The Princess of the Ardenii, now one of a concubine of the King of Marceau, sat in her chamber, her six-year-old son Michaelli perched on her lap. She was a remnant of a tribe that once stood proud and powerful—a matriarchal society unlike any other in a world dominated by men.

The Ardenii, a legendary tribe, had thrived deep within the ancient forest between Crystaliana and Chalcedony. Known for their wisdom and resilience, they were revered as protectors of nature’s secrets and guardians of sacred groves. Their ways were rooted in balance and harmony, believing the forest to be a living entity that guided and protected them as its chosen daughters.

But that legacy had been shattered. Long ago, the Ardenii had been wiped out by war, their lands razed, their people slaughtered. The King of Marceau, seeking their rumored power, had captured the last of their leaders. She was made a concubine, stripped of her title and dignity. She bore not a daughter to carry on the Ardenii’s legacy, but a son.

Now, that son sat before her, his words a reflection of the harsh, male-dominated society of Marceau.

“Listen, Elli, you should treat women with respect. What you did is wrong,” the princess said firmly, addressing her son after witnessing his mistreatment of a servant girl.

“But my advisor said women are not worth anything, Mother,” young Michaelli replied, tilting his head in confusion. “We can treat them however we want.”

The princess’s heart ached at his words. She gently pulled Michaelli closer, placing him firmly on her lap. “Then, my child, are you going to treat Mother the same way you treated that girl?”

Michaelli frowned, shaking his head vigorously. “No, Mother! You’re not the same as everyone else. You’re the best, above them all. I was told that I’m above everyone too, and that one day I’ll rule over all the weak. I’ll need to dominate them to be a true leader.”

The princess sighed deeply, brushing her fingers through his dark hair. “And how am I different, my child? Do I have two heads, four arms, or one leg? Am I not the same as the others you think so little of? And you, Elli—are you different in body or blood from those you call weak?”

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Michaelli opened his mouth but closed it again, unsure of how to respond.

“Dominance,” she continued, “is a tool, but only fools try to dominate all the time. A wise ruler knows when to yield and when to assert themselves. If you crush everyone underfoot, you’ll stand alone in a desert of resentment. But if you learn the balance, you can gain loyalty, trust, and power far greater than brute force can provide.”

The boy looked up at her, his youthful innocence clouded with doubt. “Then... are my advisors fools, Mother?”

The princess laughed softly, her weariness momentarily lifted by the purity of his question. “Some may be. But what they lack, you can learn. Listen to me, Michaelli. You must know when to yield. Learn to dance between dominance and submission. Bend, but don’t break. Be strategic, and you’ll gain the upper hand without lifting a hand.

“If your actions signal no threat, those in power will trust you. When you offer small gestures of understanding, they’ll see you as a friend rather than a foe. This isn’t weakness, my son—it’s calculated submission, a strength far greater than any show of force. Promise me you’ll remember this.”

The boy’s lips pursed in thought, then he nodded solemnly. “I promise, Mother.”

The princess kissed his forehead, her heart heavy yet hopeful. Would her son, born into a kingdom of dominance and cruelty, truly understand her teachings? Or would the ways of Marceau twist him into the very thing she feared?

And then the bright day suddenly darkened, transforming into a suffocating night.

“Promise me... you will live, Elli,” his mother’s trembling voice echoed, piercing through the oppressive silence.

Michaelli froze, wide-eyed. Before him, his beautiful mother sat slumped on the floor, her body drenched in crimson. A dagger jutted from her chest, her delicate hands gripping the hilt. Blood trickled from the corner of her lips as she coughed, her strength ebbing with each passing moment.

“M...Mother?” Eight-year-old Michaelli’s small hands trembled uncontrollably as he looked to where his hands at.

She smiled weakly, her eyes filled with both pain and an unshakable love. “Forget everything... and live, Elli,” she whispered, her voice soft but resolute.

Her hands slipped away from the dagger’s hilt as her body collapsed to the ground. Michaelli’s breath hitched, his vision blurring as tears spilled freely.

Michaelli woke abruptly, gasping for air, his body drenched in cold sweat. His chest heaved as he struggled to push the dream—or was it a memory?—from his mind. The image of his mother, her blood-stained smile and final words, lingered like a shadow at the edge of his thoughts.

He was back in his pavilion, seated stiffly at his desk. His loyal attendant, Nixon, stood nearby, his calm presence grounding Michaelli in the present.

“Your Highness, the hunt will begin in a few minutes,” Nixon announced, his voice respectful yet firm.

Michaelli’s golden-brown eyes, sharp and calculating, flickered with a brief softness before hardening again. The ghostly echoes of his mother’s ideals still whispered in his mind. Her world was not his. Here, dominance reigned supreme, and submission was seen as a weakness. He does what he says and the results are...death. He was weak but not now. He was different now.

Still, her words refused to fade. Bend, but don’t break.

With a measured breath, Michaelli rose to prepare for the hunt. Someday, he would prove to her—even if only in memory—that he had listened.