Nox Sillon (2)
The Sillon estate had long since recovered from that fateful night, yet an unspoken tension still lingered in the air.
Servants whispered behind closed doors, their voices hushed with superstition.
Some of the older ones still muttered quiet prayers when passing the young master's chambers.
It was a cold afternoon.
The sun hung low in the sky, veiled by thick clouds, casting a dull light over the courtyard.
The air was crisp, and a biting wind swept through the estate.
A boy stood in the middle of the courtyard, silent and unmoving.
Nox Sillon.
At five years old, he was strikingly unlike other children.
His posture was eerily composed, his hands folded neatly behind his back.
He did not fidget. He did not shiver despite the cold.
His eyes, a deep and unnatural crimson, gleamed like embers.
He was waiting.
Footsteps approached.
Slow, measured, deliberate.
"Nox."
The boy turned his head slightly, recognizing the voice.
A tall man stood before him, draped in a dark military coat lined with fur.
His features were sharp and severe, his gaze colder than the wind that blew through the courtyard.
Lord Aldric Sillon.
Nox met his father's gaze without hesitation.
"Father."
Aldric studied him for a long moment.
His expression was unreadable, but his hand rested instinctively on the hilt of his sword—a habit he had never quite broken.
"I heard from your tutors,"
Aldric said.
Nox remained silent.
"They say you learn quickly."
"They are competent,"
Nox replied, his voice smooth—too smooth for a child.
"But slow."
A flicker of something crossed Aldric's face.
Amusement?
Annoyance?
It was hard to tell.
"You are five."
"And yet,"
Nox said evenly,
"I understand things they hesitate to teach me."
Silence.
Aldric exhaled through his nose.
"You will begin combat training today."
Nox's expression did not change.
"I see."
"You will not be treated differently,"
Aldric warned.
"You will train as any other noble son would. No leniency. No exceptions."
"I expect nothing less."
Aldric's grip tightened on his sword.
"Good. Because I will be your instructor."
This time, something flickered in Nox's gaze. Interest.
His lips curled—just slightly.
"Then I will learn well."
Aldric narrowed his eyes.
"We'll see."
The wind stirred, rustling the dry leaves at their feet.
Aldric turned, striding toward the training grounds.
"Come."
Nox followed without hesitation.
His small steps were soundless against the stone path.
*****
The training grounds were empty save for a few scattered practice dummies and racks of training weapons.
The guards stationed nearby watched with thinly veiled curiosity, their gazes flickering between the lord and his young son.
Aldric gestured toward the weapon rack.
"Choose a sword."
Nox walked over, his crimson eyes scanning the options.
There were wooden training swords, dulled practice blades, and even a few real ones—far too large for a child.
He reached for a wooden longsword.
Aldric raised a brow.
"That's too big for you."
Nox turned the sword in his hands, testing the weight.
"I'll grow into it."
Aldric let out a short breath, something between a scoff and a laugh.
"Arrogant."
Nox met his gaze.
"Confident."
Aldric studied him for a moment before nodding.
"We'll see how long that confidence lasts."
He drew his own blade—a practice sword, heavier than the one Nox held but still dulled for training purposes.
"Hold it properly,"
Aldric instructed.
Nox adjusted his grip.
"Too stiff,"
Aldric said immediately.
"Relax your shoulders."
Nox did as he was told.
Aldric circled him like a predator sizing up its prey.
"Your stance is wrong."
Nox adjusted.
Aldric nodded.
"Better."
Without warning, he struck.
The wooden blade came down fast.
Nox barely had time to react—he lifted his sword, but the impact sent him stumbling back.
He did not fall.
Aldric smirked.
"Slow."
Nox exhaled through his nose, his grip tightening around the hilt.
Aldric stepped forward.
"Again."
Another strike.
This time, Nox moved faster.
The swords clashed, but the force behind Aldric's blow was too strong.
Nox was pushed back.
Aldric didn't give him time to recover.
A third strike came, then a fourth.
Nox barely deflected them, his arms shaking from the force.
"Too weak,"
Aldric said.
"You won't win a battle by blocking alone."
Nox's eyes narrowed.
He didn't respond.
Aldric struck again.
This time, instead of blocking, Nox sidestepped.
The blade missed him by inches.
Aldric's smirk widened.
"Good."
Nox took a step forward, bringing his own sword up in a quick, sharp motion.
It wasn't strong, but it was fast.
Aldric deflected it with ease.
"Better."
Nox didn't let up.
He struck again, and again.
His movements were precise, calculated.
Each attack was deflected, but he was learning.
Aldric watched him closely.
The boy didn't fight like a child.
There was no hesitation, no wild swings.
Every movement was measured.
It was unnatural.
Aldric lowered his sword.
"That's enough for today."
Nox lowered his as well.
"You learn quickly,"
Aldric admitted.
Nox tilted his head.
"Is that not a good thing?"
Aldric was silent for a moment. Then he sheathed his sword.
"It depends."
Nox didn't ask what he meant.
Aldric turned, striding toward the exit.
"Tomorrow, we train again."
Nox followed without a word.
From the shadows, unseen eyes watched.
And somewhere in the depths of the estate, Lady Seraphina sat by the window, gazing out with quiet sorrow.
A whisper left her lips—soft, broken, unheard.
"…Nox…"
The wind carried it away.
*****
(Aldric's Perspective)
The Sillon estate had long since returned to its normal routine, but the air remained heavy with something unseen, unspoken.
I could feel it in the way the servants moved—furtive glances, hushed whispers, and the occasional tremor when passing my son's chambers.
They feared him.
I did not blame them.
Nox Sillon had never been like other children.
Since the day he was born, I had known—there was something different about him.
He did not cry like an infant should.
He did not wail, nor fuss, nor seek comfort in the arms of his mother.
He merely stared, silent and watchful, as if weighing the world around him.
I remember the first time he spoke.
He was barely a year old, and yet his words were not the clumsy, half-formed syllables of a toddler.
They were clear, precise—unnervingly so.
It was unnatural.
And now, at five years old, he was even more so.
I stepped into the courtyard, the cold wind biting against my skin, though I barely felt it.
My gaze settled on the lone figure standing in the center—still, composed, unaffected by the weather.
Nox.
His posture was eerily disciplined, his hands clasped neatly behind his back.
He did not shift, did not fidget, did not act like a child.
He was waiting.
I approached, my boots crunching against the frost-covered ground.
His crimson eyes flicked toward me—not wide with childish wonder, not brimming with excitement or impatience.
Just... observing.
Calculating.
I halted before him, studying his small frame, his composed stance.
"Nox,"
I said.
"Father,"
He replied, turning to face me fully.
His voice carried no hesitation, no warmth.
It was smooth—too smooth for someone his age and as if.
He doesn't carry any emotion.
An emotionless child.
I exhaled through my nose.
"I heard from your tutors,"
I said evenly.
He did not speak, merely waited.
"They say you learn quickly."
His expression did not change.
"They are competent,"
He answered.
"But slow."
I raised a brow.
The arrogance in his tone would have angered me, had it come from another child.
But with Nox, it wasn't arrogance—it was fact.
I had seen it for myself.
He absorbed knowledge at a rate that should not have been possible.
Mathematics, history, strategy—subjects that took years to master, he grasped in months.
His instructors, seasoned scholars and knights, struggled to keep up with his insatiable hunger for more.
And it was not only his intelligence that was unnatural.
His mindset… his mannerisms…
A child should not be this composed.
A child should not speak as he did.
"You are five,"
I reminded him.
"And yet,"
He said,
"I understand things they hesitate to teach me."
A flicker of something stirred within me.
Admiration?
Annoyance?
Wariness?
Perhaps all three.
"You will begin combat training today,"
I told him.
His gaze did not waver.
"I see,"
He said simply.
Most children would react—surprise, excitement, fear—something.
But he merely accepted it, as if it had been an inevitability all along.
"You will not be treated differently,"
I warned.
"No leniency. No exceptions."
"I expect nothing less."
Again.
That same unwavering confidence.
That same eerie maturity.
I found my grip tightening around the hilt of my sword.
"Good,"
I said.
"Because I will be your instructor."
For the first time, I saw something flicker in his gaze.
Not shock.
Not hesitation.
Interest.
His lips curled—just slightly.
"Then I will learn well,"
He said.
We would see about that.
*****
The training grounds were silent when we arrived.
The guards stationed nearby paused in their drills, their gazes flickering toward us with quiet curiosity.
I gestured to the weapon rack.
"Choose a sword,"
I instructed.
Nox walked over, scanning the options.
He did not hesitate, did not fumble like a child unsure of what to pick.
His hand went straight for a wooden longsword.
I narrowed my eyes.
"That's too big for you,"
I said.
He turned it in his hands, testing the weight.
"I'll grow into it."
I let out a short breath—half a scoff, half a laugh.
"Arrogant."
Little brat.
"Confident,"
He corrected.
I stared at him for a moment before nodding.
"We'll see how long that confidence lasts,"
I muttered.
Drawing my own blade—a practice sword, heavier than his—I stepped forward.
"Hold it properly."
He adjusted his grip.
"Too stiff,"
I said immediately.
"Relax your shoulders."
He obeyed without question.
I circled him, watching his stance.
"Your stance is wrong."
Again, he adjusted.
Most children would need days—weeks—to even begin to understand proper sword posture.
Yet Nox corrected himself after a single instruction.
It was unnatural.
"Better,"
I acknowledged.
Then, without warning, I struck.
The wooden blade came down fast.
I wanted to see his reaction.
Would he panic?
Would he flinch?
He did neither.
He lifted his sword to block—but he was too slow.
My strike sent him stumbling backward.
He did not fall.
I smirked.
"Slow,"
I said.
He did not pout, did not cry.
He merely exhaled, grip tightening around his hilt.
I attacked again.
This time, he moved faster.
Not fast enough, but faster.
I pushed him back, striking again and again. He blocked—barely.
His arms shook from the force.
"Too weak,"
I said.
"You won't win by blocking alone."
His eyes narrowed.
He didn't argue.
Instead, he adapted.
The next time I struck, he didn't block.
He sidestepped—just barely avoiding the blow.
I raised a brow.
"Good."
He stepped forward, striking back.
It was fast, precise.
I deflected it with ease.
"Better."
But he didn't stop.
He attacked again.
Again.
His movements were not reckless swings, not wild strikes born of instinct.
Every motion was deliberate.
Every step was calculated.
It was unnatural.
This was not how a five-year-old fought.
This was not how a five-year-old should think.
I lowered my sword.
"That's enough for today,"
I said.
He lowered his as well, his breathing steady despite the effort.
"You learn quickly,"
I admitted.
He tilted his head.
"Is that not a good thing?"
I stared at him.
Was it?
I did not answer.
Instead, I sheathed my sword and turned.
"Tomorrow, we train again."
Without hesitation, he followed.
The boy did not hesitate.
The boy did not question.
And that was what unsettled me the most.
Because a child should hesitate.
A child should question.
Nox did neither.
And that…
That was dangerous.