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Chapter 4 - Five-Year-Old War Criminal

Chapter 3

Elias did not speak the next morning.

Or the morning after that.

Or the five mornings after that.

He didn't cry. Didn't ask for food. Didn't misbehave. He just... stared. With those cold gray eyes like he was memorizing my weak points in case he needed to take me down later.

"Are you plotting my assassination?" I asked as I poured him tea.

He didn't answer.

Probably because the answer was yes.

To be fair, it wasn't entirely his fault. The kid had been through hell. The novel hinted at it, but now I was seeing it up close—how he flinched at loud noises, avoided eye contact, slept with his back to the door and his hand curled into a fist like he was still ready to run.

This wasn't some cute, misunderstood prodigy.

This was a miniature war survivor.

My job was to raise him into something other than a martyr.

Which meant food. Routine. Patience. And a suspicious amount of bribery.

Day 8:

"Elias, this is a fruit tart. It tastes like joy. You should try it."

"No."

"It's not poisoned."

"I didn't say it was."

"Then what's the problem?"

"…Nothing."

He took a bite.

He liked it. I saw the flicker in his expression.

He refused to eat another.

Day 9:

I caught him reading in the library—reading, not just flipping pages. Actual comprehension.

The book was on ancient runes. I hadn't even read that one.

"How much do you understand?" I asked, peering over his shoulder.

"Enough."

"Enough for what? A small act of terrorism?"

He shrugged.

I began locking the spellbook section.

Day 10:

I introduced him to the estate's training grounds. Nothing fancy, just a few dummies, wooden swords, and straw targets.

He picked up a blade like he'd done it before.

Then broke a training dummy's arm clean off with a single strike.

I stared at the damage. Then at his thin arms. Then back at the damage.

"...Okay. No more blacksmith-forged toys for you."

He blinked. "This is wood."

I said nothing.

That night, I sat by the fireplace, sipping wine and questioning my life choices, while Elias curled up on the far end of the sofa like a cat that hadn't decided if I was safe yet.

The fire cracked. The wind outside howled. Distant thunder rumbled over the mountains.

The mana storms were getting closer.

I glanced at him. Five years old, brilliant, broken, barely talking.

And in fourteen years, this boy was supposed to die saving the world.

Not on my watch.

I leaned back and made a list in my head.

Step 1: Stabilize Elias.

Step 2: Secure resources.

Step 3: Get political power.

Step 4: Break the novel over my knee.

And for Step 3, I had a name.

Kael Vire, Grand Duke of the Western March.

Infamous, untouchable, rich enough to buy a country, and single.

I raised my glass toward the fire.

"To fake engagements," I said aloud.

Elias didn't respond.

But he did reach for another tart.

Progress.

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End of Chapter 3

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