The Duke's gaze, initially flinty, softened almost imperceptibly as his daughter knelt before me. His eyes, though still cold, held a flicker of paternal pride, perhaps even an unsettling possessiveness. The priests, recognizing the Duke's daughter's interest, seemed to puff up with renewed self-importance, convinced they had delivered a valuable gift. My brief, telling gesture had worked. I was no longer a burden; I was a curiosity.
"Indeed, my daughter," the Duke rumbled, his voice deep, "Lady Seraphina has always possessed a keen eye for… the unusual. This child interests her. See to it that he is housed appropriately. We shall observe him."
"Yes, Father," Seraphina replied, rising gracefully. She did not look at me again in that moment, instead turning to a stern-faced, elderly woman standing near the dais. "Mistress Anya, you will prepare chambers for him. And assign attendants."
The elderly woman, Mistress Anya, bowed stiffly. "As you command, Lady Seraphina." Her eyes, however, darted to me with a mixture of suspicion and a hint of disdain. She clearly saw me as an inconvenience, a dirty hovel-child brought into their pristine world. This new environment was indeed a gilded cage, its bars made of gold and its comforts purchased by unseen suffering, but a cage nonetheless.
I was led away, not back to the familiar stench of the hovel, but through brightly lit corridors, their stone floors covered with rich tapestries that muffled our footsteps. The air here was warm, free of the damp chill that had permeated my existence. I was given a bath in water that was actually hot, scented with unfamiliar oils, then dressed in soft, clean linens and a small, finely woven tunic. The textures, the warmth, the sheer luxury of it all were almost overwhelming after years of deprivation. Yet, my mind remained aloof, cataloging every sensation, every difference from my previous existence, analyzing the shift in my circumstances. This was not comfort; it was leverage.
My new chambers were small but clean, with a narrow, comfortable cot, a wooden chest, and a window that, though barred, offered a view of the inner courtyard. It was a palace compared to the hovel, a clear signal of my elevated, if still uncertain, status. Two young attendants, barely older than Seraphina, were assigned to me. They were initially wary, treating me with a mix of forced politeness and evident discomfort, but I quickly learned how to manipulate their expectations. I ate all my food without complaint, rarely cried, and watched them with an intensity that often made them shift uneasily. I was learning the etiquette of this new class.
My true education, however, came from Seraphina herself. She visited me daily, usually in the mornings, bringing with her a pile of scrolls and tablets. She wouldn't speak to me as a typical child, cooing or babbling. Instead, she treated me with a quiet, almost academic, interest. She would sit beside my cot, her eyes sharp and curious, and read aloud from histories, treatises on Montala theology, and even ledgers detailing the Duke's administration.
"My father wishes to understand your unique nature, Elias," she explained one morning, her voice soft but direct, as she pointed to complex diagrams on a rolled scroll. "He seeks to discern if it is a blessing from Montala, or something… else. I am to observe your reactions, your learning capacity." She paused, her gaze unwavering. "Do you understand the symbols, Elias? Do you follow the patterns?"
I would respond with carefully measured actions. If she pointed to a numeral, I would tap my fingers twice. If she spoke a word that matched an object, I would reach for it. I learned the Duke's crest, the various sigils of his vassals, the Montala symbols, and the intricate, flowing script of their written language. She quickly grasped the depth of my silent comprehension, though she never expressed outright surprise. Her observations were quiet, precise, noted down on her own small tablets.
"You are a quick study," she murmured one afternoon, after I had correctly identified a series of complex logical relationships she had drawn. "More than quick. You are… profound. But you do not speak. Why, Elias?" Her dark eyes searched mine, a genuine question in their depths.
I could only offer a shrug, a child's innocent gesture. My voice, my true words, remained locked away. The power of speech was too great to reveal carelessly. It was the ultimate key, and I would not use it until the moment was right, until I fully understood the labyrinthine politics of this gilded cage.
My days became a blur of learning. Seraphina would pose mathematical problems, intricate riddles, and abstract concepts, treating me not as a child, but as a silent, exceptionally gifted student. I absorbed everything, every detail about the Duke's court, the political landscape of the kingdom, the true depth of Montala's control, and the weaknesses inherent in their system. Seraphina was a window into their world, and I, Elias, was her silent, utterly detached scholar, biding my time, learning the rules, preparing for a game whose true stakes she could not possibly comprehend. My affection for her, if it could be called that at this stage, was born not of sentiment, but of the intellectual stimulation she provided, and the strategic possibilities she unknowingly offered. She was my path to more than just survival. She was my path to influence.