"Uncle! Wake up!"
Benjamin jolted awake, disoriented. His fingers brushed damp skin—tears. A nightmare. The terror still clung to him, cold and suffocating.
"You were talking in your sleep," Sammy murmured.
Benjamin met his nephew's solemn gaze, stiffening at the unspoken pity. He exhaled, pushing aside his unease. "How long?"
"It's dark now."
Too long.
"Mrs. Alexandria and Ayana came by," Sammy added. "They told me not to wake you." A pause. "Michael's back."
Benjamin stilled. Michael. Here.
Shaking off the weight of sleep, he stood. "Even the maids conspire against me now?"
Sammy almost smiled.
Benjamin ruffled his hair. "Come on. Let's go see your brother."
Together, they stepped into the moonlit night, the towering castle waiting in silence ahead.
…
Benjamin carried Sammy up the winding staircase, the boy's small weight unfamiliar yet oddly grounding. The stone steps whispered beneath his boots, the silence broken only by Sammy's slow, steady breaths. He had fallen asleep, clinging to Benjamin in a way that felt strangely natural.
At the upper floor, a young maid waited, surprise flickering in her eyes before she bowed.
"Good evening, sir. I trust the young master enjoyed his time with you?"
Benjamin smirked. "Seems he did."
As he passed Sammy into her arms, the boy stirred, mumbling, "Uncle… don't worry. Everything will be fine… The gods will protect Father…"
Benjamin stiffened. The words sat heavy in his chest.
Brushing a curl from Sammy's forehead, he murmured, "Let's hope so."
"Shall I take him to bed, milord?" the maid asked.
He nodded. "…Michael. Is he awake?"
"No, milord. He told the housekeeper he was exhausted and didn't want to be disturbed."
Benjamin sighed. "Fine. Tell Mrs. Alexandria I expect him at breakfast."
"I'll see to it."
With a final bow, she disappeared into the dim corridor, Sammy cradled in her arms. Benjamin lingered for a moment before heading to his chambers.
Collapsing into a chair, he exhaled, rubbing his temples. "Gods… ice elves, dragons…" The dream clung to him like mist, refusing to fade.
What did it mean
…
Meanwhile, across the castle, Michael sat in a high-backed chair beside the coffee table, his bedchamber bathed in flickering candlelight. The castle's magic stones, ever-responsive to sunlight, offered no true darkness—so he refused them. He needed the night to feel like night.
With a sigh, he set aside a worn leather book and reached for the porcelain teapot. Steam curled into the air as he stirred his tea absently, the soft chime of silver against porcelain barely breaking the silence. He took a slow sip, savoring the warmth, then placed the cup down with a quiet clink.
He had been sitting there for hours, lost in thought.
His father's summons had been expected. But Benjamin? No. The Supreme Commander of the Centarious Army had never cared for politics—never cared for him or Samuel. If he was here, there was only one explanation.
The war was ending.
Michael's grip tightened on the armrest.
"I won't let that happen."
Exhaling slowly, he leaned back, his eyes tracing the shifting shadows around him. Without the war, his choices would be made for him. His future, his duty, his role—chains, all of them.
For most people—peasants, merchants, nobles, even the emperor himself—this decade-long war between the North and South was a nightmare. But for Michael? It was a blessing in disguise. As long as the war raged on, he could remain in Theos, far from the suffocating expectations of his noble lineage. If peace broke out, he'd be caged. Not in a prison of iron bars, but of duty, expectations, and tradition.
Not that his time in Theos had been a vacation. The Duke of the North had tried to kill him forty-three times. Forty-three. Apparently, just breathing in the same world as Michael was enough to send the man into a murderous frenzy. In response, his father—whether out of genuine concern or sheer exhaustion—had finally allowed him to leave for Theos, something Michael had begged for three years ago. Of course, there was a catch: a glorified babysitter in the form of Sir Luminath, his ever-watchful knight.
Still, freedom was freedom.
But now, if the war ended, all of it—his hard-won independence, his precious escape from the suffocating walls of the castle—would become nothing more than a fleeting memory.
And at seventeen, he wasn't ready to give that up just yet.
Then, the thought hit him like a lightning bolt:
"I won't allow this idiotic war to end."
His mind began to spin, crafting ideas—wild ideas—that would keep the conflict between the Centarious and Asterlis families simmering, all without triggering a full-blown genocide. After all, like any other teenage boy, Michael didn't exactly mind if millions died—as long as it went his way.
Three schemes quickly took shape in his head:
1- Kidnap Norra Asterlis, the youngest daughter of the Northern Duke, who just happened to be studying in Theos, same as Michael. With Sir Luminath's help, it would be the perfect method. Sneaky, effective, and thoroughly underhanded.
2-Attack their food trade routes through the Eastern Barony with the help of his uncle. Or, better yet, make an alliance with the elves of Old Elvaria. Sure, it'd probably fail spectacularly, but the Northerners would lose their minds upon discovering that someone from the South was aiding their ancient enemies. That alone would be enough to stir up the conflict.
3- The easiest option: spread a bad rumor about the Northern ruling family or publicly humiliate them at one of the Imperial gatherings. Simple, direct—and Michael could do it himself.
As he smirked at the brilliance of his plans, a sudden knock on the door interrupted his musings.
Knock. Knock.
Michael groaned, his fingers drumming against the armrest in frustration. "What now?" he muttered, forcing himself to wipe the smirk off his face before calling out, "Come in."
The door creaked open, and in walked Joan—a young woman with chestnut-brown hair, dark eyes, and pale skin. Dressed in the traditional estate maid's uniform, she carried a porcelain teapot with practiced grace. Approaching where Michael sat, she offered a polite bow and spoke in a soft, measured voice.
"Good evening, young master. I've brought your tea. Is there anything else you require?"
Michael cut in before she could finish. "Ah, good thing you asked. I almost forgot—bring me the nutmeg powder too. I like to change the flavor sometimes."
This was the twelfth time tonight he had deliberately given her an unnecessary task. It was a game—a test. He wanted to see just how far he could push her, how much she would endure before she snapped and complained to Mrs. Alexandra, the head maid. Normally, the others lasted until the eighth request before giving up and sending Alexandra to deal with him personally. Yet Joan had reached twelve. A new maid record.
That alone piqued his curiosity.
Why was she still following his demands without a hint of frustration? Why hadn't she folded like the others? Even though it was late, and exhaustion from his journey gnawed at him, Michael refused to sleep. He had to see how this played out.
To his surprise, Joan's lips curled into a small, knowing smile.
"By your will, young master," she said smoothly before turning on her heel and walking toward the massive double doors.
Michael blinked. Wait. What?
Was she insane? After hours of pointless tasks, she was still smiling? He couldn't wrap his head around it. Was she simply too stubborn? Too obedient? Or was there something else at play?
Shaking off the thought, he poured himself a cup of tea and took a slow sip. Then another.
By the third sip, his vision blurred.
His hand trembled as he set the cup down. A quiet chuckle bubbled up from his throat, then grew into a full, unhinged laugh.
"You truly are interesting, Joan. My lovely new maid."
Still grinning, he staggered to his feet, took a few slow steps toward the door, and locked it.
Then, without another word, he collapsed to the floor