Two more winters passed. The time of the North was like the movement of glaciers; slow, loud, and crushing.
By the time Aetherion turned eight, he was no longer the "Little Lord" of the castle, but a ghost candidate moving in the shadows.
The childlike softness in his body had slowly vanished under Zero's ruthless training, replaced by a tight musculature clinging to bone. While learning the language of the sword and strategy from his father, he locked himself in his mother's greenhouse during secret hours; memorizing which root cut off the breath, which moss clotted the blood.
The other children in the castle, Harlan and Torch, were less like friends to Aetherion and more like "moving logs" he used to sharpen himself. He knocked them down repeatedly in courtyard drills, crushed their egos with his wooden sword, and then helped them up with a distant courtesy. He didn't laugh with them, didn't join their games. Harlan and Torch looked at him with a mixture of admiration and fear, not daring to linger around the "Little Commander."
His mother's harsh warning—"If you come together, you will explode"—had been stamped like a seal on Aetherion's strategic mind. He was a man who acted on logic, not emotion. He had performed a risk analysis and changed tactics.
Those old, careless secret meetings, the noisy games behind the pantry were over. Aetherion had decided that the way to protect Runa was not to cut ties completely, but to become invisible.
Their meetings turned into a shadow play. Once a week, maybe twice, they met in the blindest spot of the ramparts or in the dusty silence of the old depot. These were short, stolen moments where words didn't exist, only presence was shared. Sometimes Aetherion would secretly press a dried fruit saved from his rations into her palm, sometimes Runa would leave a newly woven knot under his pillow. The bond between them hadn't cooled, it had merely gone underground.
However, in a castle made of stone and echo, no secret could remain buried forever.
No matter how careful they were, there was always a moment they missed. A silhouette seen walking side by side at the end of a corridor... Or Aetherion handing a water bowl to Runa... These rare, fleeting moments stuck to the tongues of the servants and guards like "rusty gum."
Whispers seeped into the walls like dampness: "The Lord's son was seen with that mute girl again." "Why does he hang around her? That girl's gaze is uncanny. She'll bring bad luck." "Maybe those violet eyes cast a spell on the boy, eh? Otherwise, why would the Commander's son look at a 'Silent'?"
Aetherion heard these whispers but gritted his teeth and ignored them. Every rumor was a new arrow shot at the target board on Runa's back.
Initially, he attributed the change in Runa to this pressure. It was natural for the toxic gazes of people to crush a little girl's shoulders.
But as the seasons changed, Aetherion realized a bitter truth: It wasn't just people's hatred that was consuming Runa. It was something deeper, quieter.
The girl was growing, but she seemed to be suffering from invisible blood loss. That violet curiosity that used to shine in her eyes had given way to a heavy, leaden stillness. Healers called it "Northern barrenness." But when Aetherion looked, he didn't see a sickness in Runa's flesh, but an erosion in her soul.
One afternoon, they were sitting in a secluded corner of the castle ramparts. The sky had turned a pale, sickly yellow.
Aetherion was whittling a piece of wood with his small pocket knife, while Runa, a few steps away, leaned her back against the cold stone, watching the horizon with half-closed eyes.
Aetherion stopped whittling and looked at the girl. Her shoulders were more slumped than usual. As if the earth was pulling everyone in this castle down, but pulling Runa twice as hard.
What is wrong with her? Aetherion thought, frowning. This isn't just fatigue. It's as if... as if her existence is thinning.
Just then, the illumination of faint dust motes hit the courtyard.
When the light fell on both of them, their shadows were cast on the stone wall behind them.
Aetherion involuntarily looked at the wall. His own shadow was clear; sharp-edged, black, and a faithful reflection of his movements.
But Runa's shadow...
Aetherion narrowed his eyes. He stopped turning the wood in his hand.
There was an oddity. A detail so small that even a careful eye might attribute it to a trick of the wind.
Runa was leaning against the wall, breathing gently. Her chest rose and fell, her head dipped slightly forward. But her shadow on the wall... delayed for a moment.
When Runa's chest rose as she inhaled, her shadow moved afterward with a very slight difference, as if it were heavy, viscous mud.
And the color.
Aetherion tilted his head slightly. While his own shadow stood like a dark stain on the gray stone, Runa's shadow... was blacker. It didn't reflect light; it absorbed it like a matte well. Its edges weren't blurred like a normal shadow; they were sharp and dense, as if cut by a razor.
Strange, thought the old soul within. It's as if her shadow is heavier than her body.
Aetherion didn't think it was a monster or a threat. Everything in this world was cursed.
Gods... he thought with a bitter acceptance. That symbol her mother saw didn't just take the girl's voice. It nailed her to the ground. Runa lives with an invisible pile of iron on her back. Maybe that physical weight of the curse is why her shadow looks so dark, so heavy.
Runa started when she noticed Aetherion staring at her. She jumped from her daze, turning her violet eyes to Aetherion. "..." She didn't open her mouth, but her gaze asked, "Is something wrong?"
Aetherion immediately averted his eyes, focusing back on the wood in his hand. He didn't want to scare the girl or crush her fragile spirit further by saying "your shadow is broken."
"Nothing," he mumbled. "Just zoned out."
Runa shrugged and returned to her old position. But Aetherion continued to watch that black stain on the wall out of the corner of his eye. When Runa moved, the shadow moved too. It looked normal. But that momentary, uncanny feeling of weight had stuck in Aetherion's mind like a small, disturbing splinter.