legs dangling.
"You cry often in lessons," she said flatly.
Lucien flinched, eyes shimmering.
"I–I'm sorry… I try…"
A long pause.
Lady Evelyne leaned forward slightly.
"Do you suffer?" she asked.
The question was… strange.
Lucien hesitated.
Then nodded slowly.
"Yes…"
She studied him for several seconds, then leaned back.
"…Very well," she said. "You will not be forced."
Lucien bowed his head deeply.
She believes.
Or perhaps—
She chooses to.
Either way, protection remained.
At night, Lucien slept alone.
A small bed in a large room.
Too large.
Shadows gathered in corners. Moonlight traced silver lines across the floor.
Lucien lay still, breathing slow, heart steady.
Then—
Whispers.
Not voices.
Not sound.
A pressure.
Like a distant echo pressing against his thoughts.
Lucien's eyes snapped open.
This was not mana.
Mana flowed.
This… resonated.
A low hum at the edge of perception, as if reality itself were brushing against him.
Lucien held his breath.
The sensation intensified.
Images flickered behind his eyes—fractured, incomplete.
Circles within circles.Lines intersecting impossibly.A symbol forming, breaking, reforming.
Lucien did not panic.
He observed.
Systemic, he concluded. Not environmental.
The whisper grew stronger.
Not words.
Intent.
—fragment——authority——awaiting—
Lucien's chest tightened—not with fear, but anticipation.
Something old recognized him.
Or worse—
Remembered him.
The symbol burned itself into his mind.
Not painful.
Claiming.
A geometric sigil unlike any magic crest he had seen.
It pulsed once.
Then vanished.
The whispers ceased.
Lucien lay in darkness, eyes open, thoughts racing with calm precision.
So, he thought slowly,"this world is already speaking to me."
A smile tugged at his lips—small, fleeting, unseen.
Tomorrow, he would cry in class again.
He would stumble.
He would disappoint.
But tonight—
Lucien Arvayne understood one thing with absolute clarity.
The mask was working.
And beneath it, something vast had begun to stir.