The Grant Estate did not welcome warmth.
It stood on a stretch of elevated land where the wind moved like a disciplined army—sharp, precise, and never lingering. Marble pillars framed the entrance, their pale surfaces untouched by time or sentiment. Even the gardens seemed to grow in silence, trimmed into geometric perfection, as if nature itself had signed a contract with order.
Inside, the air carried a faint chill. Not the kind born from winter—but from restraint.
At the center of it all sat Lucas Grant.
Eighteen years old, and already spoken of in lowered voices across the Orbia Kingdom. A prodigy. A tyrant. A necessary evil. The Duke.
He leaned back in his high-backed chair, one gloved hand resting against the carved armrest. His silver hair fell in smooth strands, catching the muted light like threads of frost. His eyes—sharp, crimson, unwavering—rested on the three men seated across from him.
The Council of Elders.
They had been speaking for seven minutes and thirty-two seconds.
Lucas knew this because he had counted.
"…and therefore, Your Grace," one of them continued, voice thick with rehearsed authority, "it is imperative that you consider marriage. The continuation of the Grant bloodline is not merely a personal matter—it is a national concern."
Lucas did not respond.
He simply looked at him.
The silence stretched.
The elder shifted in his seat. "You must understand—"
"I understand perfectly," Lucas said at last, his voice low and even. It carried no anger. No emotion. Just a quiet finality that made the room feel smaller. "You require a genetic continuation of my lineage to stabilize political expectations."
The elders exchanged glances.
"That is… one way to phrase it."
"It is the only accurate way to phrase it," Lucas replied.
He rose.
The movement alone was enough to make one of the elders flinch.
Lucas was tall—imposing even without effort. When he stood, it felt less like a man rising and more like a shadow deciding to take shape.
"I will not marry," he said.
"But Your Grace—"
"Humans," Lucas interrupted, tilting his head slightly as if examining a flawed specimen, "are loud, inefficient, and emotionally inconsistent. Forming a lifelong contractual bond based on social expectation is illogical."
"That is not—marriage is not merely a contract!"
"It is exactly a contract," Lucas said calmly. "One with historically poor outcomes."
The room fell into a strained quiet.
"You speak as though you are above human nature," another elder said, his tone tightening.
Lucas considered that.
"I am," he answered simply.
That ended the discussion.
Or at least—it should have.
"Then adopt," the first elder said quickly, as if tossing a final card onto the table. "If you refuse marriage, then take a ward. Raise a successor. It would satisfy the Council and silence speculation."
Lucas paused.
That… was not entirely unreasonable.
Still inefficient.
Still unnecessary.
But marginally less intolerable than marriage.
"I will consider it," he said.
The elders visibly relaxed, as though they had just negotiated their way out of a storm.
Lucas turned away, signaling dismissal.
They left quickly.
The moment the doors shut behind them, the air shifted.
Not warmer.
Just… quieter.
Lucas stood still for a moment, then exhaled—a slow, controlled release of tension he would never admit existed.
"…Adopt," he murmured.
The word felt foreign.
Unnecessary.
And yet—
If it removed interference…
If it reduced noise…
Then perhaps it was worth the inconvenience.
He turned and walked deeper into the estate, his steps soundless against the polished floors.
Eventually, he reached a door at the end of a secluded corridor.
He opened it.
And stepped into a secret.
His study.
Or rather—
His real study.
The difference was immediate.
Gone were the severe lines and cold austerity. In their place were soft, high-end rugs layered across the floor like clouds that had been persuaded to stay. Plush seating replaced rigid chairs. Warm lighting softened every edge.
And scattered across a shelf—
A collection of ceramic birds.
Round.
Smooth.
Utterly unnecessary.
Lucas approached them, expression unchanged.
"They are," he said quietly, picking one up, "strategic paperweights."
The small bird, painted in soft pastel tones, stared back at him with permanent, harmless cheer.
Lucas stared at it for a moment longer than necessary.
Then set it down.
Carefully.
"…Adopt," he repeated.
A solution.
A tool.
Nothing more.
He turned, already planning.
Tomorrow, he will visit the orphanages.
Select the most suitable candidate.
And end this inconvenience.
---
The academy-run orphanage prided itself on discipline.
Children were lined in orderly rows. Their clothes were clean. Their posture was straight. Their expressions are carefully moderated.
It was efficient.
Lucas approved.
He walked through the courtyard, his presence alone enough to silence even the quietest whispers. The staff followed at a respectful distance, their smiles strained with both pride and fear.
"We have prepared a selection of the most promising children, Your Grace," the headmistress said. "Each has been evaluated for temperament, intelligence, and—"
Lucas stopped walking.
"…Why are they arranged like merchandise?" he asked.
The headmistress froze.
"…Presentation is important."
"It is inefficient," Lucas said.
He moved past them.
"If I am to select a ward, I will observe them in their natural state."
The headmistress hesitated.
"…Of course."
They moved into the main courtyard.
Children were playing.
Running.
Laughing.
Crying.
Noise.
Lucas's expression didn't change—but internally, something recoiled.
This was precisely what he disliked.
Unstructured behavior. Emotional excess. Lack of purpose.
He was about to turn away—
When he noticed something… different.
In the far corner of the courtyard, removed from the chaos, sat a small figure.
Alone.
A child.
Four years old, perhaps.
Messy dark brown hair that refused to stay in place. Clothes slightly dirtied from sitting on the ground.
And in his hand—
A stick.
Lucas approached.
The child didn't look up.
He was drawing in the dirt.
Circles.
Lines.
Intersecting patterns.
Lucas stopped a few steps away.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
Mana-circulation diagrams.
Not simple ones.
Complex.
Precise.
The kind taught in advanced magical theory courses.
To scholars.
To adults.
"…Child," Lucas said.
His voice carried.
Deep. Controlled. Unavoidable.
"Why aren't you playing with the others?"
The child didn't respond immediately.
He finished drawing a line.
Adjusted a curve.
Then, without looking up, said:
"Playing yields a 0.02% increase in cardiovascular health but a 98% loss in cognitive productivity."
A pause.
"It is an illogical use of daylight."
Silence.
The wind moved through the courtyard.
Lucas blinked once.
Slowly.
"…What is your name?" he asked.
"Dwayne."
Still not looking up.
"Dwayne what?"
"I do not possess a surname."
Lucas studied him.
The precision of his speech.
The complete absence of hesitation.
"…What are you drawing?"
"An optimized mana-circulation pathway," Dwayne said. "The academy's current model contains inefficiencies at the tertiary junctions."
Lucas crouched slightly.
Closer now.
"Explain."
Dwayne finally looked up.
Blue eyes.
Clear.
Focused.
Not the eyes of a child.
"The flow rate is disrupted here," he said, pointing with the stick. "If adjusted, it increases output by approximately 17%."
Lucas followed the diagram.
Ran the calculation in his mind.
…
"…Correct," he said.
Dwayne nodded once, as if confirming his own conclusion.
Then returned to drawing.
Lucas did not move.
Something had shifted.
Quietly.
Decisively.
---
Part 3: The "Cute" Internal Crisis
Externally, Lucas Grant remained the same.
Still.
Cold.
Unreadable.
Internally—
Chaos.
His cheeks are round.
The thought appeared uninvited.
He looks like a tiny, grumpy owl.
Lucas stared at the child.
Small hands. Dirt-smudged knees. Absolute seriousness.
Completely absorbed in logic.
I must have him.
The conclusion formed with startling clarity.
Not emotionally.
Logically.
Yes.
Logically.
Lucas straightened.
"Dwayne," he said.
"Yes?"
"Answer a question."
Dwayne looked up again.
"Proceed."
Lucas paused for half a second.
Then:
"The Duchy's trade agreement with the Demgon Kingdom—what is its primary weakness?"
Dwayne blinked.
Once.
Then—
"The taxation structure is overly dependent on seasonal yield projections," he said. "This creates instability during irregular harvest cycles. Additionally, the import tariffs discourage long-term trade partnerships."
A beat.
"It is inefficient."
Lucas went very still.
That answer—
Was correct.
Not just correct.
It was… refined.
"…How do you know this?" Lucas asked.
"I read it," Dwayne said.
"Where?"
"The restricted archives."
The headmistress choked slightly behind them.
"That is not—he should not have access—"
"I observed the access patterns," Dwayne said calmly. "And adjusted accordingly."
Lucas closed his eyes for a brief moment.
When he opened them again—
Decision made.
"Come with me," he said.
Dwayne tilted his head.
"Why?"
"I will provide you with resources," Lucas said. "Books. Space. Education. Efficiency."
Dwayne considered that.
Then asked:
"Will your library have the updated scrolls on spatial geometry?"
Lucas paused.
"…Yes."
"If not, this transaction is sub-optimal."
"It will."
Dwayne nodded.
Satisfied.
He stood up.
Brushed the dirt off his knees with small, methodical motions.
Then walked toward Lucas.
No hesitation.
No fear.
No gratitude.
Just… acceptance.
Lucas looked down at him.
And felt something… strange.
Not emotion.
Certainly not.
Just—
A quiet certainty.
Yes.
This one.
---
Part 4: The Adoption Decree
The paperwork was completed within the hour.
Efficient.
Clean.
Final.
The Orbia Kingdom would hear of it by nightfall.
The Cold Duke had adopted a child.
A commoner.
A genius.
Speculation would follow.
Confusion.
Concern.
Lucas did not care.
He stood beside the carriage, the orphanage staff bowing repeatedly as if afraid he might change his mind.
Dwayne stood next to him.
Holding a book.
It was large.
Far too large for him.
And yet he held it with steady determination.
"…That book is inefficient for travel," Lucas said.
"It contains necessary information," Dwayne replied.
Lucas stared at it.
Then at him.
Then—
Without a word—
He reached down and picked the child up.
Dwayne blinked.
Once.
"…This is unnecessary," he said.
"It is faster," Lucas replied.
Dwayne considered that.
"…Acceptable."
He adjusted the book in his arms.
Settled.
Lucas turned toward the carriage.
And walked.
Each step measured.
Controlled.
Inside—
He was fighting an entirely different battle.
Do not poke his face.
The thought came uninvited.
His cheeks are too round.
Do not.
Lucas's fingers twitched slightly.
He tightened his grip—careful, precise, controlled.
Dwayne remained completely still, already absorbed in opening his book.
"…Your Grace," Dwayne said after a moment.
"Yes?"
"Your heartbeat has increased by 3%."
Lucas froze for half a second.
"…Irrelevant."
"Noted."
Silence returned.
The carriage door opened.
Lucas stepped inside, still holding the child.
And as the doors closed and the wheels began to turn—
The Grant Estate gained a new resident.
Not a son.
Not yet.
But something… significant.
Lucas looked down.
Dwayne had already begun reading.
Expressionless.
Focused.
Unshaken.
Lucas watched him for a long moment.
Then looked away.
"…Efficient," he murmured.
But his hand—
Very carefully—
Adjusted slightly.
Just enough to make sure the child was more comfortable.
And for the briefest moment—
His thumb hovered.
Near one very round cheek.
Then—
He pulled it back.
For now.