Chapter 12: A Reputation Born of Silence
The autumn breeze swept through the courtyard of House Agares, carrying with it the low murmur of servants and the rustle of turning leaves.
Volundr stood motionless beneath a crimson tree, eyes closed, listening. Each sound, each footstep, each whisper on the wind painted a map of the world around him.
By now, the Underworld had taken notice of him.
He had said little. Revealed little. But his silence spoke volumes.
Rumors spiraled throughout noble circles like coiling smoke. Some called him a prodigy who spoke to ghosts of ancient tacticians.
Others claimed he had the eyes of a demon lord reborn. The truth, as always, lay somewhere between.
"Genius," one noble whispered at a banquet.
"Too focused on war," murmured another.
"Dangerous, perhaps," came the wary observation of a third.
Volundr merely sipped his wine, gaze calmly drifting across the room. He didn't need to respond.
Every movement he made, every calculated silence, was its own language.
His public testing began with strategy contests hosted by House Belial—a new tradition among young devils to simulate battles and political disputes in a controlled environment. It was meant to prepare them for the future.
Volundr didn't just win. He dismantled expectations.
In one contest, where the goal was to outmaneuver opposing noble youths in a simulated border conflict, Volundr's team was at a numerical and tactical disadvantage.
Yet within minutes, he redirected internal resources, used terrain illusions to funnel enemy movement, and even bluffed a betrayal among his team to cause internal collapse in the opposing ranks.
When the judges ended the match early, he simply bowed politely and left the stage.
Humiliated, one of the elder sons of House Balam attempted to confront him afterward. Volundr didn't respond to the taunts.
He only asked a single question: "Did you learn something?"
The silence that followed echoed longer than any retort could have.
Sairaorg Bael, still keeping their alliance in the shadows, played his own quiet part. At a cultural forum where Volundr challenged a flawed tax proposal by a young noble from House Naberius, the air turned tense.
His words, though polite, carried sharp truth.
"You speak of fairness," Volundr had said, "but your numbers favor those already rich in resources. How does that serve unity?"
The hall quieted.
Before any elder could turn against him, Sairaorg rose. "He's right," he said bluntly.
"Strength is meaningless if it protects only the privileged."
Volundr's gaze met his briefly. No nod. No smile. But understanding passed between them.
Later that week, a letter arrived. Its seal bore the emblem of House Sitri. He broke it open with deliberate care.
*"To Lord Volundr Agares,
Your recent commentary on the resource levies during the youth symposium piqued my interest. Your logic is sharp. But have you considered the long-term strain on regional trade it may cause?
Perhaps we disagree on details. But I believe we share the same foundation—stability through understanding.
If you are interested, I'd like to discuss reforms through correspondence.
With curiosity,
Sona Sitri"*
He read the letter twice. A smile touched the edge of his lips—not of arrogance, but of respect.
His reply was equally measured:
*"Lady Sona,
Reform requires more than policy—it demands a shift in perception. Let us test ideas without pride, and clash logic without ego.
I look forward to your thoughts."*
And so began a mental sparring across parchment. Over the coming weeks, letters exchanged between the Sitri and Agares estates, discussing meritocracy, social momentum, the role of peerages, and the danger of stagnation in devil society.
They didn't always agree, but that was the point.
Through debate, they sharpened each other.
Volundr began a habit during these days—scribbling ideas in a thick leather journal bound by ancient threads.
It was more than a diary. It was the blueprint of a kingdom.
Each page held philosophies, speculative tactics, models for training systems, ways to nurture loyalty, and warnings.
"Loyalty must be earned through trust, not fear."
"A Knight is only as fast as his cause is just."
"Power granted too quickly leads to dependency."
He wrote late into the night, sometimes by candlelight, sometimes by moon.
The journal had no title.
But in his heart, he called it: Foundations of a King.
He watched others his age play politics with bluster or mimicry. But he had already surpassed mimicry. He was building his own doctrine.
And while he made no move to gather a peerage yet, whispers of his intentions began to circulate.
"He seeks power beyond raw strength," some said.
"He'll pick warriors like a tactician selects pieces on a board," others guessed.
The truth, as always, was more complex. He wasn't just selecting warriors. He was preparing to shape lives, fates, and futures.
All in silence.
The silence of one who was not yet king.
But would be.
End of Chapter 12