Lucien was having the most fun he’d had in two lifetimes with his new ability, Equilibrium. He had recently cornered Sebas in a small storage room and, after a particularly potent bit of indigestion, used the "Tilt" to amplify the scent to a biological-warfare level.

  He leaned against the hallway wall, listening to the muffled bangs and frantic gagging from inside. "Young Master! Please! Open the door!" Sebas wailed. Lucien let out a hearty, genuine laugh. When was the last time he’d enjoyed such juvenile mischief? It had been decades. He was eleven years old again; surely the savior of the world was allowed a little flatulence-based humor.

  But the fun had to be measured. He was carrying a mountain on his shoulders, and the faster he secured his future, the faster he could return to a life of true leisure. With a massive Aether Stone mine now under his secret control, his wealth was guaranteed. He could already see his future: Women, wine, parties, games, and the finest luxuries.

  Lucien’s toothy smile widened. The path was clear:

  

  
1. Go to the Academy.


  
2. Find Ray Melborne.


  
3. Wait for the perfect window to off him.


  

  He was confident he’d be done by year's end. He knew Elaine wouldn't mind; she loathed the man anyway. Her "retaliation" would likely be a thank-you note.

  Things were finally moving smoothly, and Lucien was all for it. He skipped through the estate gardens, pushing the limits of Equilibrium. He tilted his physical momentum, turning simple skips into massive, gravity-defying hops.

  He covered ground with the speed of a low-flying bird, the wind rushing through his hair and whistling in his ears. It was exhilarating.

  Marcis stepped out onto the veranda, his jaw dropping as he watched his son launch himself fifteen feet into the air. "Lucien! Such... such big hops you have!"

  Lucien landed with a light thud and laughed. He didn't even bother concocting an elaborate story or a fake "deal" this time. "Yeah! I’m just really good at hopping, Papa!"

  His eleven-year-old innocence was a perfect shield; these people were so blinded by their love that they accepted the impossible as "childish talent." There was no need to complicate things.

  Adeline appeared beside her husband, her eyes shimmering with pride. "Just like a little angel flying around," she cooed, clasping her hands together.

  In the background, Sebas stood by the door, his face pale and a complicated look in his eyes. He still had the faint scent of the "amplified" room clinging to his coat, and he was slowly realizing that the "Young Master’s" eccentricities were going to be the death of his sanity. But he said nothing. He was learning that in Lucien’s world, it was better to just keep mopping.

  The rhythmic crunch of gravel announced the arrival of a man draped in a dusty blue coat, a heavy leather satchel slung across his shoulder. It was the mailman, a familiar face in the village, though Lucien hadn’t seen him in decades.

  In his previous life, this man’s path had never crossed with Lucien's. By the time the mail had arrived, the "deal" had already soured, the estate was in flames, and Lucien was being dragged toward the slave pits in chains. But the ripples of time had changed, and the mailman was exactly on schedule.

  Lucien watched him approach the veranda. According to what Elaine had told him in the future, He was a student by invitation. Apparently, his father had earned some mysterious merit that granted Lucien a slot at the prestigious Academy.

  Lucien glanced at Marcis, who was currently trying to tickle Adeline’s chin with a blade of grass. Seriously, Lucien mused, what merit could this man have possibly earned? His only expertise seems to be professional lounging and spending every waking second with his wife.

  The mailman reached the steps, tipping his cap as he wiped sweat from his brow.

  "Good day to you, Baron Marcis," the man called out, reaching into his satchel with a practiced flourish. "I have a formal delivery for the House of Marcis. It bears the seal of the Capital."

  He pulled out a thick, cream-colored envelope. It was heavy, made of high-quality vellum that shimmered slightly in the afternoon sun. The crimson wax seal was unmistakable—the crest of the Royal Academy of Magics and Martial Arts.

  Marcis straightened up, his playful expression replaced by a look of genuine surprise. "The Capital? For us?"

  "Indeed, sir," the mailman said, handing over the letter with a bow. "It’s addressed to the Young Master."

  Adeline gasped, her hands flying to her cheeks. Sebas, standing in the shadows of the doorway, narrowed his eyes, his heart skipping a beat. He knew what this meant. The path Lucien had predicted was unfolding exactly as the boy had said it would.

  Marcis took the letter, his fingers tracing the embossed seal. "Lucien... this is an invitation. For the Academy."

  Lucien didn't act surprised. He just stared at the envelope, his mind already calculating the distance to the capital and the exact moment he would run into Ray Melborne. Playtime was finally over; it was now time to face reality.

  Marcis stood there, his jaw practically hitting the floor, before a dim light of realization finally flickered in his eyes. "That’s right!" he exclaimed, slapping his forehead. "I remember now! When I was bestowed this Barony, the King’s decree mentioned that my next-born would be granted a full scholarship to the Academy. And for free at that!" He let out a booming, carefree laugh.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Adeline pressed against his arm, her eyes shining with pride. "Oh, Marcis, you’re so lucky! You truly are my lucky star."

  "No, my darling," Marcis whispered, leaning in close, "you are my lucky star."

  The world around them began to dissolve as they drifted into their usual romantic fog, staring into each other's eyes. The mailman, however, was a man on a schedule and well-acquainted with the Baron’s quirks. He let out a cough so loud and exaggerated it sounded like a dying beast.

  The couple snapped back to reality. "Ah, thank you," Marcis said, not entirely sure why he was thanking the man—perhaps for saving them from their own distraction.

  "Sir, please," the mailman urged, gesturing to the vellum. "Open the letter and give me the response. I must return this post-haste to the regional office."

  The atmosphere shifted instantly. The couple hesitated, the gravity of the invitation finally sinking in. Lucien would be the first of his siblings to leave the nest for the Capital. They looked at their "sweet, innocent" little boy, their hearts aching at the thought of him being tossed into the den of vipers that was the high nobility.

  "The Academy is a cruel place for someone as soft-hearted as our Lu," Marcis muttered, his grip tightening on the envelope. He looked at Adeline, seeing his own fear reflected in her eyes. "Perhaps... perhaps we should decline. We can teach him here. We can keep him safe."

  Marcis opened his mouth to tell the mailman to take the invitation back, but before the words could leave his lips, Sebas stepped forward from the shadows. His voice was firm, cutting through the Baron’s indecision like a blade.

  "Baron Marcis, forgive my intrusion," Sebas said, bowing low but keeping his eyes fixed on the letter. "But you cannot decline. This is not merely an invitation; it is a royal merit. To turn it down would be to slight the crown’s generosity. More importantly..."

  Sebas stole a glance at Lucien, who was watching with that terrifyingly calm, predatory stillness. "The Young Master has a talent that this village cannot contain. He is a 'lucky star,' as you say. If you truly love him, you must let him shine where the world can see him."

  Marcis wavered, looking from his stern butler back to his small, "innocent" son. The trap was set, and even the parents' love was now being used as the very thing that would push Lucien toward his target.

  Good job, Lucien thought, a cold satisfaction settling in his gut. He hadn’t actually considered his parents’ overprotectiveness might lead them to decline the invitation. It was a minor oversight in his calculations, but Sebas had stepped in at the perfect moment. I was right to involve a helper. And I found the perfect one.

  Seeing his parents still wavering, Lucien realized he needed to seal the deal. He hopped off the veranda railing and skipped over to his father, tugging on Marcis’s sleeve with a grip that was just a bit too firm to be truly "cute."

  "Papa! Does that letter say I can go to the big school?" Lucien asked. He widened his eyes, trying to make them shimmer with a childish wonder he hadn't felt in decades. "I want to go! I bet they have so many friends there! We can play tag, and eat sweets, and... and learn magic together!"

  He let out a high-pitched, forced giggle that sounded more like a rusty hinge than a child's laughter. "It sounds so much fun! Please, Papa? I want to meet everyone and be the bestest friend ever!"

  Adeline melted instantly, clutching her chest at her son's "sweetness." But the mailman, who had seen thousands of children in his years on the road, felt a sudden, inexplicable chill crawl down his spine.

  He stared at Lucien. On the surface, the boy looked perfect—flushed cheeks, wide eyes, and an excited voice. But there was something off. The boy's eyes didn't match his mouth; they remained sharp, ancient, and utterly still, like a predator wearing a sheep’s skin. The way he giggled felt rehearsed, as if he were reciting lines from a play he didn't quite understand.

  The mailman shifted his weight, feeling an intense urge to leave. He couldn't put his finger on why, but the "sweet little boy" gave him the same instinctual warning he got when he stumbled upon a viper in the tall grass.

  "Er... yes," the mailman stammered, his voice sounding thin. "Lots of... friends. Very fun. Truly."

  He looked at Marcis with a desperate plea in his eyes. "The response, sir? I really must be going. The sun is... setting. Or it will be. Eventually."

  Marcis, blinded by his son’s supposed enthusiasm, sighed and reached for a pen. "Well, if our little angel wants to go so badly... how can we say no? He’s always had such a social heart."

  As Marcis signed the vellum, the mailman snatched it up the moment the ink was dry. He tipped his hat hurriedly, didn't look Lucien in the eye again, and practically sprinted back toward his horse.

  Lucien watched him go, his "excited" smile dropping the second the man turned his back. He looked at Sebas, who was the only one in the world who understood the chilling silence behind that performance.

  "Madam, Sir," Sebas interrupted, stepping forward with his practiced, professional cadence. "I think it’s best if I start preparing things for the young master and escort him to the capital personally. It will be a two-month travel, and it will be quite the journey."

  The mention of a two-month journey acted like a physical blow to Adeline. The reality of the separation finally set in, and she burst into a fresh wave of tears, her grief filling the garden.

  "I will miss your birthday!" she wailed, clutching Lucien to her chest so tightly he could barely breathe. "I will miss my baby’s twelfth birthday! My little angel will be turning twelve in the cold, distant Capital without his mother there to bake his favorite cake!"

  Marcis stood tall, his chest heaving as he fought to maintain a shred of fatherly dignity. His eyes were swimming, the tears threatening to spill over at any second, but he held them back with a strained, shaky nod.

  "Good, then," Marcis said, his voice thick and wavering. "If he must go, he shall go with a belly full of home. Sebas, before you begin the travel preparations, go to the village. Tell everyone to prepare a banquet. We are having a party—no, a festival! We will celebrate his twelfth birthday early. The House of Marcis does not let its son leave without a proper send-off."

  "Yes, Master," Sebas replied, bowing deeply. He was more than happy for the excuse to escape. He needed to be away from the suffocating emotional atmosphere and the Young Master’s unnerving, silent judgment.

  Sebas left in a hurry, his long strides carrying him down the gravel path toward the village. He had an enormous task ahead: meat to be roasted, ale to be tapped, and an entire community to organize for an impromptu celebration.

  As Sebas disappeared toward the village, Lucien remained trapped in his mother’s weeping embrace. He looked over her shoulder at the empty garden, his mind already drifting. He wasn't thinking about the party or the cake. He was thinking about those two months on the road. It was two months of isolation with Sebas—two months to push the limits of Equilibrium and refine his "helper" without his parents’ prying eyes.

  "It will be a wonderful party, Mama," Lucien whispered, patting her back with a mechanical, rhythmic motion. "The best party ever."

  Behind his vacant smile, he was already counting the days until he could finally trade the scent of home for the smell of the Academy’s training grounds—and the blood of Ray Melborne.