Destiny's Game* Chapter 57: Surviving Twelve

Bill’s POV

It started after his seventh birthday.

Louis’ parents suddenly rembered he existed. Not just as a heir to be molded, not as a trophy to display, but as... a child. A boy.

At first, it was subtle. Little attentions, a hand on the shoulder that didn’t weigh like duty, a smile that didn’t cut or asure him. But soon, it beca deliberate.

They played gas with him. They read stories. They praised him when he did well, scolded him when he didn’t. Normal things, almost alien in their warmth.

And Louis... he soaked it up like sunlight after years in shadow. He laughed more. He ran through the halls without hesitation. He smiled without reserve.

I watched, careful to stay at the edges, a shadow beside him. My hands still slled of blood and gun oil, my mind still sharp and deadly. But in those monts, I didn’t feel like a weapon. I felt... necessary. Protective. Quietly proud.

Then ca the adoption.

A new child—Charles. An Alpha. Strong. Bright. The kind of boy everyone would notice, even if he didn’t try.

Louis didn’t hide his joy. Not from . Not ever. He ran to Charles when he arrived, tiny arms flinging themselves around this stranger as if they’d known him forever.

I couldn’t help the pang in my chest. I’d been his world for so long, his only tether in the chaos of that household. And now... he had another.

But he didn’t let go of .

Not really.

He still whispered my na when he thought no one was listening. Still tugged on my sleeve when he needed reassurance. Still called "mum" in our quiet corners, like a secret fla burning only for us.

I kept watching. Always watching. Always near enough to step in if the world forgot he was a child beneath the heir, beneath the smiles, beneath the newly-pleased parents.

And for the first ti, I let myself feel it.

The smallest, sharpest twist of happiness. Not for , but for him.

He deserved this—light after the darkness. A family that cared. A life that didn’t just train him to survive.

And I would be there, still at the edges, still waiting, still keeping him safe. Because that’s what I had always been.

And maybe, just maybe, that wouldn’t have to change—even if Charles was now part of his world.

By the ti Louis turned twelve, he had beco a master of disguise.

Not a literal disguise—he didn’t need one—but a mask. A carefully curated face that revealed nothing he didn’t want to show. Smart. Calculated. Collected. Every motion, every glance, every word asured to perfection.

It was impressive. Dangerous, even.

But his father... his father didn’t care about careful.

He wanted the heir molded. Shaped. Prepared. Grood to take over the Alvara empire, to command it, control it, expand it. And he didn’t care if the boy had childhood left in him.

Louis spent hours under lectures and simulations, learning manipulation, strategy, economics, and ruthless enforcent. Hours with trainers, tacticians, and cold advisors who asured his worth with graphs and threats.

The boy’s laughter beca rare. The brightness in his eyes dimd behind the practiced calm of the mask he wore.

I watched. Always near. Always silent. Always waiting.

Because even at twelve, even behind all the control and poise, Louis was still a child. Still a boy who needed soone to notice the ache beneath the perfection. Soone to rember that he wasn’t just an heir—he was Louis.

His father demanded obedience, but Louis... he bent without breaking. He adapted, calculated, learned. A natural predator, molded by necessity and survival instinct—but always, always with a part of him quietly untouchable.

And I was there. Watching. Guiding in silence. Protecting in ways no one else would notice. Because I knew what the Alvara world could take—and what it could destroy.

Even at twelve, Louis was already dangerous. But to , he was still my boy.

I was shocked the day his father handed Louis the assignnt.

"Spy," he said, calm, almost casual. "Eliminate him. Learn what it ans to protect the family."

Louis, twelve, sat perfectly still. Calm. Collected. Masked, as always. But I saw it—the flicker behind his eyes, tiny and fast, the part of him that was still just a boy.

A twelve-year-old boy asked to kill.

I could feel my chest tighten. My hands itched to move, to intervene, to remind the world that he was a child.

Louis didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate.

He took the dossier, studied the man’s face, habits, routines. Every detail his father demanded. Every calculation precise.

But when the final instruction ca—"End him"—I saw Louis falter.

Not much. Just a twitch of his jaw. A tightening of his grip. The smallest hesitation. Enough for to know he was aware of the weight of what was asked.

"You don’t have to do this," I whispered, carefully. Just low enough for him alone to hear.

He glanced at . Quick. Controlled.

"I know," he said softly. "But it’s not about wanting, Bill. It’s about surviving."

I swallowed. He was right. Survival in the Alvara household never asked if you were ready. It only asked if you obeyed.

"Be smart," I added. "Be careful. Don’t let him see... everything."

He nodded, eyes narrowing slightly, mask snapping back into place. The boy disappeared. The heir erged.

And I realized sothing terrifying.

Even at twelve, Louis could kill. Even at twelve, he already understood the price of weakness.

And I knew, with a cold certainty, that the boy I’d once held as my tiny soldier on the carpet was now being forged into a weapon.

I didn’t like it. But I would do what I always did. I would stay close. Silent. Watching. Protecting.

Because even in the darkness, he was still mine to guide.

His first real rebellion ca shortly after the spy assignnt.

Louis, twelve, had hidden sothing small—defiance, a flicker of choice in the way he handled the dossier. Enough for his father to notice.

The punishnt was swift. rciless.

For a week, he was denied food. Not just treats—everything. als withheld. Water rationed. Every hour asured, every sigh monitored.

He couldn’t see Charles. Not for the entire week. Not allowed to speak. Not allowed to move freely.

And when the beatings ca... they were precise, calculated. Not out of anger, but as lessons. Lessons in obedience, in pain, in rembering his place.

I watched, helpless in the background, every strike twisting sothing deep in . I was used to violence. Used to threats. Used to surviving pain myself. But watching him... it was different.

It hurt.

The boy who once whispered "mum" and trusted enough to hand a tiny toy soldier—he was lying there, bruised, starving, silent.

Every fiber in wanted to tear apart the walls of the Alvara estate. To scream, to intervene, to take the punishnt in his place.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Not yet.

So I stayed. Silent. Watching. Guarding in the only way I could—letting him survive. Letting him endure.

Even in the quietest monts, when his chest rose and fell in shallow, careful breaths, I reminded myself: He’ll learn to survive. He has to. And I’ll make sure he rembers who he belongs to.

After that week—after the starvation, the silence, the bruises that blood across his skin like soone painted violence on him—he changed.

Not suddenly.

Not dramatically.

But in small, sharp ways that only soone like would notice.

He stopped arguing.

Stopped questioning.

Stopped hesitating.

He adapted.

Learned where to bow his head, where to keep his eyes lowered, where to hide the spark that made his father angry.

To everyone else, he beca the perfect heir—quiet, calculating, obedient.

His emotional walls thickened, layered with the kind of discipline adults twice his age still struggled with.

But at night—when the house was asleep, when the caras on the east wing glitched for precisely the minute I made sure they did—

he would sneak into my room.

Barefoot.

Silent.

Small for soone expected to grow into a king.

He never said anything at first.

He would just walk to , lift my hand with his tiny fingers, and place it on his hair, like he was giving permission to comfort him.

Then he’d crumble.

Quietly.

So quietly it made my chest tight.

Tears would slip down his face without a sound.

His shoulders shaking in tiny, controlled tremors because he still didn’t want anyone—even —to hear him cry.

And I held him.

Every ti.

Not like a servant.

Not like a weapon.

Not even like the "mum" he used to call in secret.

I held him like he was the one fragile thing in the world I wasn’t allowed to break.

He would bury his face into my shirt, fingers clutching tightly at the fabric, like letting go ant he’d fall apart completely.

"Am I weak?" he asked once, voice trembling.

"No," I whispered. "You’re surviving."

He nodded like he wanted to believe it, but couldn’t yet.

Louis adapted.

He learned.

He beca what he needed to be.

But at the end of those nights, when his tears soaked into my chest and his breath hitched with swallowed sobs...

He was still just a child.

My child, in all the ways that mattered.