Two years ground past—grit and dust piling up like snow in the drill hall corners, coating the beams in a gray shroud that dulled the flickering torchlight.
Raizen grunted, arms trembling under the pull-up bar's creak, hands blistered raw—red welts splitting where calluses cracked, sweat dripping off his nose onto the scratched stone floor, splattering in dark, uneven dots that mingled with faded stains of effort.
Twelve now, legs longer, frame still lean but tougher—muscles taut under his patched shirt, seams fraying where he'd stretched the fabric, patches stitched clumsy over holes worn thin by relentless drills.
The regimen hadn't let up—hundreds of push-ups 'til his shoulders burned sharp, sit-ups 'til his gut knotted tight, laps around the hall 'til his soles ached through cracked boots, leaving faint scuffs on the stone.
Kezess's voice barked counts in his head—cold, relentless, a whip cracking without pause, driving him deeper into the ache of his stretching bones, puberty nudging his frame toward a taller shadow he'd claim by 13.
The marquessate festered—dust thick on the sills, beams sagging lower with each groan of the wind, servants whispering of lean harvests behind cupped hands, their eyes darting like rats in the gloom.
Viridian's study grew quieter—his quill faltered now, scratching slower, hands trembling faint over yellowing maps, a cough rasping wet and weak from his chest more often than before. Raizen noticed it in stolen glances—Viridian's skin sallow, eyes yellowing at the edges, a man shrinking into his chair like the manor around him.
Teriel's glares sharpened—her presence heavier, her skirts swishing with purpose, her voice carrying a smug edge Raizen couldn't pin down. Ryan's visits dwindled—stolen in quick, nervous bursts, his scarf trailing like a flag of retreat under her watch.
Raizen trained under Viscount Ricardo now—a wiry man, sharp-eyed, graying at the temples, voice rough but steady, a soldier's bark tempered by years of teaching. His son, Helios, eleven, trailed him—sandy-haired, quick with a lopsided grin, the first kid to call Raizen friend.
They'd sparred in the courtyard—sticks clacking sharp, Helios's laugh ringing loud as he ducked Raizen's swings, trading dirt and bruises 'til Teriel's shadow loomed from the upper windows, silencing them with a single glare.
"You're wasting time," Kezess slithered, red eyes glinting as Raizen dropped from the bar, boots thudding heavy—breath huffing loud, echoing off the stone like a bellows stoking a forge. "Still their punching bag—pathetic, dragging those legs like they'll carry you anywhere worth going."
A crash broke through—sharp, brittle—echoing from the manor's west wing, a sound like glass shattering on stone.
Raizen bolted—hall blurring past, boots slipping on worn patches—skidding into the main corridor, servants milling chaotic, voices overlapping loud and shrill.
"The dining hall—someone smashed the good plates!" a maid yelped, hands wringing her apron 'til it twisted—Teriel stormed in, eyes blazing like twin coals, pinning Raizen like a hawk on a mouse too slow to run.
"You," she snarled, voice raw—striding close, looming over him, skirts swishing like a storm tearing through dry grass. "This has your stink all over it—clumsy, reckless little wretch, always breaking what's mine, leaving your filth everywhere."
"I wasn't even there—" Raizen started, voice cracking high—Teriel's hand shot up, not a slap but a finger jabbing an inch from his face, trembling with fury, nail sharp like it'd gouge him. "Don't you dare," she hissed, breath hot and sour, eyes wild with something unhinged. "Your noise, your filth—skulking around like a rat, ruining everything I've kept clean—I won't have it under my roof."
Servants stared—some smirking behind their hands, some shifting uneasy on creaking floorboards—as Raizen's fists clenched, knuckles whitening, that spark Kezess kept poking flaring hot in his chest, burning up his throat like bile.
"Mother, stop!" Ryan darted in—small, freckled, shoving between them—Teriel's finger dropped, eyes widening a flicker, caught off guard.
"It wasn't Rai—I saw Cook's boy trip with the tray, rushing too fast!" Ryan's voice shook, high and thin—Teriel's face twisted, shoving him back with a sharp push, hands rough on his narrow shoulders.
"Quiet, you fool—don't cover for him!" she snapped, voice cutting like a blade through cloth—Ryan stumbled, scarf slipping loose, trailing on the floor like a broken tether. Viridian appeared—cold, silent—watching from the doorway, quill still in hand, green eyes flat and unblinking, a statue carved from ice that didn't melt under the chaos, his cough rasping faint, a wet rattle Raizen couldn't unhear.
Later—room dark, bird figurine dusty on the table—Raizen sat, fists tight, Kezess's words gnawing deeper, a cold claw raking his insides. Another life—power, blood—true or not, this wasn't his place, never had been.
Plates or not, they'd always see him as the mess—something to sweep out, to curse at. Viridian's cough echoed in his head—weak, wet—Teriel's venom, her "sorting" hint from years back, a thread he couldn't pull yet.
One more year—13, taller, stronger—he'd leave, gates be damned, this rotting husk of a manor behind him. "I'm done," he muttered, voice hard, cutting through the stillness—resolve settling, cold and sharp, a kid's eyes turning steel in the shadows, glinting against the dark like a blade half-forged, waiting for its edge.