The knowledge gleaned from the forgotten archive settled within me, a heavy, cold weight. The Montala Church was not just a corrupt institution; it was a parasitic entity, slowly draining the lifeblood from the kingdom through centuries of cunning manipulation and spiritual blackmail. The "Prince's Debt" was less about money and more about dominion, a web of ancient land grabs and feudal ties disguised as divine favor. My child's mind was now a repository of dangerous, subversive truths, and the burden of keeping them secret was immense.
My days continued in their established rhythm, but every interaction felt charged with new meaning. Father Alaric's lectures on divine blessings now highlighted the vast tracts of land Montala supposedly "blessed" the kingdom with, when in reality, they had been systematically absorbed by the Church. I would nod, feign comprehension, and internally map the discrepancies, my gaze sometimes lingering on the temple's intricate frescoes that depicted a history subtly different from the one I had just uncovered.
Valerius, however, was becoming a more palpable threat. His silent observations were no longer confined to the temple's periphery. He began to appear in the Duke's study during my lessons with Seraphina, ostensibly to review "Elias's progress" or "discuss a matter with the Duke's daughter." His visits felt like psychological probes, his questions to Seraphina often circuitous, designed to draw out my reactions.
"Seraphina," he asked one afternoon, his eyes fixed on me as I stacked wooden blocks, "your brother shows remarkable memory for one so young. Have you ever seen him demonstrate a talent that surprises you, something beyond the usual childhood development?"
Seraphina, ever innocent, laughed. "Oh, Lord Valerius, Elias surprises me every day! His grasp of language is astounding, and he drew such a clever little bird yesterday. He sees so much, I think, even if he doesn't say much." She looked at me, a fond smile on her face.
I continued stacking my blocks, making a deliberate effort to knock them over with a childish giggle. The "clever little bird" Seraphina mentioned was, in fact, a crude map of the temple's layout, which I had drawn in the dust outside yesterday, quickly erasing it before anyone else saw. My heart thumped. Valerius's gaze was sharp, lingering on my "innocent" mess. He didn't comment directly on Seraphina's reply, but a flicker in his eyes suggested he filed her words away. He was testing the boundaries of my facade, looking for any crack.
The unrest in the eastern farmlands, mentioned by Seraphina, weighed heavily on my mind. I began to connect it to the archive's records. The "fertile plains of Eldoria," now Church property, were precisely in the east. The Montala tithes, which fueled the farmers' discontent, were likely heavier and more aggressively collected on Church-owned land. The Church was not merely taxing; it was actively impoverishing the populace to enrich itself, directly creating the instability the Prince now worried about. This was the weakness I needed.
My interactions with Seraphina continued to be my sole respite. She was a genuine source of warmth and intellectual stimulation, unknowingly providing context to my secret discoveries. She once brought me an old, ornate quill and a small, blank vellum scroll, intended as a toy. "Perhaps you can draw another bird, Elias," she suggested.
I accepted it with a wide, childish grin. But later, in the privacy of my room, I carefully examined the vellum. It was of a quality that would be rare in this impoverished world, likely from the Duke's private stock. A plan began to form. I couldn't write detailed reports, but perhaps I could use crude symbols, a secret code, to record key insights from the archive or observations about the Church, small enough to hide, disguised as child's scribbles. This would be a crucial step towards externalizing my intelligence.
The constant need for vigilance, the meticulous performance of childhood, and the crushing weight of strategic planning were exhausting. There were moments, usually late at night, when the loneliness of my unique existence pressed down, when the memory of my past life, of true intellectual peers, ached with a phantom limb's pain. But then, the image of the Duke's constrained face, the hungry eyes of the common folk, and the insidious smile of Father Alaric would steel my resolve. I was not just surviving; I was preparing to dismantle. The blueprint of their undoing was growing clearer, piece by agonizing piece.