Two nights later, the moon spilled silver light across the courtyard. The stones gleamed like pale water, shadows stretching long and crooked under the watch of tall walls. The castle was asleep—or pretending to be. Eustass knew better. Secrets did not rest with the sun.
He slipped from his chamber without a sound. His bare feet padded softly against the stone floor, light as a drifting feather. Being a child had its advantages—no one looked twice when he was caught wandering. Curiosity was an excuse his age allowed, and he wielded it well.
The air outside was crisp, the night alive with the soft rustle of hay and the creak of wagon wheels settling in the dark. Eustass crept toward the stables, heart steady, eyes sharp. From behind a stack of hay bales, he crouched, hidden in the darkness.
Just beyond, two stable boys huddled near the wagons, their whispers breaking the night's stillness.
"Another cart missing," one muttered, voice taut with worry. "That's three this week, all marked for the army."
The second boy glanced around nervously, shadows flickering across his thin face. "Keep your voice down! If Sir Dwayne hears us—"
He cut himself short, throat snapping shut like a trap. The silence that followed was heavier than the words.
A slow smirk touched Eustass's lips. So… it's not just gold disappearing, but steel and rations too. Weapons, food, tools—life itself. "Cute," he murmured to himself.
He leaned back against the hay, piecing the puzzle together the way other children pieced toys. Stolen supplies meant weakened armies. Weakened armies meant fear in the noble court. And who gained from fear? Whoever controlled what was stolen. His eyes narrowed, dark gleam burning beneath the moonlight.
This wasn't about numbers. It was about power. And power, when stolen, left scars.
---
The next morning, the hall was warm with the smell of bread and broth. Eustass sat across from his mother, Elizabeth, humming idly as though nothing weighed on his mind. He poked at a slice of bread with deliberate laziness before glancing up, feigning the innocence of a child.
"Mother," he asked softly, tilting his head, "why does the army run out of supplies so fast? Where do they all go?"
Elizabeth stilled. Her napkin froze at her lips. For a heartbeat, the entire room froze with her.
Around them, servants stiffened as though struck. A spoon clattered too loudly against a bowl. Some lowered their eyes, others exchanged uneasy glances. A few tried too hard to look unaffected, which only made their fear clearer.
Eustass hid his smile behind the rim of his cup. He had not accused anyone. He had only asked a question. But questions, when asked in the wrong room, could spread like wildfire. Whispers would multiply in the halls, faster than flames on dry wood. Suspicion was sometimes louder than proof.
Elizabeth finally replied with a frown, her tone clipped. "It isn't for a child to question."
But the damage was already done.
---
A week later, Eustass wandered the outer corridor, keen eyes hunting for threads of truth others ignored. The scent of damp stone lingered in the air. That was when he spotted it—a soldier hauling crates, his sleeve tugged low as though hiding something. But not low enough.
The cloth slipped, revealing a dark bruise wrapping harshly around his wrist.
Eustass's steps slowed. He tilted his head, studying like one would study an insect under glass. "Who did that?"
The soldier froze. Color drained from his face.
"You don't have to say it," Eustass whispered, almost kind, almost pitying. "I already know."
The man swallowed hard, eyes darting away. Shame and fear tangled in his silence. Eustass didn't press further. He didn't need a confession; the truth already trembled in the soldier's hands.
That evening, the boy wandered near the servant quarters. The dim hallways smelled of stale wood and candle wax, the air heavy with exhaustion and something sour—like hopelessness made into air itself.
It was then he heard it—soft, muffled sobs spilling through the thin wall of a chamber. He stopped, leaning close, his ear to the door.
A maid's broken voice slipped out between gasps:
"Sir Dwayne… he'll kill me if I talk…"
Her words cracked like fragile glass. Fear soaked every syllable, but so did desperation, the kind that comes from years of being silenced.
Eustass lingered in the shadows, breath steady though his chest burned cold. These weren't just pawns. They were wounded pieces—mistreated, beaten, silenced. Pawns who could turn against their abuser if only given reason, if only given a leader.
He closed his eyes briefly, letting the thought settle. Then he smiled, faint and sharp.
"Soon," he murmured to himself, a whisper lost to the dark. "Your cruelty will be your undoing, Dwayne."
The next days unfolded like ripples in a pond. Rumors deepened. Silent stares grew heavier. Servants walked the halls with hushed steps, carrying trays too quickly, speaking too softly. Soldiers carried their tasks with unease, shoulders stiff, eyes darting as though expecting blows.
Even Elizabeth, sharp as she was, sensed the change but could not trace the source. The air in the castle had shifted. Something unseen had begun to pull at the threads.
And Eustass, always watching, let the knots tighten. Guilt was growing in the men and women beneath Sir Dwayne—guilt for the things they had seen, the bruises they had endured, the silence they had kept.
But guilt, Eustass knew, could turn into something far stronger. Loyalty.
Not to Dwayne. Never to him.
To the one who heard their unspoken cries. To the boy who noticed the bruises, who asked the questions, who lingered in the shadows not with cruelty but with quiet promise.
He didn't need to shout for their trust. He only needed to listen.
And in the silence of the midnight crates, the seeds of rebellion began to root.