Nox Sillon (3)

(Nox's POV)

The Sillon estate had long since returned to normal, yet the air still carried the remnants of something unspoken.

A weight that pressed against the walls, a silence that was too careful.

The servants believed themselves subtle, but I noticed the way they moved—furtive glances, hushed whispers, the way their hands trembled slightly when passing my chambers.

Superstition.

Fear.

They did not say it aloud, but I understood.

I was not normal.

I stood in the courtyard, the cold wind biting at my skin.

The afternoon sun struggled to pierce through the thick clouds, casting the world in dull, muted light.

The air smelled of damp stone and distant embers—someone had stoked the hearths within the estate.

I did not shiver.

Most children my age would have been running about, complaining of the cold, begging for warm drinks and thick coats.

But I was not like most children.

I had known this for as long as I could remember.

I was five years old.

Yet, I understood things far beyond my years.

The way people spoke, the weight behind their words, the unspoken tensions in a room—I grasped them as easily as breathing.

My tutors hesitated when teaching me, stumbling over explanations as if uncertain whether a child should comprehend such things.

They did not realize that I saw through them.

I was waiting.

And then—footsteps.

Slow.

Measured.

Purposeful.

I did not turn immediately.

There was no need.

I knew who it was before he spoke.

"Nox."

My father.

I turned my head slightly, meeting his gaze.

"Father."

Lord Aldric Sillon was a man who commanded respect with his very presence.

Tall, broad-shouldered, his dark military coat lined with fur, his expression sharp as a blade.

He carried himself with the confidence of a warrior, a man who had carved his place in the world through steel and blood.

His gaze was colder than the wind.

Even now, his hand rested on the hilt of his sword—a habit of his.

Instinct, perhaps.

Or something else.

I wondered if he had ever looked at me without that cautious edge in his eyes.

"I heard from your tutors,"

He said.

I said nothing.

I had already predicted what he would say next.

"They say you learn quickly."

"They are competent,"

I answered.

"But slow."

His expression remained unreadable, but I saw the flicker of something in his eyes.

Amusement?

Annoyance?

Perhaps both.

"You are five,"

He reminded me.

"And yet,"

I said evenly,

"I understand things they hesitate to teach me."

Silence stretched between us.

Then he exhaled through his nose.

A decision had been made.

"You will begin combat training today."

I did not react.

"I see."

"You will not be treated differently,"

He warned.

"No leniency. No exceptions."

I inclined my head slightly.

"I expect nothing less."

Something shifted in his posture.

His grip on his sword tightened.

"Good. Because I will be your instructor."

Now, I felt something stir.

Interest.

I had always known this day would come.

I had been preparing for it in my own way—observing, analyzing, learning.

But to be taught by my father himself… that was an opportunity I could not ignore.

My lips curled just slightly.

"Then I will learn well."

His eyes narrowed.

"We'll see."

The wind stirred, rustling dry leaves at our feet.

My father turned and strode toward the training grounds.

I followed without hesitation.

The Training Grounds

The scent of iron and old wood filled the air.

The training grounds were mostly empty, save for a few scattered practice dummies and racks of weapons.

The guards stationed nearby watched us, their curiosity barely hidden.

Father gestured toward the weapon rack.

"Choose a sword."

I stepped forward, scanning the options.

Wooden training swords, dulled practice blades, a few real ones far too large for me.

Most children my age would have reached for the smallest weapon, something light and easy to wield.

I reached for a wooden longsword.

Father raised a brow.

"That's too big for you."

I turned the sword in my hands, testing its weight.

It was heavier than what was suitable for a five-year-old.

That much was true.

But I would grow into it.

"I'll grow into it,"

I said.

Father let out a short breath—something between a scoff and a laugh.

"Arrogant."

I met his gaze.

"Confident."

His eyes lingered on me before he nodded.

"We'll see how long that confidence lasts."

He drew his own practice sword.

It was heavier than mine, the weight of it solid in his grip.

"Hold it properly,"

He ordered.

I adjusted my grip.

"Too stiff,"

He corrected immediately.

"Relax your shoulders."

I obeyed.

He circled me, his gaze sharp, assessing.

"Your stance is wrong."

I adjusted again.

A nod.

"Better."

Then he struck.

It was sudden—no warning, no mercy.

The wooden blade came down fast, and I barely had time to react.

I lifted my sword, but the impact sent me stumbling back.

I did not fall.

Father smirked.

"Slow."

I exhaled through my nose, tightening my grip.

Another strike.

I moved faster this time.

Our swords clashed, but the force behind his attack was far greater than mine.

I was pushed back.

He didn't give me time to recover.

Another strike.

Then another.

Each blow forced me on the defensive, my arms trembling from the effort of blocking them.

"Too weak,"

He said.

"You won't win a battle by blocking alone."

My eyes narrowed.

I did not respond.

Another strike.

This time, instead of blocking, I stepped aside.

The blade missed me by inches.

Father's smirk widened.

"Good."

I stepped forward, lifting my own sword in a sharp motion.

It wasn't strong, but it was fast.

Father deflected it with ease.

"Better."

I did not let up.

Strike.

Deflect.

Strike.

Deflect.

I was learning.

He noticed.

I saw it in his expression—the realization that I did not fight like a child.

There was no hesitation, no wasted movement.

Every step, every swing, every adjustment—it was deliberate.

Calculated.

It was unnatural.

He lowered his sword.

"That's enough for today."

I lowered mine as well.

"You learn quickly,"

He admitted.

I tilted my head slightly.

"Is that not a good thing?"

He was silent for a long moment.

Then he sheathed his sword.

"It depends."

I did not ask what he meant.

He turned, striding toward the exit.

"Tomorrow, we train again."

I followed without a word.

Somewhere, unseen eyes watched.

And in the depths of the estate, his mother sat by the window, gazing out with sorrow.

The wind carried a whisper.

His name.

He did not hear it.

He did not look back.

*****

Night had fallen over the Sillon estate, draping the halls in silence.

A cold breeze seeped through the cracks of the grand windows, making the candle flames waver.

The estate was quiet, save for the distant murmurs of patrolling guards and the rustling of leaves in the courtyard.

Inside her chambers, Lady Seraphina Sillon sat by the window, her emerald-green eyes staring out into the darkness.

Her delicate hands, once accustomed to warmth, were now cold, gripping the armrest of her chair with quiet restraint.

The glow of the fireplace illuminated the room, but she felt no warmth.

She had seen everything.

Her son—her five-year-old son—standing in the training grounds, facing the head of the estate, her husband, without fear, without hesitation, without… humanity.

Her chest tightened.

A soft knock on the door broke the silence.

"My lady?"

Came a gentle voice.

Seraphina exhaled and straightened slightly.

"Enter."

The door opened, and Yeni, her handmaid, stepped inside.

She carried a silver tray with a teapot and a porcelain cup, the faint aroma of lavender and chamomile filling the room.

But Seraphina knew it was not merely tea that Isolde brought.

It was concern.

"My lady…"

Yeni hesitated, placing the tray down on the small table beside the window.

"You did not eat dinner."

Seraphina did not respond immediately. Instead, she reached for the cup, her fingers brushing the handle lightly.

"I wasn't hungry."

Yeni frowned but did not press further.

Instead, she glanced toward the window, following her lady's gaze toward the training grounds.

The silence stretched between them.

"I heard the servants talking,"

Yeni finally said, her voice hesitant.

"They said young master Nox did not cry. Not even once."

Seraphina's grip on the cup tightened.

"They said,"

Yeni continued cautiously,

"That Lord Aldric did not go easy on him."

Seraphina closed her eyes.

Of course he didn't.

Aldric was not the type of man to coddle a child.

Especially not his own son.

"I saw it,"

Seraphina murmured, barely above a whisper.

"I saw how he fought."

Yeni glanced at her, uncertainty flickering in her eyes.

"And?"

Seraphina swallowed.

The image of Nox's small frame standing against his father, the cold precision of his movements, the lack of emotion in his gaze—it unsettled her.

"He does not fight like a child,"

She said finally.

Yeni hesitated.

"Perhaps that is a good thing, my lady. He is strong. He will be able to protect himself in the future."

Seraphina let out a bitter chuckle.

"Strength is not the problem, Isolde. He is too strong. Too controlled. Too... aware."

She set the cup down, staring into the flickering flames of the fireplace.

"A five-year-old should not move like that. Should not think like that."

Her voice wavered.

"He did not hesitate. Not even once. There was no fear in his eyes."

Yeni bit her lip, struggling for words.

"Perhaps he—"

"He did not cry when he was born."

Yeni froze.

Seraphina turned to her, her expression distant.

"Do you remember, Yeni? The night he was born? The midwives panicked because he did not cry. He simply opened his eyes and stared at me—stared at us—with those crimson eyes. As if he already knew where he was."

Yeni shivered at the memory.

It had been unnatural.

"And ever since then,"

Seraphina continued,

"He has never truly acted like a child."

She clenched her hands in her lap.

"He does not laugh. He does not play. He does not ask for comfort. He just... observes."

A heavy silence settled between them.

Finally, Yeni spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.

"My lady... do you fear him?"

Seraphina stiffened.

Did she?

She had carried him for months, endured the pain of childbirth, held his tiny form in her arms.

She had watched him grow, tried to teach him kindness, warmth, emotion.

And yet—

He remained unchanged.

"I fear…"

Seraphina exhaled shakily, her voice barely audible.

"I fear that I do not know him."

Yeni's expression softened.

"He is still your son, my lady."

Seraphina smiled, but it did not reach her eyes.

"Is he?"

Before Yeni could respond, the door creaked open again.

A small figure stood in the doorway.

Nox.

His crimson eyes gleamed under the candlelight.

His expression was calm—too calm.

He looked at his mother and spoke in that smooth, unnervingly composed voice.

"Mother."

Seraphina's breath caught in her throat.

Yeni quickly straightened.

"Young master—"

"Leave us,"

Seraphina said softly.

Yeni hesitated but obeyed, bowing before exiting the room, closing the door behind her.

Now, it was just the two of them.

Nox stepped closer, stopping just a few feet away from her.

He tilted his head slightly.

"You are awake late."

Seraphina forced a smile.

"I could say the same for you."

"I do not need as much sleep."

Of course he didn't.

She studied him, searching for something—anything—that resembled normalcy.

"You trained today,"

She said.

"Yes."

"Did it hurt?"

"No."

Seraphina inhaled softly.

"Nox… are you happy?"

For the first time, he hesitated.

Just for a fraction of a second.

"I do not understand the relevance of that question."

Her heart ached.

She reached out, hesitantly brushing a lock of his Silver hair behind his ear.

He did not flinch, did not react, simply watching her with those haunting crimson eyes.

"You do not have to be strong all the time, Nox,"

She whispered.

He blinked.

"That is inefficient."

Seraphina closed her eyes.

"You are a child."

"That is an arbitrary distinction."

Her lips trembled.

"Do you… love me?"

Silence.

Nox stared at her, as if processing the question.

"…I acknowledge you as my mother."

Seraphina felt something inside her break.

A soft, bitter laugh escaped her lips.

She cupped his cheek gently, her fingers trembling.

"Nox…"

She whispered.

"My son…"

He stared at her for a moment before speaking.

"I will protect you."

Seraphina swallowed.

"From what?"

His gaze was unwavering.

"From everything."

Tears welled in her eyes.

She pulled him into her arms, holding him tightly against her chest.

He did not resist.

But he also did not return the embrace.