Ashar was now a year old.

He did not toddle like other children. He did not laugh without reason or cry for attention. Instead, he sat still—silent, focused, always watching.

The nurses whispered when they thought no one heard them.

“He’s so quiet. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t cry.”

But the queen never seemed troubled. If anything, she seemed to understand his quiet better than they ever could.

Some children reached with eager hands.

Ashar reached with his gaze.

---

A Mother’s Warmth

Mornings began with Queen Lira humming softly as sunlight pooled through the palace windows. Ashar would sit beside her, nestled against the folds of her silken robes as she reviewed scrolls and tomes from distant lands.

Lira would occasionally glance at him—not with expectation, but with amusement.

“You always find the quietest place in the room,” she murmured one morning, brushing his hair back gently. “That’s either the mark of a scholar or a king.”

Ashar did not move, but his eyes flicked to the text on her lap.

She smiled.

“Always watching. You’ll make a dangerous listener one day.”

Her fingers lightly tapped a glowing glyph on the page. “You may not understand these yet… but I think you’re listening anyway.”

Sometimes she would rest her hand atop his head and whisper,

“No rush. No pressure. You don’t need to speak for me to hear you.”

---

Eyes on the Crown

When Ashar’s father, King Alric, held court, Ashar would sometimes be present—quiet in Lira’s arms or seated beside the throne. From there, he watched.

The nobles. The merchants. The foreign envoys with honeyed words and hidden blades.

Most of them underestimated a child’s gaze.

But Ashar saw the stiffness in their shoulders when speaking falsehoods. The pride in their voices when lying through omission. The greed they thought masked behind elegance.

He learned from his father, too.

Alric spoke little, but when he did, his words landed like sword strikes. Precise. Final. There was no room for misunderstanding. The king ruled not through fear, but through presence.

Ashar respected that.

Not the power—but the restraint.

---

The Garden of Still Winds

One evening, Lira brought Ashar to the inner palace garden. The breeze was gentle, carrying the scent of starblossoms. Magical lanterns floated above, casting soft blue light over the marble paths.

They sat beneath the whispering tree—an old elven relic that resonated with emotion rather than sound.

Lira looked at her son, brushing a stray lock of silver-blue hair from his eyes.

“You’re always so calm,” she said softly. “But you’re thinking all the time, aren’t you?”

Ashar blinked once.

She smiled. “That’s fine. Think. Learn. But don’t forget to feel.”

For a long moment, they sat in silence.

Ashar watched a moth land on her finger. It glowed faintly—drawn to her presence, not her magic.

And for the first time, Ashar felt something stir—something he hadn’t expected.

Not duty. Not calculation.

Something smaller. Softer.

Maybe this world wasn’t just to be studied.

Maybe it was also… to be understood.

---

End of Chapter 3