Rodrik had decided—Lord Yorbert Royce needed to see the compass. More than that, he needed to understand what Rodrik was becoming. No longer could he be brushed aside like a babe mewling for attention. If he was going to make a change, to move the Vale forward, he needed allies. And Yorbert Royce, the man appointed to rule until Rodrik came of age, had to be the first.
He waited until after midday, when the household began to quiet, and Yorbert usually retired to his study to handle matters of state. Rodrik approached the door and, in his most cheerful, innocent voice, called out:
"Lord Yorbert! Can I show you something? It's very special!"
Inside, the sound of quills scratching parchment paused.
A heavy sigh followed, then Yorbert's deep, measured voice answered through the door. "My lord Rodrik, I am tending to urgent matters of the Vale. I have no time for... games right now. We shall speak later."
Rodrik stood silently for a moment.
Dismissed.
In his own castle.
A weight pressed on his shoulders, not from pride, but necessity. The path he had chosen required risk. And now was the moment. He let out a breath and steadied his tone.
"Lord Yorbert," he said again, this time with a calm, commanding tone far beyond his years, "When your liege lord asks to speak with you, it is not your place to delay."
Silence.
Then, slow, measured steps toward the door.
Yorbert opened it. He stood in the frame, brow furrowed, confusion clearly etched across his usually composed features.
"What did you just say?"
Rodrik met his gaze without flinching.
"You heard me. I am Lord Protector of the Vale. I ask—no, I command—that you come. Now."
Yorbert stared for a long moment. His mouth opened, then closed. Something in his expression flickered—suspicion, disbelief, maybe even concern.
"Very well..." he said, the words slow, heavy, as if testing their shape in his mouth. "Lead on."
Rodrik turned, heart hammering in his chest. What had he just done?
He led Yorbert to his room. The compass was still laid out, exactly as he had left it.
Yorbert raised an eyebrow. "What is this a toy?"
"No," Rodrik said. "It is called a compass. Watch."
He spun the bowl gently. The needle turned with the water, then slowed, and aligned again.
"It always points the same way—north," Rodrik explained. "It can be used in ships and in armies. It tells direction without the stars. Even in fog. Even in darkness."
Yorbert watched quietly. He stepped closer. His eyes narrowed.
Rodrik continued, giving a small but careful explanation of how magnetism worked—not too much, not too little, just enough to show understanding without sounding possessed.
Then Yorbert did something strange.
He leaned down, slowly, and pinched Rodrik's cheeks.
He pulled.
Rodrik let out a yelp. "Ow! What are you—?!"
Yorbert blinked, stepped back.
"...It's not a mask."
Rodrik rubbed his face. "Of course it isn't!"
Yorbert ran a hand through his beard. "You must forgive me, my lord. For a moment, I considered... well, madness. That perhaps you were a faceless man. That some demon or shadow creature had taken the child."
Rodrik remained silent.
So did Yorbert.
Two figures, one far too young for the weight he carried, and the other now realizing just how much that child may not be a child at all.
The compass floated gently in the water between them.
Its needle pointing north.