The study was quiet, almost unnaturally so, the soft glow of the morning sun filtering through tall windows and painting long, golden rectangles across the polished wooden floor. Lydan sat at the desk, quill poised above an open ledger, though the numbers themselves were secondary to the exercise of his own control. His mind circled over each line, each sum, not merely to find errors, but to test patience, to sharpen observation, to discipline thought.
The impulse to draw mana whispered at the edges of his consciousness. He could feel the familiar warmth of energy that had begun to awaken within him, urging him to reinforce his limbs, steady his hands, make every action effortless. But he did not. He remembered the Voice's instruction clearly: Do not use it. Wait. Be patient.
The words were neither gentle nor commanding, simply factual, and they clung to him like a shadow he could not shake. The restraint burned against him, a quiet tension in every nerve, but he accepted it. Mana would come when it was meant to. For now, observation, patience, and careful deliberation were enough.
He scribbled numbers again, correcting minor errors, tracing the lines of the ledger with meticulous care. Minutes passed in deliberate silence.
Alone, he had grown accustomed to this silent companionship. The mansion was vast and still, servants bustling in distant corridors, yet he felt neither lonely nor isolated. The calm presence of the Voice filled that emptiness, subtle, unobtrusive, yet grounding. Solitude was not punishment; it was practice.
A sudden, sharp creak interrupted the quiet, followed by the resonant crack of wood straining under weight. Lydan's eyes snapped to the ceiling, instinct pulling him into motion before thought could intervene. A ceiling decoration—ornate, gilded, heavier than it appeared—had loosened from its fastenings. It teetered dangerously, and in the next heartbeat, it began to fall, aimed straight at him.
Reflex took over. Lydan dodged sideways, rolling along the polished floor, narrowly avoiding the lethal arc of metal and wood. The decoration crashed to the ground with a resounding thud, splintering in several places. Dust and shards scattered across the room. For a moment, he lay still, heart racing, muscles coiled with lingering adrenaline.
He forced himself to inhale slowly, measuring his pulse, resisting the temptation to summon mana to steady himself or reinforce his body. He could feel the tension in his limbs, the frustration gnawing at him. The Voice had made it clear: power was not needed. Restraint, precision, and observation were sufficient,
for now.
Rising carefully, Lydan surveyed the mess. Several small splinters had lodged in the carpet, fragments of gilding lay scattered, and the ledger had shifted slightly, edges bent from the vibration of the crash. He straightened, letting the weight of his presence fill the room.
Though the awakening ceremony had been near-disastrous, he had not lost authority. He was still the Duke's son. That alone commanded respect.
"Clear this .Now," he ordered, his voice firm, measured, leaving no room for hesitation. The nearest servant hurried over, eyes wide, yet Lydan's composed command made their hands steady and purposeful. Together they removed the debris, guided by his precise directions. He oversaw every movement, asserting authority without force, demonstrating that even in moments of failure, his role—and his control—remained intact.
He then examined the ceiling, noting the loosened fixture, tracing the cracks in the plaster with a careful eye. A minor adjustment to the fastening and a few supportive props restored stability, ensuring it would not fall again. Each action was deliberate, controlled, and executed without relying on mana. The challenge had been physical, yes, but its true lesson lay in the patience it demanded,
he prefered to do such small tasks, it was faster that way.
When the last fragment of gilding was removed and the room returned to order, Lydan leaned against the desk, catching his breath. The adrenaline faded, replaced by a quiet satisfaction—not from triumph over danger, but from mastery over himself. He had felt the desire to act with power, to shortcut the effort, yet he had resisted. The lesson was clear: control, not strength, determined preparedness.
The morning light shifted across the study, falling on the ledgers again. Lydan returned to his work, quill in hand, tracing numbers with careful precision. The mansion remained quiet, save for the distant sounds of servants and the faint clatter of utensils in the kitchen. Outside, snow lay thick on the courtyard, still undisturbed.
He thought briefly of the Voice. He had tried to question it countless times, pressing for explanations, instructions, or even guidance beyond the obvious. Each time, silence had been the only answer, a reminder that intervention came only when necessary. The absence of a reply was not dismissal but expectation: he was meant to learn patience, to observe, and to grow.
The small incident with the ceiling decoration lingered in his mind. Frustration rose again, subtle but persistent, at being unable to rely on the mana that surged, restless, within him. Even basic reinforcement to strengthen his body or steady his movements remained forbidden. And yet, he did not complain aloud. The silence of the Voice was enough, and the mastery gained from restraint felt heavier, yet more enduring, than any immediate use of power could provide.
Minutes stretched into hours. The study was once again calm. Candlelight flickered as the day moved forward, shadows shifting gently across the polished floor. Lydan traced numbers and calculated sums, his mind sharper for the minor crisis. He had moved swiftly, acted decisively, and yet remained within the limits set by the Voice. His body ached faintly, but the ache was satisfying—a reminder of the patience cultivated, the strength earned without shortcuts.
Alone, he allowed himself a small tug at his lips. He did not need conversation or comfort from others. The mansion could remain vast and empty; the lessons of restraint and observation, the quiet guidance of the Voice, were more than enough. He had learned to find companionship in silence, and focus in solitude, even in moments of minor danger.
The quiet was suddenly punctuated by a distant sound—a subtle disturbance elsewhere in the mansion. Lydan's eyes flicked to the door, the hall beyond, but he made no move. The lesson of the morning remained: patience before action, observation before response. Some challenges required immediate reaction, others demanded calm awareness.
He returned to his ledger, quill in hand, mind sharpening with each line. The incident with the falling ornament was a test he had passed—not by strength, but by restraint. The Voice had not spoken, yet its lesson was clear, lingering in the quiet confidence that now steadied his movements. He had learned to trust himself even in solitude, to act without reliance on power, and to embrace patience as his ally.
The morning stretched on, calm once more. Lydan worked, thinking, observing. The mansion remained largely unaware of the brief danger that had almost claimed him, yet he carried the lesson within him: control over oneself outweighed control over the world. Mana could wait. Mastery of patience could not.