He Who Watches Time Burn

The Aldcrofts believed in structure above all else.

Their estate reflected that belief in every beam, wall, and stone. It was a sprawling, self-contained compound built in the style of a traditional Japanese manor—elegant but cold, disciplined in design and devoid of ornament. The main house stood at the heart of the estate, constructed in pale wood and dark tile, with long covered walkways that connected each wing like arteries. Sliding doors framed paper windows that filtered light into soft, muted patterns. A closed inner courtyard sat at the center, a square of perfectly raked gravel and sculpted pine, meant for reflection—but never touched by joy. The walls around it were high, built to keep the outside world from interfering.

To the west, separated by a narrow stone path and a deliberate lack of bridges, stood the servant quarters. The building was smaller, plainer, and shaded by overgrown bamboo. It was efficient and impersonal, designed more for function than comfort. There were no decorations, only shared walls and a single entrance. From its windows, the main house could be seen—but never truly reached.

The Aldcrofts' own residence, larger and more austere, was raised on a platform that overlooked the entire property. From their veranda, they could watch every corridor, every courtyard, and every lesson unfold without ever setting foot on the ground. Their presence was constant, even when they remained unseen. Every stone had been chosen with purpose. Every shadow fell exactly where it was meant to. The estate did not invite visitors. It endured them.

And for Michael, it would become a cage—beautiful, ordered, and inescapable.

Each morning began before sunrise, announced not by alarm clocks but by the heavy knock of a servant on Michael's door. The same knock. The same rhythm. Always three firm strikes. No greeting. No name.

He rose without protest. Resistance had been beaten out of him long ago—if not by the Aldcrofts themselves, then by the system that had delivered him here.

Today, the training yard was slick with frost. Breath turned to fog in the morning air. Servants moved quietly across the grounds, setting up wooden dummies, refilling water basins, and laying out weapons like they were setting a table for war.

Michael stood barefoot in the dirt.

Across from him was Niles, a senior manservant in his forties, lean and sun-creased, dressed in the Aldcroft livery with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. His face was unreadable, carved from years of silence and obedience. He was not cruel—not like the Aldcrofts—but he had long ago traded kindness for survival.

"You hold the blade too high again," Niles said, his voice even. "That leaves your ribs open."

Michael adjusted without responding. His arms ached from yesterday's drills. His fingers trembled slightly as they wrapped around the practice sword's hilt.

Niles stepped forward. He corrected Michael's stance by pressing a knuckle to the boy's elbow, pushing it gently into place. Then he stepped back and nodded once.

"Again."

Michael moved. The sword swept through the air—diagonal, then horizontal, then back into guard.

"Too slow."

He tried again.

Niles circled him, watching not just the blade, but his shoulders, his breath, the set of his jaw. He waited until Michael faltered—just slightly—then struck without warning. A wooden staff cracked against Michael's thigh, dropping him to one knee.

"Pain teaches awareness," Niles said, without anger. "Stand."

Michael did. He did not cry out. He did not look at the bruise already blooming beneath his skin. He simply reset his stance and resumed the pattern.

Overhead, the clouds gathered. Somewhere deep in the house, a clock struck six.

The Aldcrofts watched from the upper balcony. Silent silhouettes behind tall windows.

Michael's body moved, but his mind wandered. Every breath, every parry, every step felt like part of someone else's life. A child being forged into something useful.

"Focus," Niles said sharply.

Michael blinked. He nodded.

Later, when the drills were over and the servants began to collect the weapons, Niles offered him a water flask. Michael reached for it, then paused.

Niles met his gaze.

"You're not broken," he said quietly. "Not yet."

Then he turned and walked away.

Michael stood alone in the frost-bitten yard, the weight of the wooden sword still in his hand, and the ache of not knowing whether that was a warning or a promise.

Every morning was the same thing, no words of encouragement and no signs of approval. Every move he made was met with silence, or correction. He was not being trained to defend himself. He was being broken and rebuilt.

Lunch was denied if the forms were incorrect. Water was rationed during "focus exercises," which meant kneeling in silence for an hour under the midday sun, eyes closed. Any movement earned punishment.

Niles never yelled. He never lost his temper. His calm made it worse.

"You are not a boy," he said one afternoon. "You are a project. And one day, you will be useful."

Michael did not cry. Not in front of him.

At night, he wrote in his journal—not about feelings, but numbers. He logged bruises, repetitions, hours spent in each drill. It was the only way to track if anything was changing.

Sometimes he caught glimpses of Niles speaking quietly with the Aldcrofts. He never bowed. They never smiled. There was something colder than hierarchy between them—something more like shared belief.

Once, Michael asked a question.

"Why do you do this?"

Niles looked at him for a long time. Then he replied with a voice that sounded like it had been buried for years.

"Because I was made this way. Just like you will be."

He walked away after that, leaving Michael alone in the training yard with nothing but the echo of his own breath.

Later that day, Miles led him to the archery range. It sat at the edge of the estate, ringed by white trees stripped bare by wind and time. The targets were pale, unmarked, nailed to posts that leaned from age.

Miles handed Michael a bow that was too large for his frame. The string cut into his fingers. His arms still shook from sword drills.

"Draw. Hold. Release."

Michael obeyed. The arrow missed by several feet.

"Again."

He tried. Again and again. Each time, the string lashed against his forearm or tore the skin from his fingers.

"You are not failing," Miles said after the sixth shot. "You are collecting data."

By the seventh, Michael's hand was bleeding. Miles gave him another arrow with no change in expression.

"You will stay until you strike the mark. Then you will do it again."

By dusk, he hit the target. Not the center. Not clean. But it stuck.