In the grand, decaying machinery of House Valerius, there existed one person who understood the Duke’s broken son better than any physician, priest, or scholar ever had. Her name was Elara, and she was not a woman of noble birth or legendary magi. She wasn't gifted with swordsmanship. Or blessed with great magic. Nor particularly extraordinarily intelligent. And yet, for years now, she had quietly become the axis upon which Kael Valerius’s entire life revolved.
The best that Kael could do was endure. And Elara made enduring possible.
Every morning, before the third morning bell rang, Elara would enter Kael’s chambers in silence. The curtains were always opened slowly because too much sunlight too quickly caused the unsuspecting rat of a young master hidden under the bedcover to shrivel up and whine.
The first maid who had thrown open the windows carelessly had spent the next ten minutes screaming because Kael suddenly began clawing at the walls while begging invisible things not to look inside his eyes. So Elara learned the only way to handle the young master and recited it over and over in her mind like a devout believer.
First, gradually open the blinds.
Then, let the warm light graze the young master's side.
Carefully tiptoe so I can avoid loud footsteps.
And last, never ever suddenly touch the young master from behind.
Following these rules was the difference between a good morning and a terrible one.
“My Lord,” she said softly as she approached his bedside.
“Today is red, my Lord. ”
At the enticing voice of his dutiful maid, Kael sat awake, yet his silver eyes fixed toward the far corner of the room, unmoving.
It was a fundamental truth of the North that not one person in the Valerius household managed to live to the end of their natural life without developing a loose screw or two. The cold and the isolation of the estate seemed to act like a slow-motion hammer that eventually cracked even the sturdiest of minds.
And telling her young master the color of her panties every day till it became part of his routine?
This was Elara's own brand of mischief.
Yet even hearing her young master's favorite color, he remained fixated on the wall.
Watching something.
Or someone.
Elara no longer asked. Sometimes his gaze tracked empty air. Sometimes he flinched from shadows no one else could perceive. Other times, he whispered apologies beneath his breath to things that were not there.
But today seemed suspiciously manageable somehow. Nonetheless, it was good. Manageable days meant he would probably remember how to eat without Elara forcing the food down his throat.
Kael’s condition was only something he could survive because he was part of House Valerius. Anywhere else, he would have died years ago. A poor child who spoke to ghosts and forgot what he was saying would not survive a Northern winter. But Kael was a Duke’s son. Money could fix many problems.
He did not manage schedules.
Stewards handled that.
He did not remember formal obligations.
Servants reminded him.
He did not prepare clothes, organize meals, or navigate complicated social rituals.
Others simply did those things for him.
Thinking, after all, was a luxury rich people could pay servants to do.
So, Elara dressed him every morning in heavy Northern clothes. She fastened his silver clips. She gently moved his head when he stared too long at some unseen horror. She cut his food into small bits because large plates of food made him feel overwhelmed. She took the bones out of his fish because an unexpected texture might make him stop eating for the whole day. During parties, she helped him talk when he went silent.
To people on the outside, it looked shameful. But Elara knew Kael was not stupid. He was just drowning in an ocean of a million voices. That was the truth that most people were too impatient to understand.