Captain Henrik watched the last traces of magical energy fade from the crystal orb and felt his jaw clench with suppressed frustration. The ceremony was complete. The boy was bound. The elders had made their decision, and as always, it was his duty to enforce it regardless of his personal reservations.
But that didn't mean he had to like it.
Four months, he thought grimly. Four months of housing a walking security breach who could destroy everything we've built.
The mana oath was strong, certainly. Henrik had witnessed dozens of such bindings over his years of service, and he knew their power. But oaths could be broken by those with sufficient will or desperate circumstances, and this boy—this Aeon—had already proven himself capable of surviving situations that should have killed him.
What happened when desperation outweighed magical compulsion? What happened if his mysterious "infinity" attribute proved capable of countering their protective measures? What happened if the forces that had enslaved him came looking and found their hidden sanctuary in the process?
Too many variables. Too many unknowns.
Henrik glanced at the boy's face as he stepped back from the crystal. No relief, no gratitude, just the same calculating awareness that had unsettled him since the interrogation. This wasn't a rescued victim grateful for sanctuary—this was a survivor planning his next move. The distinction made all the difference in the world.
My daughter will be attending those same classes, Henrik realized with a chill. My wife walks these streets every day. My family's safety depends on the elders' judgment being correct.
But he was a soldier, trained from childhood to follow orders even when they conflicted with personal opinion. The council had deliberated, the decision had been made, and his role was execution rather than evaluation. That was the burden of duty—sometimes you had to enforce choices you disagreed with because the alternative was chaos.
"Captain Henrik will escort you to your quarters and explain the terms of your residence," Elder Miriam announced, her tone indicating the ceremony was concluded.
Henrik stepped forward with practiced professionalism, pushing his doubts into the mental compartment where soldiers stored inconvenient thoughts. "Follow me," he commanded, gesturing toward the chamber's exit.
The walk through Millhaven's evening streets was conducted in silence. Henrik noted how the boy's eyes tracked every detail of their route—memorizing building layouts, counting guard positions, identifying potential escape routes or defensive positions. The behavior was automatic, unconscious, and deeply concerning for someone who was supposedly seeking sanctuary rather than planning conflict.
He's mapping us, Henrik realized. Learning our patterns and weaknesses.
The quarters assigned to their unexpected guest were located in a residential section near the village center—close enough for easy observation, far enough from critical infrastructure to limit potential damage. A modest two-room apartment above the bakery, with a window that offered a view of the main square but could be easily watched from multiple positions.
"These will be your accommodations for the duration of your stay," Henrik announced as he unlocked the door. The rooms were clean and functional—a sleeping area with a simple bed, a sitting area with a desk and chair, access to a shared washroom down the hall. Not luxurious, but comfortable enough for someone whose alternative had been execution.
"You will be provided with meals, basic clothing, and access to certain community facilities," Henrik continued, his tone deliberately neutral. "However, your movements will be monitored, and certain areas of the village remain off-limits to you. A guard will check on your welfare twice daily."
The boy nodded his understanding but didn't speak. That calculating gaze was already assessing the room's layout, probably identifying weaknesses in the security arrangements.
He's already planning, Henrik thought with growing unease. Preparing for contingencies we haven't even considered.
"Starting tomorrow, you will attend classes with the village children," Henrik announced, watching carefully for the boy's reaction. "Your education appears to have been... neglected during your time in captivity. You will begin with basic instruction in reading and writing alongside our younger students."
For the first time since leaving the preparation chamber, something flickered across Aeon's features—surprise, perhaps, or mild amusement. It was gone too quickly to interpret, but it suggested the boy found the arrangement either unexpected or entertaining.
"Additionally," Henrik continued, "you will attend specialized classes with our newly awakened children—those who have recently manifested their attributes and are learning to control their abilities. This will serve the dual purpose of educating you about proper magical development while allowing our instructors to observe your own capabilities."
And giving us a chance to understand exactly what we're dealing with, he added mentally. Knowledge is the only defense against unknown threats.
"The classes begin at sunrise," Henrik said, moving toward the door. "A guard will escort you to the appropriate locations until you become familiar with the schedule. Do not attempt to deviate from your assigned activities or explore areas without supervision."
He paused at the threshold, looking back at the boy who had potentially doomed them all through the simple act of surviving long enough to wash up on their shores.
"Let me be clear about something," Henrik said quietly, dropping the formal tone in favor of direct honesty. "The elders have shown you mercy, but that mercy is conditional and temporary. Step out of line, give us reason to doubt your intentions, or pose any threat to this community's safety, and oath or no oath, you will be dealt with permanently."
The boy met his eyes steadily. "I understand, Captain. I have no intention of causing trouble."
That's what they all say, Henrik thought. Right up until they do.
"See that you don't," he replied, then stepped into the hallway and locked the door behind him.
As Henrik made his way back toward the guard station, he tried to push aside his growing certainty that the elders had just made a catastrophic mistake. The boy was dangerous—not because he was evil or malicious, but because he was competent, intelligent, and focused on survival above all other considerations.
Those were exactly the qualities that made someone capable of destroying everything in their path when circumstances forced their hand.
Four months, Henrik reminded himself. We just have to keep him contained and controlled for four months, then send him away before he can cause any real damage.
But even as he tried to convince himself that the timeline was manageable, Captain Henrik couldn't shake the feeling that they were trying to contain a force of nature with nothing more than good intentions and wishful thinking.
Some things couldn't be controlled, only endured.
And he had a sinking suspicion that Aeon was one of them.