The bench was cold, as it had always been. Vaelthrys sat there, not far from the chambers of the child entrusted to her, and let the silence take effect. The castle slept. Even the corridors held their breath, as if they knew that thoughts could weigh heavier than footsteps. She had seen many sit at this place. Witches, envoys, creatures from Limbus and beyond. Beings that came to plead, to negotiate or to threaten. Not one of them had ever made her linger longer than necessary. The child had.

  Not because of his power. She had seen power in a thousand forms.

  Not because of his runes. She knew their origin better than most.

  But because of the way he listened.

  "I want to understand."

  The words still echoed within her. No defiance. No hunger for control. No wish to rule. Only the quiet, dangerous desire to comprehend connections. Vaelthrys folded her hands and looked at the muted light that fell from beneath the door of his chambers. He slept now. And yet it was as if something within him continued to work — not power, but consciousness. A child, created from ritual, blood and decision. Not born, but chosen. She knew such beings. Or believed she did at least. But this one…

  It did not ask: What am I permitted to do?

  It asked: Why?

  That was new. And dangerous.

  Vaelthrys exhaled slowly. She had once stood at the threshold herself. As the daughter of an old line, destined for a place in Limbus that had been taken from her. Betrayed. Broken. Saved — not from grace, but from foresight. Aelthyria had preserved her where others would have sacrificed her. And now she did so again.

  "You are not accompanying a tool," Vaelthrys thought.

  "You are accompanying a decision that has not yet been made."

  Her runes glimmered faintly, responding not to danger but to recognition. She knew she could stop him if it became necessary. That she would protect him when it was demanded. And that when the time came, she would also have to stand between him and the world. Not as a guardian. But as a boundary.

  She rose slowly from the bench, one last glance at the door of the chambers.

  "Sleep well, little one," she murmured. "The world is not ready for questions like yours."

  And as she walked down the corridor, she knew one thing with absolute clarity: What she accompanied was no child. But not yet a fate either. Something in between. Something that still had to decide what it wished to become.

  Vaelthrys' steps echoed quietly through the corridor as she moved away from the chambers. The silence still lay heavy over the castle, yet she knew it would not remain alone for long. She felt them before she saw them. Three figures detached from the half-shadow near the colonnade. No hurried movements, no abrupt appearance — too experienced for that. Silvara, the dark elf, inclined her head respectfully. Beside her Ceryne, hands folded, watchful. Thalyra remained one step back, her daemonic eyes attentive but controlled.

  "Vaelthrys," Silvara began calmly. "We heard that there was… an incident."

  Vaelthrys paused, turned to face them. Her golden eyes regarded the three witches for a moment, as if weighing how much silence was still necessary — and how much truth.

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  "Kael forgot his boundaries," she said finally. No anger in her voice, only observation.

  Thalyra raised her gaze slightly. "It is said he provoked the child."

  "He called him a plaything," confirmed Vaelthrys. "And mistook patience for weakness in doing so."

  Ceryne exhaled quietly. "And the fight? They say Kael… retreated."

  A barely perceptible glimmer ran over Vaelthrys' runes. "He was overwhelmed. Not through brute force, but through decision. The child did not react — it acted."

  Silvara pursed her lips thoughtfully. "So it was no outburst. No loss of control."

  "No," said Vaelthrys calmly. "And that is precisely what should concern you."

  The three witches exchanged brief glances. Thalyra spoke first. "Then he is more dangerous than we thought."

  Vaelthrys shook her head slowly. "No. He is more conscious."

  She stepped past them, yet paused after two steps. "Remember one thing," she added, without turning around. "Kael lost because he believed he saw a tool before him. If you make the same mistake, he will not repeat it."

  "What should we do?" asked Silvara quietly.

  Vaelthrys turned back to face them after all. "Observe. Learn. And above all: force nothing. The child stands under the protection of the creator. Every misstep…"

  Her gaze rested one heartbeat too long on each of them.

  "…will have consequences."

  For a moment no one said anything. The corridor seemed to narrow, as if it had itself understood that words carried weight here.

  It was Silvara who finally broke the silence. "And the child itself?" she asked carefully. "How… does he work? We need to be able to assess how to approach him without—"

  "—without influencing him?" completed Vaelthrys calmly.

  Silvara nodded. "Without making a mistake."

  Vaelthrys' lips twisted almost imperceptibly. An expression that recalled knowledge more than a smile. "You want a classification," she said. "A framework. Something you can name."

  Thalyra crossed her arms. "He is no ordinary child. And no ordinary tool. Kael learned that the hard way."

  "Kael," repeated Vaelthrys quietly. "Believed that strength could be measured before it decides."

  Ceryne stepped half a pace forward. "Then tell us at least this: does he react from defiance? From curiosity? Or from… hunger for power?"

  For a moment Vaelthrys only looked at them. Her eyes seemed deep, old, heavy with memories she did not share.

  "If I were to answer that," she said finally, "you would begin to adjust to it. And that is precisely what you should not do."

  Silvara furrowed her brow. "So we are to act blindly?"

  "No," replied Vaelthrys. "You are to act honestly. Without calculation. Without expectation. Whoever tries to classify him will inevitably try to guide him."

  Thalyra snorted quietly. "That is easily said when one is not oneself in danger."

  Then something glimmered in Vaelthrys' gaze. No anger — more a distant, dangerous amusement. "Trust me," she said calmly, "if he ever becomes a danger, it will not be because someone was too cautious."

  Ceryne lowered her gaze. "So only observation remains for us."

  "And patience," confirmed Vaelthrys. "Both are harder for most than power."

  A quiet, barely perceptible crackling passed through the corridor. Not loud. Not threatening.

  But… final.

  Vaelthrys felt it immediately. The air changed. Not through pressure, but through order. As if something had decided to be present now. The three witches froze.

  "That is enough," a voice sounded — calm, clear, undeniable.

  Aelthyria stood suddenly at the end of the corridor. No portal, no step, no sound had announced her appearance. She was simply there. Her gaze calm, her presence absolute. Vaelthrys inclined her head slightly. Not submissively — in acknowledgement.

  "Mistress," said Silvara hastily, the others followed her example.

  Aelthyria did not look to them immediately. Her gaze rested a moment on Vaelthrys, as if she had heard every word — or had never needed any.

  "You need not know how he thinks," she said finally. "You need only understand that he does."

  Silence.

  "Go," she added.

  The witches did not hesitate for a moment. They bowed and withdrew, the corridor swallowing their steps. When they were alone, Aelthyria turned her gaze once more to Vaelthrys.

  "You told them nothing," she observed.

  Vaelthrys' golden eyes glimmered softly. "Because there is nothing yet to say."

  A barely perceptible smile lay on Aelthyria's lips.

  "Good," she said. "Then we let him continue to decide."

  Aelthyria turned away and set herself in motion. Vaelthrys followed without hesitation. Their steps did not echo; the corridor seemed to know them, let them pass, as if they belonged to its order.