Baby Steps

Time, the thief in golden light,

Steals the cradle's coo and silent night.

Five winters passed, five springs now sing,

And yet he walks with wonder's wing.

The Boy Who Was Five

The morning sun spilled across the estate like soft honey, gilding the white marble paths and dew-speckled roses in the Denvers manor's garden. Larks sang in the distance, their calls blending with the rustle of leaves stirred by a gentle wind.

Today marked five years since the day William Denvers was born.

Inside the manor, Viscount Robert Aurelian Denvers stood quietly on the balcony adjoining his study, overlooking the courtyard where a simple arrangement of garlands was being hung. His robes were navy with silver accents—modest, yet noble. His sharp eyes, usually reserved for politics and court, now softened as they traced the movements of a small boy weaving between pillars with a wooden stick, humming to himself.

William.

He had grown tall for his age, with fair skin and wide, amber-brown eyes that mirrored something ageless. His hair, a soft tumble of chestnut curls, caught the sun like fire catching oil. Even now, he held a sense of stillness about him—poised, deliberate, yet childlike in every step.

"Five years…" Robert muttered to himself. "Where did the time go?"

Behind him, the soft rustle of silk announced Emil's arrival.

"Time never waits," she said, voice like warm velvet, "but it leaves behind echoes. And look at him—what a beautiful echo he is."

Robert turned to her with a rare smile. "You say that, but he's a tempest in disguise."

Emil chuckled. "All great men begin as tempests, don't they?"

No Trumpets—Only Light

The birthday celebration was quiet—intentionally so. A few relatives, some noble associates, and trusted retainers had been invited. There were no banners flying high, no orchestras or ceremonial feasts. Just laughter in the drawing room, the fragrance of fresh tea, the delicate clinking of cups and cutlery, and a small cake crowned with five flickering candles.

William sat in the center of it all, legs swinging beneath the table, his hands neatly folded on his lap. He smiled as guests wished him well—his thank-yous genuine, not rehearsed.

As the final candle was extinguished with a single breath, a round of applause echoed through the room.

"Happy birthday, young lord!" a retainer cheered.

"May your years be long and glorious!" said another.

"May your footsteps never falter!" added the butler, raising a toast.

But in the midst of cheer, Robert's gaze remained fixed on William's face—watching. Studying. What lay beneath that calm surface?

A Conversation by Lamplight

Later, as dusk cloaked the skies in hues of purple and fire, Robert found William sitting on the manor's stone steps, his wooden stick laid beside him like a resting sword. Fireflies danced in the hedgerows, and somewhere a lute played softly.

"Out here alone?" Robert asked, taking a seat beside his son.

William nodded. "The wind sounds different at night. Like a whisper."

Robert chuckled. "That's what my father used to say. He believed the wind carried the voices of the past. Heroes, legends... regrets."

There was silence between them for a while. Then, after a moment's breath—

"I spoke to your mother," Robert began slowly, "about your future. We've discussed tutors for literature, geography, diplomacy—"

"I'd like to train," William interrupted gently.

Robert blinked. "Train?"

William didn't look at him. "With a sword. Like the guards. I want to learn."

The request hung in the air like mist—soft but lingering.

Robert leaned back, frowning not out of disapproval but contemplation. His son, so young, so gentle, was asking for steel and bruises. "That's... an unusual desire for a five-year-old."

"I know," William replied.

"You've always been curious, but never this kind of curious. Is it something you read? A story? A dream?"

William's eyes finally met his father's. There was no fear in them—just a solemn flicker of something far older than five years. Something that pulsed like an ember in a deep forest.

"I don't know," he answered.

And yet, somewhere inside, he did. But the words weren't ready to be spoken.

Robert studied him. This was not a whim. This was a seed, already sprouting.

"…Very well," Robert said after a long pause. "But on one condition."

William looked up.

"You train not for violence, but for discipline. You carry not a weapon, but a purpose. Can you promise me that?"

"I promise."

Robert exhaled deeply, nodding.

The Mother's Song

That night, Emil tucked William into bed. The moonlight painted silver streaks across the wooden floor, while warm candlelight fluttered on the walls. She sat at the edge of the bed, brushing his curls back from his forehead.

"You asked your father?" she asked softly.

He nodded.

She hesitated, then smiled. "I knew you would."

There was a lull before she began humming. William closed his eyes, and the hum turned into a melody—an old song, once sung in the halls of Pinnaclia.

Lullaby of the Bleeding Skies

Beneath twin moons and dying light,

The sons of fate prepared to fight.

Evan's blade and Adam's pride,

Clashed where no gods could hide.

The River mourned with crimson tide,

Where Adam fell, yet none could find.

The Pinnaclia wept from shore to shore,

Where Evan's breath was felt no more.

Now skies bleed rain for battles lost,

Peace, they say, came at a cost.

So sleep, young heart, but know the pain,

Of power sought and lives in vain.

Emil's voice faded into silence. William stared into her eyes.

"I don't know why, Mother," he whispered, eyes half closed. "But when I hear that song... I feel like I've heard it before."

Emil paused, a flicker of unease behind her smile.

"Then perhaps it's always lived in you," she said, kissing his forehead. "Sleep now, my brave boy. You have a journey ahead."

The First Step

Next Day – 6:00 A.M., Denver's Training Ground

At sunrise, the eastern courtyard gleamed like a pool of fire. The stones, washed in amber light, radiated heat and promise.

The morning air was sharp with dew. William stepped into the training ground, dressed in the dark blue uniform of the Denver's Noble Guard trainees. A wooden sword rested against his belt, his face calm yet determined.

Robert stood waiting with another figure beside him—tall, commanding, with a blade strapped to her back.

Robert turned. "Will. Meet the Captain Commander of our Noble Guard. Lady Lamile Willington."

William stood there, facing the noble guard captain: Lamile Willington, a statuesque woman with strong arms and intelligent eyes. Her hair was braided tightly, her armor worn with pride but polished with reverence.

The woman stepped forward and knelt on one knee.

"Thank you, my Lord, for accepting me as your teacher. My training will be strict, but I will ensure your safety. I ask for your forgiveness in advance, should I be too harsh."

William nodded respectfully. "Then I will not complain when the lessons hurt."

A silence of mutual understanding passed between them.

Lamile stood with a smirk. "You might just be the first student I don't scare away."

Robert's hand fell on his son's shoulder.

"Let this be the beginning, Will. Let it begin with your baby steps."

Robert and Emil watched in silence. She clutched his arm.

"Did we do the right thing?" she asked.

Robert didn't answer immediately. His eyes were fixed on the way William moved—not with clumsy eagerness, but with uncanny precision.

"I'm not sure," he said. "But I believe... this is his path."

There are mountains yet to scale,

Paths unknown, a daring trail.

With steadfast heart and steps so small,

The journey starts—he'll conquer all.