In the first few years of his new life, Roland could do little more than watch.
Babies, after all, are helpless everywhere—even in a world of magic and divine objects. He spent his days cradled in the arms of wet nurses, carried through echoing stone halls that reeked of oiled steel and old blood, or laid in a crib carved from dark ironwood and draped with banners of crimson and steel gray. The colors of Valkoria, the kingdom that prized strength above all else.
But Rahul's mind—sharp, adult, and impatient—was never idle.
*I need to grow up soon,* he thought often, staring at chubby fists that couldn't even grip a spoon properly. *But the mind is free. Observe. Learn. Plan.*
From the moment he could focus his infant eyes, he observed everything with a hunger that no child should possess.
The palace was no fairy-tale castle; it was a fortress disguised as a home, its walls thick enough to withstand sieges, its towers bristling with ballistae and archer slits. Every corridor ended in weapon racks gleaming with spears, swords, and axes, ready for the next raid or rebellion. The air hummed with the constant clang of hammers from the forges below, where blacksmiths toiled day and night—not on plows or tools, but on blades and armor.
*They build weapons faster than they build anything else,* Rahul noted grimly. *Priorities reveal everything.*
The servants who tended him were the true revelation. They poured wine for the nobles, changed his linens, scrubbed the floors—all while wearing iron collars that chafed their necks raw. Marks of slavery. Their eyes were downcast, their movements quick and fearful, as if a single misstep could earn the whip or worse. When they spoke, it was only in hushed tones, and never in the Valkorian tongue unless commanded.
*Slaves doing all the work that keeps this place running,* he thought. *While the "honorable" warriors train to make more slaves. It's a cycle. Unsustainable. Stupid.*
These were spoils of war: farmers ripped from their fields, artisans from their workshops, scholars from distant libraries—dragged to Valkoria because the kingdom refused to let its own citizens soil their hands with "dishonorable" labor. Warriors fought. Warriors ruled. Everything else was beneath them.
*Classic elite detachment,* Rahul mused. *History is full of empires that collapsed because the ruling class forgot how to do anything but fight.*
And the warriors were everywhere.
Even the women.
Roland's own mother, Queen Isolde, was a towering figure of muscle and scar tissue. Her golden hair was always braided tight for battle, her arms corded from years wielding spear and shield. When she visited his nursery—always in partial armor, as if ready to ride out at any moment—she would smile down at him with fierce pride.
*She loves me,* he realized. *But she loves the idea of me more—the warrior prince she expects.*
One afternoon, when he was perhaps three years old in body, she knelt beside his crib and presented a gift.
A spear.
Not a toy. A real one, scaled down for a child, but still forged of good steel, its haft wrapped in leather, the tip blunted but sharp enough to draw blood if mishandled.
"For you, my son," she said, voice booming with approval. "When you can lift it, you will begin your training."
Roland stared at the weapon. It was heavier than it looked. He reached out with chubby arms and tried to grasp it. His tiny fingers barely closed around the shaft, and the weight dragged his arms down immediately. The spear clattered back onto the fur blanket.
Queen Isolde laughed—a deep, hearty sound. "Soon, little lion. You are of the royal bloodline. Strength will come."
She ruffled his hair and left, her boots echoing down the hall.
Roland lay there, staring at the spear.
*This is the future they want for me,* he thought bitterly. *A life measured only by how many enemies I can kill. Glory over sustainability. Honor over progress.*
He had already seen the cracks in that future.
The kingdom's granaries were half-empty, even in the capital. Bread rations for the slaves were thin and hard, more stone than sustenance. The roads outside the city were crumbling—maintained only by chained work gangs under guard. Trade caravans rarely came; Valkoria had no allies, only enemies and vassal states stripped bare.
No one tried to make medicine for the plagues that swept through the barracks. No one bothered to improve the fields to yield more grain, or purify drinking water to prevent the dysentery that killed as many soldiers as enemy blades.
*They chase glory,* Rahul thought, *and call everything else weakness. But weakness is building an empire that eats itself.*
And the army, for all its fearsome reputation, was shrinking. Every war brought glory, but also fewer young men returning home. Fewer children born to replace them. The slave population grew, but slaves do not fight willingly. They sabotage quietly. They run. They plot.
Roland knew this because he listened.
Servants whispered when they thought the prince was asleep. Guards grumbled during shifts. Visiting nobles boasted of victories while quietly complaining about empty coffers.
*They're proud of their strength,* he realized, *but blind to their fragility.*
And sometimes, late at night when the palace grew quiet, Roland would close his eyes and reach inward.
Looking for solutions.
Only two professions in Valkoria held any respect beyond the warrior's path.
Priests—who channeled the will of the war gods and blessed blades before battle.
And blacksmiths—who forged those blades.
Both were tolerated because they served war. A priest who prayed for bountiful harvests would be mocked. A smith who made plows instead of swords would be shunned.
Everything else—farming, building, healing, trade—was left to slaves.
Roland watched a slave mason repair a cracked wall in the nursery one day. The man's hands were skilled, his work precise—layering mortar with a practiced flick, aligning stones so seamlessly they seemed to grow together. Yet a Valkorian overseer stood behind him, whip in hand, barking orders.
The mason never looked up.
*Such talent wasted,* Rahul thought, anger simmering. *Such potential chained.*
It made him sick to his stomach. Not just the injustice, but the stupidity. And this was a daily occurrence—slaves building the palace, forging the weapons, growing the food—while free Valkorians trained only to destroy.
*This kingdom has no future,* Roland realized, even at almost four. *Not like this.*
One day, it would collapse under its own weight of chasing glory.
Unless someone changed it.
He looked again at the child-sized spear lying beside his crib.
Then, quietly, he closed his eyes.
He had work to do.