The Sound of Distant Cannons
War had a sound.
Not the clash of swords.
Not the scream of men.
Those were close sounds.
War's real sound was distant.
It rolled over hills like a coming storm — deep, restrained, patient.
The cannons beyond the western ridge had been speaking since dawn.
Aurelian stood at the tall window of the Vale estate and counted between the tremors.
One…
Two…
Three…
There.
A faint shake in the glass.
They were firing rhythmically today.
He rested his forehead lightly against the cold surface and watched smoke thread upward beyond the forests.
His father preferred artillery.
It meant fewer men lost in direct charge.
It meant cleaner reports.
It meant victory felt organized.
Behind him, boots struck polished marble floors.
"You shouldn't stand so close to the window."
Aurelian didn't turn.
"If the enemy wished to hit the manor, the glass would not save me."
A pause.
The maid exhaled softly.
"You speak too calmly for someone whose province is being invaded."
He smiled faintly at that.
"My province?"
She hesitated.
"…Your father's."
There it was.
Correction.
Aurelian turned now.
The maid immediately lowered her gaze. Not out of discipline.
Out of instinct.
He noticed it. He always did.
People adjusted when looking at him.
Some stiffened.
Some softened.
Some avoided looking altogether.
He'd stopped asking why years ago.
"I apologize," she said quickly. "Lord Vale is requesting your presence at midday."
That was unusual.
His father did not summon him unless necessary.
"Is it about the western line?"
"Yes."
Aurelian nodded and walked past her.
When he did, she stepped aside a fraction too quickly.
Almost reverent.
He disliked that more than fear.
The dining hall smelled faintly of ink and metal.
Maps covered the entire long table. Pushpins marked troop movements in tight formation patterns.
Lord Caedric Vale stood at the far end like a carved statue of iron.
Broad-shouldered.
Scar across his jaw.
Uniform immaculate.
When he looked up and saw his son enter, something unreadable flickered behind his eyes.
Not affection.
Not pride.
Concern.
"Aurelian."
His name in that voice sounded like a foreign word.
"You called for me, Father?"
Caedric studied him.
As if searching for something that never quite appeared.
"The eastern noble houses are requesting alliance marriages," Caedric said bluntly. "They believe a unifying bond may stabilize the interior."
Aurelian listened without interrupting.
"They've expressed… interest."
The word was sharp.
"In me?" Aurelian asked calmly.
A muscle in Caedric's jaw tightened.
"Yes."
Silence stretched.
Cannons thundered faintly in the distance again.
"You will not marry them," Caedric said suddenly, firm.
That caught Aurelian off guard.
"The interior houses are circling weakness," his father continued. "I will not offer them leverage."
Leverage.
So that was what he was.
Not a son.
Not a symbol.
A bargaining piece.
Aurelian folded his hands loosely.
"And what would you prefer instead, Father?"
Caedric stepped closer.
For a moment, the man who had faced battlefields without blinking seemed almost… uncertain.
"You will remain here," he said at last. "Out of sight."
Out of sight.
Because even his own father understood something dangerous:
In a war-torn world, beauty was not harmless.
It shifted negotiations.
It bent tempers.
It made powerful men hesitate.
And hesitation could reshape battles.
That night, Aurelian returned to his room as cannons finally fell silent.
He lit a single lamp.
Sat at his desk.
And opened the war reports his father believed he never read.
He traced troop movements with slender fingers.
Counted supply lines.
Noted morale estimates.
If he was going to be treated like leverage…
He might as well understand what he was leveraged for.
Outside, soldiers marched.
Inside, a young man with no sword talent studied the war like a quiet scholar.
The world thought him delicate.
It would be interesting to see how long that misunderstanding lasted.