The air in the Duke's Keep had been a tapestry of freedom for Elias. Months without the oppressive weight of Valerius's gaze had allowed his mind to soar, his small hands to painstakingly scratch Deistic truths onto forgotten parchment, his will to coax warmth and water from the very fabric of existence. But all such freedoms, he knew, were temporary. And on a brisk, overcast morning, a shadow fell across the sun-dappled courtyard.
A small retinue, cloaked in the familiar black and silver of the Montala Church, galloped into the Keep. At its head, grim-faced and still dressed in the somber, travel-stained attire of mourning, was Lord Valerius. His face, though thinner, seemed carved from flint, his eyes holding a cold, piercing intensity that belied any lingering grief. Elias, watching from a high window with a carefully blank expression, felt the familiar tightening in his chest. The hunt was back on.
Valerius wasted no time. Within hours of his arrival, he summoned Father Alaric and, pointedly, Elias. The familiar routine of lessons resumed, but the atmosphere was fundamentally altered. Valerius observed them like a falcon, his presence a palpable pressure in the room. He spoke little of his sister, Eliana, only a curt acknowledgment of her passing, then swiftly pivoted to the spiritual fortitude required in times of trial.
"The Church teaches us, Father Alaric," Valerius stated, his voice resonating with a renewed, almost zealous conviction, "that true faith is forged in the crucible of loss. It purifies, strengthens, reveals weakness." His gaze drifted, seemingly casually, to Elias. "Even the youngest among us can understand the necessity of unwavering devotion when faced with the harsh realities of Phelena's will."
Elias, seated on a low stool, meticulously arranging wooden blocks into a complex, seemingly random pattern, kept his expression innocently curious. But his mind raced. This was more than just observation; this was a prelude. Valerius was searching, perhaps for signs of the Duke's shifting loyalties, or, more menacingly, for any subtle change in Elias himself.
The opportunity to probe presented itself during the afternoon meal. The Duke, attempting to offer belated condolences, inquired about the journey. Valerius's responses were clipped, revealing nothing. Elias, carefully dissecting a piece of roasted fowl with his small fork, decided to take a calculated risk. His recent discovery of magic, and the inherent control the Church sought to exert over it, still fascinated him.
"Lord Valerius," Elias piped up, his voice clear and innocent, "Father Alaric says Phelena guides all things. Did she guide your sister to the... Great Beyond?" He paused, then tilted his head. "And if Phelena guides everything, why do we need... why do we need to fight wars? Couldn't Phelena just make everything peaceful with her guidance?"
A fork clattered to a plate. Father Alaric choked on his wine. Duke Theron looked sharply from Elias to Valerius.
Valerius's eyes narrowed, a cold fire igniting in their depths. The question, delivered with perfect childish innocence, was a direct challenge to the fundamental premise of Montala's "righteous wars." It was too pointed, too intellectually precise for a four-year-old. Elias braced himself, maintaining his facade, ready for the counter-attack.
"A truly... insightful question, young Elias," Valerius purred, his voice dangerously soft. "The Goddess guides, yes, but her guidance often requires the hand of her faithful servants to enact her will. Sometimes, peace must be forged through the crucible of righteous conflict against those who defy her divine order." He leaned forward, his gaze boring into Elias. "Do you believe in righteous conflict, Elias? Do you believe in the necessary tools of faith?"
Elias met his gaze, a slight tremor in his small hands that only he could feel. "Oh!" he exclaimed, widening his eyes. "Like... like when the knights fight the bad bandits to help the good farmers? So the Goddess needs the knights to help her guidance work?" He looked genuinely confused, as if grasping for a simple explanation.
Valerius's lips thinned, a flash of frustration crossing his face before he recomposed himself. The simplicity of Elias's 'reinterpretation' made it impossible to directly accuse him. Yet, the seed of doubt had been planted, and Valerius's intuition, sharpened by grief, sensed something fundamentally amiss.
That evening, a close call solidified Elias's unease. He was in his room, meticulously copying a passage of his Bible draft onto a fresh piece of parchment. He had grown bold in Valerius's absence, leaving his materials in a subtly disguised, but not perfectly hidden, niche in the wall behind a loose stone. He was so engrossed that he missed the faint creak of the floorboards outside his door.
The door opened just a crack. Not a servant, not Seraphina. A thin sliver of light from the hallway, and the unmistakable shadow of a tall, lean figure. Valerius.
Elias froze, quill poised. The parchment lay open on his lap, a small, makeshift oil lamp casting a soft glow on the strange, ancient script. His heart hammered against his ribs. This was it.
In an instant, pure adrenaline flooded his system. He didn't think; he reacted. With a silent, desperate surge of will, he focused every ounce of aether at his command. A concentrated burst of heat, like a rapid gust of air from a furnace door, filled the small room, instantly extinguishing the oil lamp and plunging the space into absolute darkness. Simultaneously, with a surge of water magic, he created a sudden, small splat of water on the floor directly inside the door, as if something had spilled.
"Elias?" Valerius's voice was sharp, immediately suspicious. "What was that? Why is it dark?"
Elias let out a loud, childish whimper, immediately followed by a simulated sob. "Oh, Lord Valerius! My lamp! It just... it popped! And I spilled my water! I was just... I was trying to read my story!" He exaggerated his cries, his voice thick with feigned terror and clumsiness.
He heard Valerius step fully into the room, then a faint squelch. "Water?" Valerius muttered, his steps hesitant in the darkness. "Show me, child!"
Elias continued his whimpers, subtly sweeping the parchment and quill under his bed with his foot. He then conjured a tiny, localized shimmer of aetheric light within his hand, just enough to illuminate his tear-streaked (and genuinely fearful) face and the wet patch on the floor near Valerius's feet.
Valerius's gaze, momentarily diverted by the light and the unexpected wetness, swept the room. He saw the distraught child, the spilled water, the harmless extinguished lamp. He knelt, his voice regaining some of its usual control. "It's alright, child. Just a spilled lamp. Be more careful." He didn't notice the precise location of the wetness, or the faint, residual warmth in the air that Elias was quickly dissipating.
As Valerius left, summoning a servant for a new lamp, Elias lay back on his bed, heart still pounding. It had been too close. The cold, logical Valerius was one threat; the intuitively suspicious Valerius, sharp with grief, was another entirely. His secrets were more vulnerable than ever. But he had reacted. He had adapted. And a tiny, resolute spark ignited within him: if magic could save him from discovery, it could also, one day, protect his truth.