My name is Mary J. Holst. I serve as a maid in Tender Castle, the royal residence of King Henry and Queen Ester of Drakseid. I was among the finest maids in the castle, and my diligence earned me a coveted position as one of Queen Ester's personal attendants. When she became pregnant, she entrusted me with her care, a responsibility I carried with deep devotion.
On a warm afternoon, shortly after lunch, the queen went into labor. The moment the news reached me, I sprang into action, ensuring everything was prepared. The midwives hurried in, the royal physician stood ready, and I remained by her side, wiping the sweat from her brow, whispering reassurances even as my own heart pounded.
"My queen, you are strong," I murmured. "Everything will be well."
Queen Ester clenched my hand, her determination unwavering. Moments later, after an agonizing but mercifully smooth labor, the sound of silence filled the chamber. The child had been delivered, yet no cries came. Panic gripped us.
"Why isn't he crying?" one of the maids gasped.
Before fear could take hold, the doctor quickly declared, "Rest assured, the child is alive—he's simply asleep. Cases like this are rare but not uncommon among royal birth. It's simply one of the signs of a man destined for greatness."
A wave of relief washed over the room. The midwife swiftly cleaned the newborn before handing him to me. I cradled the tiny boy, his delicate features peaceful, and his chest rising and falling with soft breaths. With a smile, I turned to the exhausted but radiant queen.
"Your Highness," I said, my voice thick with emotion, "the heavens have blessed you with a handsome and healthy son."
A luminous smile spread across Queen Ester's face, so full of warmth and joy that it nearly brought me to tears.
The doors swung open, and King Henry strode in. His eyes fell upon the child, and for a moment, he was speechless. Then, as if the realization had only just struck him, his face lit up with unrestrained happiness.
"I am a father now!" he exclaimed, almost laughing. "A son—my son!"
The weight of all their struggles, their patience, and their love had culminated in this moment. The prince was their reward.
The following day, the castle brimmed with celebration. Nobles, ministers, and honored guests gathered for the grand naming ceremony. As tradition dictated, the newborn was officially declared Crown Prince of Drakseid. To everyone's amusement, Minister Josh, a man of great wisdom and prestige, was appointed the child's godfather. He appeared more jubilant than even the king and queen, his usual composure momentarily forgotten.
Then, amidst the joy and festivity, Queen Ester made a decision that changed my life forever. She placed the prince under my care.
I was stunned. "Your Majesty, I am unworthy of such an honor. There are others far more suited than I."
But the queen shook her head, her expression resolute. "Mary, you are kind, diligent, and just. I want my son to be guided by someone with your heart."
I swallowed hard. "But, my queen, you are the kindest and most beloved person I know. I pale in comparison."
Her hand clasped mine gently. "I trust you more than anyone, Mary. Will you do this for me?"
Tears welled in my eyes as I knelt before her. "I will, Your Highness. With all my heart."
At that moment, I vowed to dedicate myself to the young prince, to raise and protect him as if he were my own. And so, my journey as his guardian began.
At that moment, I vowed to dedicate myself to the young prince—to raise and protect him as if he were my own. And so, my journey as his guardian began.
But I was in for one wild ride.
From the very beginning, it was clear that he wasn't like any other child. There was something about him—an aura unlike any infant I had ever seen. Taking care of him was easy, almost too easy. He rarely cried, only doing so when he was hungry or needed changing. But what stood out the most was how aware he was. Sometimes, it even seemed like he was trying to speak.
Even as a baby, I could sense a thirst for knowledge, wisdom, and power within him. He absorbed his surroundings with an eerie intensity, watching us—truly watching us—as if studying everything we did.
At just six months old, he spoke his first words. The king and queen were overjoyed when he called them "Mama" and "Papa." I found it a little strange—babies usually babble for much longer before forming clear words. But before I could dwell on it, he turned to me two days later and uttered, "Ma-rig."
He was learning at an astonishing pace.
By seven months, he could walk. By eight months, he was speaking in phrases. His development was unlike anything I had ever witnessed.
Yet, for all his brilliance, there was one anomaly—he had no manna.
This puzzled everyone. A lot of the masses do not possess manna but both the king and queen possessed strong magical abilities, and manna was typically passed down through bloodlines. The royal physicians examined him extensively, yet they could not explain why the prince had none.
It was troubling, but the young prince himself seemed unbothered. He simply smiled and carried on with his innocent days, showing no distress over the matter.
In truth, he was the easiest child to care for. He never caused trouble, never threw tantrums, and obeyed every instruction without complaint. Occasionally, he would insist on taking strolls with the king and queen, but beyond that, he was content.
Then came his first birthday.
The castle was filled with laughter and celebration. But that day marked something else—a shift in his behavior.
From that moment on, he spent most of his time in the library.
At first, I thought he simply enjoyed the quiet, but then I noticed something baffling—he could read and write flawlessly.
No one had ever taught him.
One day, curiosity got the better of me, and I asked, "Young prince, where did you learn to read and write?"
He looked up from a thick tome and answered with a simple, matter-of-fact tone.
"I taught myself. It wasn't difficult. The words you speak match the letters written here."
I stared at him, speechless. A one-year-old had just explained the concept of language acquisition as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
By the time he was three, he had devoured every book in the royal library—history, myths, legends, magic, sciences, philosophy. Anything that had been written, he absorbed.
And yet, he was no frail scholar. He was faster, stronger, and sharper than most children his age. Every afternoon, after finishing his studies, he ran through the castle grounds, playing and training.
What truly caught my attention, however, was his swordsmanship.
His movements were unlike anything I had ever seen. His strikes carried both elegance and power, yet his technique was nothing like the traditional Drakseid sword style. Every motion was deliberate, refined, and practiced with a precision that no ordinary child could possess. Even the Commander-in-Chief of the army took notice, often observing the young prince in silence, as if trying to decipher the mystery behind his swordplay.
Eventually, he began mingling with children much older than him, yet he still stood out—outperforming them in every way.
This was no ordinary child.
And deep down, I knew… this was only the beginning.
The young prince was now more active than ever.
No longer was he just a quiet observer—he engaged. He spoke with refined scholars and merchants, discussing matters far beyond his years—trade, politics, state affairs. It was almost surreal, watching such a young boy hold conversations that even seasoned noblemen struggled with.
Even Queen Ester, wise and composed, often found herself at the mercy of her son's relentless curiosity and sharp wit. Yet, she welcomed it. In fact, she delighted in it, indulging him in long discussions and teaching him the intricacies of politics and economics. She looked truly happy, her eyes shining with pride as she guided her son through the vast world of knowledge.
The prince did not stop there.
He frequently observed his father at work, standing quietly by the throne as King Henry presided over the royal court. He watched how decrees were issued, how nobles and officials presented their grievances, how diplomacy and governance shaped the kingdom's future.
But what astounded me the most was what he did afterward.
Each day, without fail, he would read the newly recorded scrolls of court proceedings—as if committing every decision, every argument, and every outcome to memory.
It was as if he was preparing for something.
Something far greater than any of us could imagine.
I had cared for many children in the royal nursery, but the crown prince was unlike any I have ever seen. Even as an infant, his eyes followed everything with eerie precision. As he grew, he absorbed knowledge at an unnatural rate—reading, writing, history, and mathematics all mastered within mere months. While other children played, he observed. While others spoke their minds without thought, he measured every word.
At first, I thought it was a sign of brilliance. The queen, proud of her son's intelligence, often said he was destined for greatness. But as the years passed, my admiration gave way to unease.
One evening, as I lingered outside the royal study, carrying a tray of tea. I knew the prince often spent late hours poring over military texts and philosophical treatises, far beyond the comprehension of most adults. I peeked inside, expecting to find him engrossed in a book.
Instead, he was standing in the center of the dimly lit room, eyes closed, speaking softly to himself. His voice was barely above a whisper, yet the words—sharp, methodical—chilled me. It wasn't the playful muttering of a child, but the calculated analysis of a strategist.
"The enemy expects a head-on assault... which is why their flanks must collapse first. No escape. No survivors."
My breath caught in my throat. The cold precision in his voice sent a shiver down my spine. I knew he reads war manuals, but this… this was something else. It was as if he wasn't learning from the past—he was anticipating the future.
A floorboard creaked beneath my foot.
The prince's eyes snapped open.
I froze. The room was dim, but I could see his gaze locked onto me. Not startled. Not surprised. As if he had known I was there all along.
"Mary," he said calmly, a faint smile curling his lips. "Is something wrong?"
I forced a shaky breath and stepped inside. "I… I brought your tea, Your Highness."
He nodded, watching me closely as I placed the tray down. I kept my hands steady, but my mind was racing. The warmth of the tea felt distant compared to the cold knot forming in my stomach.
I lowered my head in a slight bow. "Goodnight, Your Highness."
Turning quickly, I hurried toward the door. My heart pounding. I need to speak to the queen. I need to tell someone that the prince—brilliant, unreadable, and far too aware for his years—was not normal.
Just as I reached for the handle, his voice stopped me.
"Mary."
I turned slowly, dread creeping up my spine.
"Yes, young lord. Is something the matter?"
The prince stood by the desk, his expression unreadable. Then, ever so slightly, he tilted his head. His smile was still there, but his eyes held something else. Something knowing.
"Thank you," he said softly. "For everything."
My throat went dry.
I forced a smile, nodded, and left as quickly as dignity allowed.
As the door clicked shut behind me, I exhaled sharply, my hands trembling.
I had to warn the queen.
But deep inside, I wondered—
Did he already know?
Any how I needed some evidence for the king and queen to see.
The next evening, as the prince was bathing. I skimmed through the documents he had been writing—pages upon pages of carefully drawn diagrams and meticulous notes. My hands trembled as I flipped through them.
What I saw shocked me to my core.
Detailed military training regimens.
Blueprints of armor and weaponry—some made of bronze, others with designs so foreign they seemed otherworldly.
Complex war strategies, supply chain logistics, siege weapon designs, troop formations, battle records…
This was no mere child's imagination.
This was the mind of a war master—someone who had seen battle, studied war, and understood it in a way no five-year-old ever could.
I felt a chill crawl down my spine.
"This isn't normal. This isn't right," I whispered, clutching the documents tightly. My heart pounded as a terrible realization settled in.
I thought I knew him.
I thought he was simply a bright child—a prodigy, perhaps, but still just a child.
But now… now, I wasn't sure anymore.
Fear stirred deep inside me. An ominous, unshakable dread.
I needed to tell someone. The queen. The king. Anyone.
Gathering the documents, I turned on my heels, ready to rush out of the room.
But my escape was cut off.
Standing at the doorway, blocking my path, was the crown prince.
Dressed in nothing but a bathrobe, his red damp hair clung to his forehead, water still dripping from the ends. In his small hands, he held his wooden training sword—the one he always used for practice.
And his brown eyes…
His eyes held no anger. No fear. No childish confusion.
Only calm awareness.
As if he had been expecting this moment all along.
"Well, what now?" I thought to myself.