"If this is just a dream, then when did it begin? And how did I end up here?" Seven-year-old Brandon stood near the castle gates, his young mind tangled in thoughts of reality and illusion.
Dreams were inconsistent, fragmented. If he could uncover enough discrepancies, maybe he could wake up. This idea became an obsession. Brandon withdrew into himself, carefully observing, testing the boundaries of his world.
When Brandon, the fourth son of Duke Whitmore, was born, the entire family rejoiced. But as time passed, their joy was repced with concern. Aside from his first loud cry upon entering the world, Brandon had fallen into eerie silence. He did not cry, did not babble—just quiet, unnervingly so, as if he were born mute.
Had he not reacted to sound, his fate would have been sealed—drowned in a basin and id to rest in the family crypt, marked as a stillborn.
Yet his silence earned him something unexpected: his mother's unwavering love. Even when his younger sister, Cecilia, was born three years ter, that love did not diminish. If anything, it grew into indulgence. But no amount of motherly affection could stop the whispers that spread through the castle. The Duke's fourth son was an imbecile. A fool.
"I just want to find my way back," Brandon thought. "You are the fools. You're nothing but shadows in a dream. None of you are real."
He was different from his siblings. While they pyed, ughed, and cried, Brandon remained composed, unnervingly clean in a world that was anything but. His brothers called him a mute. The castle gossiped that he was simple-minded. But none could deny that he was an oddity.
Not far from where he stood, his eldest brother, Adam, and his second brother, Edgar, cshed wooden swords in pyful combat. His sister, Lillian, clutched his hand, grumbling about being saddled with the duty of watching him.
Above them, on the second-floor balcony, Duke and Duchess Whitmore looked on, smiling. Yet when their gaze nded on Brandon, an unspoken worry flickered in their eyes.
To an outsider, this was a picturesque family scene. But to Brandon, it was suffocating. The castle, with its towering walls, the burly servants, the crude knights—this world was savage, filthy, and devoid of order. It did not belong to him. He did not belong to it.
A deep horn sounded, snapping him back to the present. The heavy gates creaked open, allowing a company of knights to ride into the courtyard. One among them carried a fresh kill draped over his horse’s saddle—a lynx, its mottled fur eerily familiar.
Brandon's breath hitched. That fur. That pattern. It was the same as the cat he once had—before he found himself trapped in this dream. Others had found the tortoiseshell coat ugly, but to him, it had meant something beyond mere appearance.
Yanking his hand free from Lillian’s grasp, he sprinted toward the knight. His sister shrieked in arm, but he didn’t stop. Adam and Edgar, alerted by her cries, dropped their swords and chased after him, instinct driving them to prevent their 'foolish' little brother from doing something reckless.
The knight had yet to notice the commotion. He dismounted in front of the balcony, bowing to the Duke and Duchess. At the Duke’s silent command, the knight finally turned toward the approaching children, eyes questioning.
"What is it, boy?" he asked.
"Give it to me." Brandon's voice was clear, urgent as he pointed at the lynx.
Silence.
The courtyard froze. Servants, knights, even his own siblings stood rooted in pce, staring at him in shock.
Because for the first time in seven years, the fool—the mute—the imbecile—had spoken.
Only two people remained unsurprised. The Duke and Duchess.
The Duchess stumbled forward, her steps unsteady as she rushed down the stairs, pulling Brandon into a tight embrace. Behind her, the Duke’s hand clenched around his sword hilt, betraying his own inner turmoil.
For seven long years, the castle had known Brandon as nothing more than a silent, vacant child. But here, in the courtyard of Whitmore Keep, he had uttered his first complete, undeniable words.
