The Whispering Wood, his brutal, vital classroom, was sealed off. Malrik sat by his window during the day, not with a book, but watching the edges of the forest, a dull ache of frustration settling in his chest. The nights stretched before him, empty and still. His carefully constructed routine, the dual life that had given him purpose and power, was on hold. The Lodge, once a place of necessary confinement he escaped each night, now felt like a true cage.
(Internal Monologue - Malrik: Stagnation. That's what this is. Every night I'm trapped here is a night I'm not learning, not growing stronger, not understanding the threats outside. The Whisperwood isn't just a place to hunt; it's a constant, dynamic test. My body, my mana, my instincts – they were being honed in that crucible. Now? I'm back to being the quiet, frail boy, the prince in exile. Useless.)
The arrival of the Holy Church knights had changed the very atmosphere of the Lodge. Their presence was like a cold, sterile wind. They moved with a crisp, military efficiency, their gleaming armor and tabards emblazoned with the stylized sunburst of the Holy Church a stark contrast to the more relaxed, albeit vigilant, demeanor of Kaelen's men. Malrik could sense their presence even without actively using his mana; it was a palpable aura of righteous purpose and disciplined power that permeated the old stones of the building.
He spent his days observing, listening. He couldn't risk using his mana senses overtly outside his room; the knights were too attuned to magical signatures, especially those active near the 'corruption pointers' they mentioned. But within the confines of his room, he could cautiously extend his senses, feeling the layout of the Lodge, tracing the movements of its occupants. He focused particularly on the areas where the knights congregated – the main hall during meals, the courtyard where they drilled or discussed their plans.
Overheard fragments of conversation became his new source of information.
"...readings are fluctuating, particularly around the western edge..."
"...we pushed three miles in, encountered only minor corrupted beasts, standard procedure..."
"...Captain Thorne is confident we'll pinpoint the source within the week..."
"...the pointers are picking up residual energy, potent but scattered. Whatever caused this corruption spike moves, or is incredibly large..."
The last fragment sent a shiver down Malrik's spine. Incredibly large. It fit the ogre.
(Internal Monologue - Malrik: They're looking. They know something is there, something significant. 'Potent but scattered residual energy'... that implies it either leaves a massive trail, or it's consuming everything in its path, scattering the taint. The ogre. It's the only thing that fits. They're hunting the apex predator I found. Good. Let them. Their methods are brute force, purging. Mine are… different. But they can clear the way. The question is, what happens when they find it? Can they even kill something like that? Or will they just provoke it?)
His nights were the most difficult. Used to the physical exhaustion and mental focus of the hunt, the forced inactivity was almost painful. He practiced Nexciva for hours, pushing his mana circulation, refining his control, but it felt incomplete without the practical application, the life-or-death test of combat. He read the few relevant books in the Lodge library again, searching for any mention of deeply corrupted creatures, ogres transformed by taint, or advanced methods for tracking and dealing with such threats. The information was sparse, often couched in vague, historical terms.
A few days into the knights' presence, Sir Kaelen approached him with the suggestion of a supervised outing into the nearby small town of Oakhaven, conveyed through Kaelen's gentle, if slightly awkward, gestures and simple drawn figures on a slate – a necessary workaround for Malrik's inability to speak. Malrik simply offered a quiet nod, his eyes distant, projecting the necessary air of passive compliance, his internal sensors immediately assessing the potential for observation and the need for an even more stringent application of his facade. Kaelen smiled gently, taking the nod as agreement, "Good. Some fresh air will do you good, Your Grace. Just a short trip."
The town was a cluster of timber and stone buildings, smelling of woodsmoke and damp earth. Malrik walked slowly beside Kaelen, his gaze seemingly distant, his steps deliberate and careful, playing the part of the fragile exile perfectly. The townspeople cast him wary glances, some pitying, some openly hostile. He ignored them all, focusing his awareness outwards, sensing the shift in ambient mana, the presence of the Holy Church knights who were also occasionally seen in the town.
He was near the small market square when a voice, sharp with ingrained bitterness, cut through the muted sounds of the town.
"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in. If it isn't the little lordling. Finally decided to leave your soft bed, did you?"
Malrik turned, his face a mask of polite, mild surprise, carefully calibrated to fit the persona. Anya Meadowlight stood a few feet away, accompanied by two other young common women. Her smile was thin and sharp, her eyes holding a clear, cutting resentment. Anya was the daughter of one of the local woodcutters, known for her sharp tongue and deep-seated dislike of the nobility, a feeling amplified since Malrik's exile had done little to improve the harsh lives of the common folk.
(Internal Monologue - Malrik: Anya Meadowlight. The woodcutter's daughter. Still nursing that commoner's bitterness. She sees the gilded cage, not the exile. She sees the 'lordling,' not the hunted. She thinks her life is hard, and it is, but she has no concept of the true struggle, the real dangers I face, dangers that threaten her world too.)
Malrik offered a slight inclination of his head, a gesture meant to be polite but which likely came across as detached or even condescending from her perspective. He maintained his quiet, distant expression, his eyes calm.
Anya's gaze swept over his simple tunic, his seemingly frail build. "Taking some air, are we?" she sneered, her voice carrying, meant for others to hear. "Must be hard, isn't it? All that fresh air. Not like breaking your back chopping wood in the forest all day. Some of us actually have to work for a living." Her friends giggled awkwardly. "Heard there are nasty things out there now, though. Things that make even a woodcutter think twice. Hope you don't stray too close, Prince Malrik. Wouldn't want you to snap that delicate little neck of yours."
She emphasized 'work' and 'delicate little neck,' highlighting the stark contrast between her hardscrabble life and his perceived idleness and weakness, mocking his physical frailty.
(Internal Monologue - Malrik: Work? Delicate? She has no idea what work is. What struggle is. Her 'nasty things' are the minor beasts that used to give me trouble. Now they're just prey. My work is learning to kill things that would tear her father's entire logging crew apart in moments. My 'delicate neck' has faced down claws and fangs she only sees in nightmares. Her resentment is valid, born of real hardship, but directed with such blind ignorance. She hates the symbol, not the reality.)
Malrik maintained his placid expression, offering nothing but a slow, deliberate blink and a faint, carefully constructed sigh that conveyed a sense of weary fragility and passive acceptance of her words, as if they barely registered. He allowed his gaze to drift slightly towards the edge of town in the direction of the Whisperwood, then back towards the Lodge, a silent, subtle visual cue suggesting that perhaps that was where his concerns lay, not in her petty barbs.
Anya's smile tightened, frustrated by his lack of verbal reaction. "Always quiet, aren't we? Can't even speak for yourself. Useless," she muttered, though still loud enough to be heard. "Leave the dangerous things to the Holy Church knights, I suppose. They're the ones who actually do something." She gestured towards a pair of knights visible across the square. "Not like some pampered princes."
Malrik met her gaze for a brief moment, and in that carefully controlled look, there was a depth she couldn't possibly comprehend – a silent acknowledgement that her words were meaningless, her understanding of 'doing something' utterly superficial compared to the life-or-death struggle he embraced each night. He offered another small, empty bow, his face returning to its distant, passive state.
He turned away, continuing his slow walk beside Kaelen, his outward demeanor unchanged. But inside, a cold fire burned. He had handled things she couldn't even imagine, faced dangers that would shatter her fragile reality. The encounter solidified his resolve. The contempt of people like Anya Meadowlight was another chain holding him. The power he sought wasn't just about surviving the Whisperwood; it was about transcending the petty politics and superficial judgments of the world he had been exiled from, the world of both noble disdain and commoner resentment.
Back at the Lodge, the presence of the Holy Church knights remained a constant reminder of his limited options. He returned to his quiet observation, his subtle mana sensing, and his internal frustration. The encounter with Anya, however brief, had underscored the necessity of his hidden life. The world saw a weak, exiled boy who could not even speak, a target for scorn from all directions. Let them. His true strength was being forged in secret, waiting for the moment the gilded cage would open, and he could return to the shadows of the Whisperwood to face the true monsters, both within and without. The wait was a trial, but Malrik knew, with a cold certainty, that eventually, the Holy Church knights would leave. And when they did, the Whisperwood would still be there. And so would the ogre. And he would finally be able to resume his true life, armed with whatever knowledge he could glean from the knights' intrusion and the bitter taste of encounters like the one with Anya Meadowlight. The cage was temporary. His purpose was not.