POV: Sullivan Prentiss Morteuxe (Age 10)
The world, to Sullivan Prentiss Morteuxe, was a perfectly organized prison.
It wasn't a prison of steel bars and stone walls, but one of meticulous ledgers, ancient family names, and the colossal, impassable Veil Mountains that ringed their entire known civilization, the Cinder Basin. The Basin was a strange and beautiful place—a high-altitude plateau where the air was always crisp and the dust motes seemed to hold a golden, ancient light. Yet, it was undeniably a bowl, and the mountains were the rim.
Sullivan, ten years old, a boy with eyes the color of polished jade that saw too much and judged too quickly, sat at the mahogany desk in his father's library. The scent of old paper, dried ink, and distant, burning cinnamon was the scent of his life.
He was pouring over the Morteuxe Ledger, a book three times his size, bound in leather that felt like dried, tough skin. It wasn't a record of history or finance; it was the family's accumulated knowledge on Influence.
"The key to any engagement," his father's precise, slightly cold voice echoed in his memory, "is to never choose a fifty-fifty coin flip, Sullivan. You must have the dice, the cup, and the table tilting in your favor before the game begins."
Sullivan frowned, tapping a slender finger on a page detailing the political leverage points of the neighboring House Velasco. Leverage against their spice-trade routes? Predictable.
Their reliance on the East Harbor docks? Amateur.
He sighed, a breath that already carried the weight of a man three times his age. The other children in the Basin played with wooden swords, dreaming of becoming Hunters—the fabled adventurers who occasionally slipped through the Veil Mountains' guarded passes. Sullivan played with possibilities, with scenarios, with the vast, chaotic network of cause and effect that governed human affairs.
He was born a manipulator, a chess grandmaster playing with people instead of pawns. Not out of malice, but out of a cold, inherent understanding of efficiency.
"And what great scheme consumes the mind of the Lord of Morteuxe today?"
Sullivan didn't flinch. He recognized the gentle, yet powerful, voice of his older sister, Evelyn.
Evelyn Morteuxe was sixteen, a whirlwind of vibrant, calculated grace. Where Sullivan was cold jade, Evelyn was warm amber. She carried a rapier, not because she needed it for protection in their secure estate, but because she loved the art of the blade—the discipline, the rhythm, the flow.
She leaned against the doorway, already dressed in her riding leathers, her long, dark hair braided with a simple silver cord.
"Hardly a scheme, Evelyn," Sullivan replied, not looking up. "Just evaluating the long-term stability of the Velasco trade union. Their reliance on perishable goods makes them vulnerable to climate shifts, a factor Velasco himself seems to be entirely discounting."
Evelyn walked in, her gait silent, and rested a hand on his shoulder. "They are your age, Sully. Don't let the ledger make you forget how to be ten. You haven't left the estate walls in three days."
"The world outside the estate walls is predictable," Sullivan said, shrugging off her touch with gentle arrogance. "It is entirely composed of known variables and mundane occurrences. Nothing there warrants my sustained attention."
Evelyn laughed, a sound like small, distant bells. "Then you are a fool, little brother. The world is not a ledger. It is chaos. And chaos is always unpredictable. Come. Mother has asked that you accompany us to the Market of Whispers."
The Market of Whispers. Now that was an interesting variable. It was a notoriously lawless bazaar on the fringes of the Basin, a place where people from the deepest wilderness—and sometimes, the elusive Hunters—came to trade goods, secrets, and information that the major Houses deemed too volatile for their official docks.
Sullivan finally closed the Ledger. The book landed with a heavy thud that echoed the deep, satisfying finality he craved in his own decision-making.
"Fine," he conceded, standing up. He was short for his age, but he carried himself with an unusual vertical stiffness that made him appear taller. "But only because observation of novel human behavior is essential for refining my predictive models. I need to see how the 'less refined' react under genuine stress."
Evelyn smiled, a knowing look in her eyes that Sullivan both resented and adored. "You talk a great game, Sully. I suspect you simply want to see the strange, wild things the Veil Mountains spit out."
As they stepped out of the library and into the sun-drenched courtyard, a sudden, sharp tremor ran through the ground. It wasn't a violent shake, but a low, deep vibration—the kind that felt less like an earthquake and more like a massive, distant engine idling.
Sullivan stopped dead in his tracks.
His father, Lord Julian Morteuxe, emerged from the main hall, dressed in his severe black waistcoat. Julian was a man whose presence could chill a crowded room. His eyes were constantly moving, analyzing, dismissing.
"That," Julian announced, his voice devoid of emotion, "is the sound of the Great Gate closing, for the season. The storms are coming early this year."
The Gate. The only known, manned, and occasionally opened pass through the Veil Mountains. Once it closed, the Cinder Basin was sealed. No one in, no one out. The Morteuxe family had records of it being sealed for over a year at a time.
Sullivan looked up at the mountains, a faint, impossible smudge of white against the piercing blue sky. The Veil Mountains. The edge of his known world. He felt a sudden, profound spike of something he rarely allowed himself to feel: frustration.
It was the sudden, crushing weight of the unknown. Was the world beyond truly just rock, snow, and forest? Or was it something vastly more complex, more dangerous, and more rewarding than the neat, contained society of the Basin?
Variables... the truly interesting variables are always outside the parameters of the current system.
"Father," Sullivan asked, his voice calm, "How wide is the world beyond the Veil Mountains? Is it truly limitless, as the old Hunter stories claim?"
Julian paused, his cold gaze softening for a single, barely perceptible second. "The world, Sullivan," he said, adjusting his cufflink, "is as wide as your control over it. And right now, your control ends at the Market of Whispers. Go with your sister. Observe. Don't be rash. And bring me back one of the Ebon-Wood Daggers from the Whisper-Trader."
It was a test. A small, complex transaction in a place where simple mistakes were paid for in blood.
Sullivan nodded, his emerald eyes sharpening, already calculating the risks, the routes, and the necessary disguises. The Market of Whispers awaited. And somewhere, beyond the impassable mountains, was the vast, chaotic, unpredictable world he was destined to control.
The game has begun.