Two months bled into three within the damp stone walls of Greystone Lodge. Outside, the vibrant green of late spring deepened into the full, heavy emerald of summer, the Whisperwood growing even more impenetrable. Inside, a rhythm of sorts had settled, a monotonous drumbeat of supervised meals, enforced quiet hours, and the ever-present, watchful eyes of Malrik's keepers.
To them, nothing had changed. Lord Malrik remained the frail, silent boy who had arrived, his movements slow, his gaze distant. He ate sparingly, offered no complaints or requests, and followed the minimal instructions given to him with an unnerving, passive obedience. The servants' initial apprehension had softened into a weary pity.
"Poor lamb," Helga murmured to Lyra one chilly evening as they prepared Malrik's room for the night. "Sits by the window all day, just looking out. Never a word."
Lyra shivered slightly, pulling a worn blanket tighter around her shoulders. "It's the quiet that gets me. Not natural, is it? A child his age..."
Tomas, wiping flour from his hands in the kitchen, often sighed deeply when discussing the boy. "Hardly touches his food. Wasted away, he is. And Sir Kaelen so strict with him, too. As if the poor lord could cause any trouble."
Sir Kaelen maintained his stern vigil, though even he seemed to find the duty increasingly tedious. Malrik was, outwardly, the picture of docile helplessness. The knight's reports back to the main estate would be brief and consistent: 'Lord Malrik remains quiet. No incidents to report. Health appears stable, albeit delicate.'
What none of them saw, what none of them could see, was the true activity that unfolded once the Lodge settled into its nightly hush.
The narrow window in Malrik's room, seemingly a perch for passive observation, became his egress. Under the cloak of deep night, while Sir Kaelen slept soundly in his chamber and the servants snored in their attic rooms, Malrik moved. Not with the clumsy stealth of a child, but with the liquid grace of a shadow detaching itself from the wall. He was small, yes, but also unnervingly agile when he chose to be.
He did not venture far at first, remaining within the Lodge's immediate, overgrown grounds. Here, where the ancient stones met the encroaching forest, the wild magic was strongest. He would find secluded spots behind crumbling garden walls or beneath the heavy boughs of ancient pines.
His training was brutal and self-directed. The theoretical knowledge gleaned from forbidden texts in the Duke's library was his only guide. He began with mana resonance, the most fundamental yet often overlooked discipline. It wasn't about casting spells, but about feeling and shaping the raw energy itself. He'd spend hours in the darkness, eyes closed, focusing inward and outward, reaching for the ambient mana, feeling its flow, its texture – here thick and earthy, there thin and sharp as pine needles.
(Internal Monologue: Kaelen measures vigilance in drawn swords and locked doors. He does not comprehend the true perimeters of power. This forest, this Lodge... they are not barriers, but conduits. The mana here is potent, untamed by generations of civilized use. It answers to focus, not lineage.)
Shadow weaving was next. Not creating light constructs, like the flashy mages at court, but manipulating existing shadows. It was a subtle art, working with absence rather than presence. He started small – making his own shadow deepen and writhe, causing the shadows under bushes to stretch and contort. He discovered he could draw the scant moonlight into pockets of deeper darkness, creating perfect, localized voids of invisibility.
(Internal: The maids fret about drafts and chills. They don't realize I can pull the very light from the air around me, weaving cloaks of night they would walk right through. Their fear of the dark is a weapon I will learn to wield.)
The most taxing was soul-threading, a technique whispered about in hushed tones even in the darkest magical circles. It involved reaching out, not with mana, but with the barest tendrils of his own consciousness, subtly influencing the perceptions and emotions of others. He practiced on the sleeping servants first, implanting faint, harmless suggestions – a pleasant dream for Helga, a sudden craving for sweet rolls for Tomas.
(Internal: Father sought to control me with disappointment and distance. Elian with mockery. Kaelen with rules. They all rely on external constraints. They cannot fathom influence that bypasses the will, that plants its roots directly in the mind. A subtle nudge, a carefully placed doubt... far more effective than any shouted command.)
He returned to his room before dawn, carefully closing the window, brushing away any stray leaves or dirt. He would rearrange the blankets to appear undisturbed, settle back into his bed, and wait for the Lodge to awaken, resuming the role of the silent, frail boy. The physical toll of the training was immense, his slight body aching, his mind buzzing with exhaustion and the aftereffects of mana manipulation. He looked genuinely tired and weak during the day, which only reinforced the others' assumptions.
He knew they spoke of him, their hushed voices carrying through the thin walls.
"He seems weaker today, doesn't he?"
"A bad night, maybe. This damp doesn't help him."
Kaelen would grunt, observing Malrik impassively over breakfast. "Keep an eye on him. Report any change."
Malrik would meet the knight's gaze with his customary blankness, his internal thoughts a stark contrast to the placid mask.
(Internal: Report any change, Sir Kaelen? Oh, change is happening. Just not the kind you are equipped to perceive.)
Two months. Eighty nights of tireless, unseen work. The frail boy was still there, a perfect shell. But beneath the surface, in the shadowed corners of Greystone Lodge and the whispering depths of the wood, something was stirring, growing stronger, patiently waiting for its moment. They thought they had sent him away to fade. They had only sent him away to flourish.