As I stepped into my father's chamber, the oak door creaked open with a groan. The cold stone walls of House Darke's keep pressed in around me, their dampness leaching the warmth from the hearth. The castle was a place of shadows that demanded more than it ever offered. It was heavy and oppressive, and everything here reminded me of the path that awaited me—the responsibilities, the legacy. *Not yet*, I thought. *But soon.* I was still young, barely ten, but how I moved through the halls made people look twice. Not because of my size or strength—no, that would come with time—but because I had the eyes of someone who had seen more than a child should have. At the far side of the room, Daemon Darke, my father, sat behind his desk, his sharp eyes flicking up to meet mine as I entered. He didn't smile, not that I expected him to, but there was a brief flicker of something in his expression—recognition, perhaps. He knew me, and he had been waiting for this moment for the heir who could one day take up his mantle. "Ah, Damien," he said, his voice low and steady. "My only son, my heir. Come, sit. What brings you to my study today?" I approached the chair in front of his desk, moving with an ease that belied my age and sitting down without hesitation. The room was meant to intimidate, to impose its weight on anyone who entered. The dark tapestries, cold stone, and overwhelming furniture are all designed to make me feel small and insignificant. And yet, sitting in that oversized chair, I only felt aware of my place. I was not a boy anymore, not yet a man, but something in between. Daemon's eyes never left me sharp and calculating. He was always watching, constantly measuring. *He wants strength. He wants control. I could feel it and would give him what he wanted if only to see how far I could push it. "Well, father," I said, my voice steady, "I was thinking about something you often say—that a man's worth is in his name and title. But what worth is there in a name when you're stuck in this cold, lonely keep, surrounded by people more interested in the throne beside you than in your work?" Daemon's brow furrowed slightly, but his gaze had no anger—only a faint flicker of approval. He valued strength, even from a child, and I knew better than to show weakness. "You overthink for one so young," he said, his tone neutral. "But perhaps that's not entirely a bad thing."
I couldn't help but smirk. *Young?* I wasn't young. Maybe by the standards of some, but I alone know the truth containing the innate wisdom of someone who had lived long enough to see the world as it was with no delusions/illusions, no softness. Not only what could be but what shall be.
"There's always something to think about, father," I said casually. "Like how people here, from the servants to the guards, seem so much more *alive* than I feel. I should be excited, shouldn't I? But I'm not." Daemon's gaze didn't waver. He was considering me, measuring me against his expectations, and I was already one step ahead. *I'm not the son he wanted, but I'm the son he'll get. The question is, how much will he *need* me?*I paused, the thought of it hanging in the air. Daemon seemed to catch the subtle shift in my mood. Instead of scolding me, he chuckled—a brief, dry sound that lacked warmth but held the faintest hint of approval. "Ah, my son," he said, shaking his head. "I never thought I'd hear such words from one so young. But you're right, in a way." He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled together.
Daemon studied me for a moment longer, his gaze sharp. Then he leaned forward, his voice lower. "I've spoken with the master-at-arms. Your training starts tomorrow." Training. A slight twinge of something passed through me—*excitement?* No. It was something else. Something new. I had trained before, in another life, in another body. I knew the basics of knife work—what could be done quickly and precisely. But I had no experience with a sword, a spear, or a proper weapon. And the idea of learning, honing my body for power and control— was... *interesting.* "You're strong for your age," Daemon continued. "And intelligent. It would be a waste not to hone those talents. Power isn't just in words. It's in your body as much as it's in your mind. Prepare yourself. Tomorrow, you begin your martial training at dawn." I nodded, my mind already spinning with the possibilities. A sword in my hands—*my hands*—could be more than just a tool. It could be a symbol. It is a way to *claim* something.
Daemon's eyes narrowed, observing me. "Prepare for what's to come, Damien. You'll need all your strength. I stood, straightening, feeling a shift in the air, something subtle but undeniable. *I'm ready,* I thought, but I knew I wasn't quite there yet. Not physically. Not in skill. But that would come. "I'll be ready, Father," I said, my voice calm, steady. I was already thinking ahead, wondering what it would be like to wield a sword, a spear, an axe. To move through the world with that kind of power and control. *This life won't be wasted.* Daemon's approving nod was the closest I had gotten to his acknowledgment. And for the first time, I felt that maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something more.
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Should I refer to the OC's father as a father more or keep it as his name during internal dialogue?
If you have any informative criticism, please don't hesitate to let me know, especially on how to help the story progress more fluidly and through conversations between characters.
Have an excellent rest of your day; if not, I hope it gets better.