Andras woke to sunlight spilling through the thick curtains, warm and slow like syrup sliding across marble. For a few precious seconds, he lingered between waking and dreaming, eyes half-closed as the golden light pressed gently against his skin. His hair stuck up in every direction and his shirt had twisted around him during the night. A yawn slipped from his lips, soft and unguarded.
When his senses finally stirred, he reached for the braided rope beside his bed and tugged it once. The faint bell echoed through the corridors, the familiar signal that the young master was ready to begin his morning.
A short while later, a cluster of maids entered with muffled steps. Their movements were coordinated from years of serving noble households. Andras shifted to sit at the edge of the bed, toes curling against the cool floor. A maid knelt smoothly and placed slippers before his feet, adjusting them so his heel slid in without resistance.
The boy rubbed sleep from one eye and let another yawn escape. Two girls gently removed his nightshirt and loose trousers, their hands quick and respectful. Others tended to his bed, smoothing out each crease until the sheets lay untouched, as though no boy had ever slept there.
The curtains were drawn back, one tie at a time, and the morning brightened the room until everything glowed faintly. His butler stood beside him, silent yet attentive, waiting for the first instruction of the day.
"I do not want to attend my morning lessons," Andras said in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone.
Instead of reacting immediately, the butler merely bowed his head and followed as the young master made his way to the adjoining bath chamber. There, warm steam rose from the waiting pool, perfumed faintly with lavender and milk. A team of attendants slipped inside behind him, preparing cloths, oils, and towels.
As Andras lowered himself into the water, his butler stepped closer, keeping his posture deferential yet steady. "May I ask why, my Lord?" he said, voice lowered in courtesy.
Andras tilted his head back, gazing at the window where light filtered through frosted glass. "I want to spend time with my mother."
There was a quiet pause. The only sounds were splashes of water and the rustle of linen. The butler's expression softened briefly, then returned to neutral calm.
"Her Grace is occupied with preparations for the tea party today," he explained gently. "She has quite a number of matters to see to."
Attendants rinsed Andras' hair and lifted him from the bath before the warmth could linger too long. Towels wrapped around him instantly, drying him in careful, practiced motions.
"Then I shall speak with her in whatever time she can spare," Andras replied as he stepped onto the cool tiles. A faint crease formed between his brows. "My mother always spares me that much. Therefore, I will continue with the schedule as planned."
His irritation was subdued but present. It simmered beneath the surface. The reality was bitter: his siblings roamed and laughed freely while he lived under an endless line of obligations. The heir must not waste time. The heir must not wander. The heir must not falter.
Once dressed in his undergarments and an initial layer of clothing, he was guided back to his chambers where the butler resumed his recitation of the day's tutors.
"This morning will begin with Lord Bolluck… followed by Lord Kristof, Lord Mondieu and Lady Atyem—"
The rest blurred. Not into silence, but into a muted, distant hum. The maids' hands moved around him, adjusting buttons and laces, smoothing fabric over his shoulders. For a brief moment, everything felt too far away. Sound faded and then rushed back like a crashing wave. His breath caught sharply.
It had been happening more often lately.
His head felt hollow and light, his limbs too heavy. He steadied himself on a nearby chair without drawing attention.
"I will… go to my mother," he said, once his clarity returned. It came out more sudden than intended.
He didn't notice that he had interrupted the butler. Nor did he notice the ripple of anxiety swelling in the servants. Whenever he acted unpredictably, they assumed danger. The maid tying the ribbon at his collar fumbled and tightened it too quickly, almost choking him. Andras blinked in surprise rather than anger, but she dropped to an apologetic bow.
He felt a prick of unease. This is not right, he thought. They fear too easily.
But a master did not explain himself to servants. That was the rule. That was his upbringing. So he tucked the concern away like he always did.
Once fully dressed, he passed the tall mirror without sparing it a glance. Of course he would look proper. His mother's stylist had chosen the attire. He doubted anything could make him look less than presentable. Even rags, he believed smugly, might still fall gracefully on him.
He was aware of the arrogance, but made no effort to suppress it.
His steps quickened as he moved through the estate's corridors. Chandeliers glittered above him, windows cast shifting patterns across the marble floor, and servants bowed as he passed. His butler followed silently, adjusting his pace to match the boy's urgency.
Andras was chasing answers. He had not slept soundly after hearing his parents the night before. Their voices, hushed but cutting, had seeped through the walls. Their distance had grown over the months, subtle at first, then unmistakable.
Because of the war outside, he had told himself again and again. Surely that was it. Surely.
He did not want to believe there was more.
When he reached the doors of his mother's chambers, the knight guarding them bowed deeply and knocked. "Lord Andras, my Lady."
A moment passed. Then: "Let him in."
Andras stepped through with a smile he crafted with care, polished like a gemstone. "Good day, Mother." He kissed her gloved hand lightly.
"Good morrow, my dear," Trivinia answered, pride softening her features. Only then did she notice the tension in his shoulders.
Her gaze sharpened just a touch. "What is it that you need, my love?"
As Andras looked around the room, he noticed catalogues spread over the table, fabrics draped over a couch, jars of tea leaves arranged neatly on a trolley. So the butler had told the truth; she was deeply occupied.
"Were you busy? I hope I did not disturb you," he said, a hint of worry slipping through.
"No," she said, smiling with more warmth now. "Not at all."
He stepped closer, brows lifting as he eyed the mountain of catalogues. "Are my eyes failing me then?" His tone held a playful lilt. He picked up one of the books and flipped it open.
A quiet laugh escaped her. "Your eyes are perfectly fine."
Silence settled over them, the comfortable kind. But beneath it, Andras felt unease stirring again. He hesitated. He shifted the catalog in his hands. He looked older for a moment, older than any eleven-year-old should.
Finally he spoke. "May the servants leave us for a moment?"
Trivinia glanced at her handmaid. With a series of small bows, the room emptied until only mother and son remained. She placed her catalog down and looked at him directly.
"Has your father done something again? It is barely the day."
Her voice carried the weight of long, tiring years. Andras swallowed.
"I hope you stop worrying about me," he began. "And whatever happens between you and Father should remain between you two. The same with your conversations."
"Andras…" she murmured.
He set the catalog on the table to still his trembling fingers. "I do not want either of you arguing over me. It feels terrible when the people I look up to quarrel because of me."
Trivinia's expression softened with a sad tenderness. She took his hand gently between both of hers. He felt the warmth of her touch, the tremble she tried to hide.
"Oh, love. Your father and I would never argue because of you or your siblings."
He gave a small smile that failed to reach his eyes. Something twisted in his chest, something he could not name. Her words rang false, and though he was too young to articulate it, disappointment settled quietly inside him.