The sun had barely risen over Vakuroum Fortress when the courtyard filled with the usual rhythm of training. Among the soldiers moved a small boy—Andreas Valekor, only four years old, but already far ahead of students many times his age.
He practiced quietly and consistently, focused more than any child should be. The servants treated him with a mix of respect and caution; to them, he was less like a child and more like a young heir being shaped for something larger.
Andreas rarely spoke. His father, the Overlord, offered neither praise nor comfort, only expectation. The boy accepted it as simply the way things were. His mother had died when he was born, and no one spoke about her. The fortress itself was a place of stone, silence, and routine—hardly a place for warmth.
Still, life here was predictable. Days were filled with lessons in combat, magic, and strategy. Nights were spent studying in his small chamber. Sometimes he heard other children playing in distant halls, their laughter faint through the stone. He never joined them, simply watching from a distance when he crossed paths with them.
He didn't feel envy. He didn't feel much at all. But he remembered the way they moved, the way they reacted, the way friendships formed and broke. Everything became information—useful, later.
Andreas trained, studied, and grew. Not because anyone demanded it aloud, but because it was the only world he knew. If perfection was expected, then he would meet it. If strength defined survival, then he would master it.
One day, he would become exactly what the fortress was shaping him to be.