Four years ago, Alexander Smith's world felt like a shadow behind a silk curtain — whispers and conversations would fade when he entered a room, and his father would smile like a king but move like a predator. Now, the curtain was gone, and all that remained was the throne behind it.
Reginald Smith hadn't meant to reveal the truth to him—not at first. But secrets carry weight, and Alexander was starting to see the cracks in their fortress of a home, from the way people bowed too deeply to the watchful eyes of the men escorting them, who didn't quite fit their "chauffeur" roles.
Then one stormy night, Reginald sat him down in the east wing study, poured him a drink he wasn't technically old enough to have, and said, "You're not just my heir. You're the next hand on a crown that never shows its face."
Since then, the training has been relentless: weapons, strategy, diplomacy, languages, manipulation. Fencing at dawn, sparring until his bones screamed, psychological warfare taught by former interrogators. He learned how to hold a knife and smile at the same time. "There's no such thing as peace," his father told him. "Only delayed war." Alexander learned to wear suits like armour and secrets like cologne.
What he wasn't prepared for was the weight of emotion. It burned in his chest every time he looked at his baby brother — that small miracle with wisps of ash-blonde hair and Reginald's innocent eyes.
Most nights, Alexander stood by the nursery door, watching his mother sway softly with his baby brother against her shoulder, singing a tender Irish lullaby. He didn't want his brother to see the world as he did, which meant becoming a shield—the kind that breaks before it bends.
At Westdentia, Alexander moved with silent power. Students stared, and teachers nodded too politely.
Lester greeted him with a punch to the shoulder and a classic, "You look like a Bond villain." He smirked. "You say that like it's a bad thing." But inside, he felt on edge.
Everything felt like noise: that irritating Malvern chattering, the fake flattery from other elites, and the undercurrent of student politics. He noticed the new surveillance nodes embedded in the school's marble columns. Reginald had a hand in that. Of course, he did.
And then there was her: Leina Reinhardt. He hadn't expected her to change, but she had—taller, more composed, her eyes a shade deeper. She walked differently now—more grounded, less hesitant. She no longer avoided looking people in the eye.
She caught him off guard in the courtyard, smiling like she didn't know the war brewing beneath his skin. It rattled him. Worse, it felt wrong. Not because she wasn't beautiful, but because she was Lester's sister, young, and because he'd made a choice.
Vivianne Kilner was sharp and poised, the daughter of an international arms distributor with questionable morals but impeccable taste. She matched his energy in public, kissed him with perfect form, and never asked too many questions.
Their relationship worked; it was calculated like everything else in his life. But sometimes, when she leaned in close, his mind wandered—not to the curve of her lips but to Leina's laugh echoing faintly in the corridor. He hated that.
So he pulled away from Leina, offering cold glances, no words, no proximity. He let her believe he didn't care, because it was safer that way. Safer for her. Safer for him. And yet, on that day in the Crown Room, when he caught her watching him across the lecture hall, something inside his chest shifted.
It wasn't soft or romantic; it felt unforgiving, as if fate were mocking him.
Every night, while most students studied or partied, Alexander trained in the underground facility Reginald had built beneath one of their properties—a labyrinth of high-end equipment, shooting ranges, AI combat simulations, and locked files on international threats.
Tonight was no different. He stripped off his uniform jacket, his shirt clinging to his back from the sweat of earlier sparring. Blood stained the knuckles of his gloves. "Again," he muttered to the simulation console. The AI avatar reappeared—masked, armed, ruthless. Alexander fought like a man possessed, not for sport but for control.
When it ended, the avatar blinked out, and the silence rang louder than before. He dropped his gloves on the floor, breathing hard, his shoulders rising and falling in rhythm. He was good—too good now, and it scared him. "One day," Reginald had said, watching him train, "you'll be stronger than I ever was. That terrifies me—and it thrills me."
The next morning, Alexander stood at the school gates, hands in his pockets, watching the younger elites rush into Westdentia. He looked calm.
But beneath the black wool coat, the unreadable expression, and the precision-crafted posture was a boy trying to become a weapon.
Leina passed him, smiling awkwardly as she adjusted her bag. He didn't return the smile, but the moment her back was turned, his eyes lingered for longer than they should have.