The stone beneath my shoes holds the warmth of the late morning sun. I stand at the base of the grand stairs, just outside the estate’s main doors, dressed in deep navy formalwear with silver embroidery curling along the sleeves and hem. My cloak is too heavy for this weather, but it falls nicely behind me. Proper. Presentable. It is noticeably large on my frame, a constant reminder that I have not yet grown into every garment.

  Behind me, the senior staff lines the stairs in tidy rows: Havish straight-backed, Marla with her hands folded at her waist, Valcroft in his full uniform, expression unreadable. Even the scullery leads and footmen stand straight today, each wearing the estate’s formal trim. The courtyard has been swept twice over. The marble gleams. Banners bearing the crest of House Larkin ripple faintly in the breeze.

  The air smells of polished stone, pine oil… and waiting.

  I keep my hands at my sides. Chin lifted. But not too high.

  Not perfect. Perfect would be suspicious.

  In the distance, I hear the low, distinct growl of heavy pads against packed earth. Four lizard-hounds, massive creatures with sinewy frames, black-scaled hides, and forked tongues that flick as they pull the carriage forward, enter the courtyard with deliberate grace. Their heads are narrow, ears ridged, eyes golden and intelligent. More dragon than beast. The lead carriage bears the crest of House Larkin etched into polished blackwood. Gold and silver flourishes gleam at the corners.

  Sven and Catharine left for the capital just two months ago, part of a planned six-month visit—formal meetings with high lords, trade council sessions, ceremonial appearances. Nothing urgent. Nothing that couldn’t wait.

  Until Lena was attacked.

  Until I ordered Havish to activate the emergency scroll.

  They didn’t ask for details. They just came.

  They used the gatepath.

  Fast. Brutal. Noisy. Mana-intensive. Dangerous, even for experienced travelers. It’s a marvel of magical transportation, but it cuts the journey from the capital to the house seat of House Larkin down to five days instead of nearly three weeks. Still, even with the time saved, they arrive with ceremony.

  Because I had Havish send a carriage and staff to the city gates this morning. Clean water, fresh clothes, warm bread, combs and scented oil. House Larkin does not arrive disheveled. Sven Larkin, Archduke of the Eastern Reach, should not ride into the city with dust in his hair and exhaustion in his spine, no matter how swiftly he came. The people do not need to see the man who governs half the outer provinces looking road-worn and frantic over his son.

  The gates swing wide. The procession enters.

  My heart does not race. My breath does not catch.

  But I feel… something.

  The lizard-hounds halt on command. The carriage door swings open.

  Archduke Sven Larkin steps out first, tall and broad in a steel-grey cloak clasped with a sunburst pin. His hair is swept back with military neatness, though silver strands catch the light at his temples. He scans the courtyard once, his expression unreadable, and though there is wear in his eyes, his posture holds unshaken. Then he turns, extending a hand.

  Catharine takes it, emerging in a flowing burgundy gown, high-collared, her gloves pearl-white against Sven’s dark sleeve. Her grip on his hand is firm, not delicate. Her posture is flawless. Her eyes, calculating and kind, sweep over the assembled staff—and finally settle on me.

  They descend the steps of the carriage together, united in motion. I catch the subtle signs of fatigue in the way her shoulders shift, the brief tension in his jaw, but they carry themselves with practiced ease.

  This is their theater, and they perform it flawlessly.

  I step forward.

  And I bow.

  Just slightly too far, just slightly too quickly. I let myself overbalance, one foot shuffling forward as if catching myself. Like a boy imitating his elders. Not a strategist watching for cracks. Eager. Earnest.

  Not calculating.

  Definitely not calculating.

  Sven’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile.

  Catharine’s expression softens immediately. “Aurelius,” she says, voice warm but composed. “I wasn’t expecting to see you out here. Did Marla let you skip your midday rest?”

  “She tried,” I say, straightening. “I didn’t let her.”

  “Trouble already,” Sven rumbles, stepping forward. “We leave for eight weeks and you’re negotiating past the head of staff?”

  “Negotiating is a strong word,” I reply. “I simply applied logic.”

  That earns a chuckle from Marla.

  Catharine looks up at her. “Marla, he’s grown again.”

  “Only in cleverness, Your Grace,” Marla says. “His boots still fit.”

  “And what of you?” Catharine asks, turning to the older woman with an easy grace. “Is the knee holding up?”

  “Better than expected. I’ve taken your advice—birch bark tonic and soft elevation when I sit.”

  Catharine nods approvingly. “Good. I’ll send a new salve from the capital—it’s brewed in-house at the Spire Temple now.”

  Sven’s gaze flicks to Valcroft. “Captain.”

  “Archduke.” Valcroft bows. “We maintained full schedule while you were away. Patrols held. Borders quiet. There was one attempted incursion across the southern edge, but our response was immediate.”

  Sven nods. “Good. I’ll want the full report before end of day.”

  He turns toward Havish with an arched brow.

  Havish offers a slight bow. “I’ve kept things running, Your Grace. Mostly. Though I suspect Aurelius has been doing a fair bit more steering these last few days than I have.”

  Catharine glances down at me, half amusement, half appraisal. “Of course he has.”

  I give her a small, practiced smile. “I tried not to overstep.”

  Sven snorts softly.

  Catharine steps forward and places her gloved hand gently atop my head. “Well, thank you for watching over our home while we were gone.”

  “I’m glad you’re back,” I say, quietly enough that only she hears.

  Her fingers tighten, just slightly, before she lets go.

  Behind me, I feel the tension ease among the staff. The moment has landed.

  There is laughter. Relief. A homecoming, not a reckoning.

  The formalities close.

  Sven straightens and gestures toward the front doors. “Let’s not stand around out here. Briefing in the great hall.”

  He turns to me before climbing the steps. “You’ll join us, Aurelius.”

  My heart pauses—not from fear, but from the quiet weight of inclusion. He doesn’t say why. Doesn’t give a reason. But I understand.

  I nod, step in line beside him.

  The great hall is cooler than the courtyard, but the fire already burns low in the hearth. Sunlight filters through the stained glass, catches in the high rafters, casting shifting hues of rose and amber across the pale stone floor. At the far end of the hall, two high-backed chairs wait near the hearth—twin thrones of wood and velvet, deep burgundy trimmed with silver.

  Sven moves to the left chair without hesitation, settling into it like it was carved to fit only him. Catharine joins him, folding into the opposite seat with graceful ease, her gown pooling around her like spilled wine. They say nothing at first, letting the room arrange itself around them.

  To the right of Sven, and a pace behind, Havish moves to a small desk. It’s tucked into the corner just so, a place where notes could be jotted without obstructing view or movement. He sets down his leather-bound book, opens it with precise fingers, and readies his pen.

  Valcroft is next. He slides a padded stool across the stone with the toe of one boot and lowers himself into it across from Sven. He doesn’t sprawl or slouch. His spine remains straight, his shoulders broad; the uniform itself requires that posture. One gloved hand rests lightly on his knee, the other curled around the hilt of his sword, still sheathed at his hip.

  Marla slips out without a word. A few moments later, she returns, moving with smooth efficiency. A polished silver tray rests in her hands, bearing a pot of tea, a jar of honey, and a plate of biscuits still steaming. She pours for the adults with practiced care, Catharine first, then Sven, then the rest.

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  I linger near the door.

  This arrangement is familiar to them. Their formation. Their rhythm. A pattern long established. I feel it in the way they settle in their place, no instruction needed. I am the outlier. The child. An anomaly inserted into a system that functioned long before I was born.

  Marla finishes serving and turns toward me. Without a word, she crosses the room once more and returns with a thick cushion. She sets it down beside Havish’s desk, close enough to be included, but not obtrusively so.

  I sit.

  Sven’s gaze flicks across the gathered. “Is there anything pressing I should be made aware of before we begin?”

  He looks to Havish.

  Havish’s pen hovers for a breath before he responds. “No, Your Grace. All other matters are routine or deferred.”

  Sven nods once, then shifts his focus to Valcroft. “Then give me your full report.”

  Valcroft’s eyes flick toward me for the briefest moment. It is not hesitation. It is calculation. A question left unspoken.

  Sven notices. “If he is old enough to take command in my absence,” he says without looking away from Valcroft, “then he is old enough to hear the truth. Speak plainly.”

  Valcroft straightens slightly, the lines of his uniform crisp even as his expression remains unchanged.

  “Six nights ago,” he begins, “Lena remained at the estate later than usual. She was overseeing orientation for three new domestic staff and stayed behind to complete final assessments.”

  I already know this part—every detail etched into memory from Havish’s first report. But hearing it again, out loud, in this room, with my parents present... it lands differently. The words feel colder now.

  “Clara, her daughter, had fallen asleep in one of the linen stores. Around the ninth bell, Lena departed with Clara in her arms and began walking home.”

  Sven’s fingers tap once against the armrest of his chair. Catharine remains motionless, but her eyes narrow a fraction. She already sees where this is going.

  “Her husband hadn’t been informed of the delay. Normally, when Lena plans to stay late, a message is sent for him to collect Clara before dusk. No such message arrived. Concerned, he left his home to meet her partway.”

  Valcroft pauses. Not long. Just enough to allow the shift in the air.

  “She was attacked in a narrow lane west of the servants’ quarter. Five assailants were lying in wait behind a storage cart. The first strike was with a club—blunt force. Lena’s right arm was broken immediately. She fell shielding the child.”

  Marla’s breath catches, too soft for most to notice. But I do.

  “They ordered her to drop Clara and run. She did not comply.”

  I swallow hard. I already knew she didn’t run, but hearing it framed like this... There’s something brutal in the simplicity of it.

  “When the clubs failed to break her hold, they drew blades. She was stabbed repeatedly. Most wounds were shallow—meant to frighten, disable. But two were critical: one beneath the left scapula, another near the kidney. Either would have been fatal without immediate intervention.”

  Havish’s pen has stopped moving. He stares at the paper, jaw tight, unmoving.

  “The blades were also coated in poison. Fast-acting, paralytic. Healers suspect it was harvested from low-grade nightspine. Difficult to detect unless you know to look.”

  Catharine’s fingers tighten around her teacup. She sets it down silently. I can feel the storm building behind her composed expression.

  “Their screams alerted the night watch. Simultaneously, her husband reached the scene. He and the patrol engaged the attackers. Two were killed on site. Two were captured. One fled and remains at large.”

  Sven’s jaw clenches. It’s subtle—but I see it. The Archduke, always composed, always calculating, is angry.

  “Clara was recovered unharmed.” Valcroft’s eyes flick to me, just for a moment. “Physically.”

  My chest tightens. I nod, just once. It’s enough. He continues.

  “Lena was found unconscious, still clutching Clara. It took two guards to pry her hands open. They were transported back to the estate. Healers acted immediately.”

  There’s a pause here. A longer one.

  I glance at my mother. Her gaze is fixed on the fire now, the flames reflected in her eyes, but I can tell—she’s not seeing them. She’s seeing Lena. Seeing Clara.

  “The two captured attackers were interrogated by the city guard and myself. Full confessions were obtained. No guild markings, no known affiliations. Petty mercenaries—cutthroats, likely contracted from the harbor quarter. Hired for a smash-and-grab.”

  He glances briefly toward Sven.

  “They were not told why. Just given a location, a time, and a target. We suspect connections to a trafficking ring previously flagged during an investigation into missing children on the southern edge of the city.”

  Sven doesn’t speak, but his eyes meet Havish’s, sharp and unspoken. Orders will follow. Quiet ones.

  “Execution is scheduled for three days hence, pending your approval.”

  Sven gives the barest nod. Approval granted without words.

  “The fifth assailant evaded capture. His current whereabouts remain unknown. The estate has been under full lockdown since—at Young Master Aurelius’ order.”

  All eyes turn to me for just a breath. I meet their gazes without flinching.

  “I didn’t know if there would be another attempt,” I say softly. “It seemed unwise to wait and see.”

  Catharine’s gaze lingers on me. “It was the right call.”

  Valcroft offers no judgment in his tone, but I can feel the weight in the finality of his voice.

  No one speaks immediately. The fire crackles softly in the hearth.

  And I realize—this is the first time they’ve heard it all laid out, beginning to end. Not rumors. Not reports. The truth.

  The silence settles again, thick and weighty.

  Sven leans forward slightly, forearms braced on the carved arms of his chair. “The fifth attacker,” he says, voice low, dangerous. “Do we have any indication where he might have gone? Any known associates? Witnesses?”

  Valcroft doesn’t shift under the weight of the question. “None credible. The area was quiet. The patrol’s swift arrival prevented additional movement. I’ve dispatched agents to the southern districts. Dockside inns, the tradesmen’s quarter, abandoned tenements—all the usual hideaways. But nothing yet.”

  Sven’s eyes narrow. “If he vanishes, and word gets out that five men attacked a servant of House Larkin and only four paid the price... we will look careless.”

  Valcroft inclines his head. “I am aware, Your Grace.”

  There’s no defensiveness in his tone. Only fact.

  Catharine speaks next, her voice quieter but no less direct. “Marla.”

  The older woman straightens. “Yes, Archduchess?”

  “How are they now? Lena and Clara.”

  Marla folds her hands in front of her. “Lena is recovering slowly. The damage was deep—physical and otherwise. The poison complicated things. But the healers say her strength is returning. She tires easily and cannot yet walk unassisted. The wound near the kidney may leave lasting weakness.”

  “And the child?” Catharine asks, a flicker of emotion passing through her usually implacable features.

  “Clara is... coping,” Marla says gently. “Children are more resilient than they seem. She is sleeping through the night again. She remains at her mother’s side, almost constantly. I’ve ensured they are kept in comfort and without interruption.”

  Catharine nods once, approving. “Thank you.”

  Catharine turns her gaze to Havish. “And what of the aftermath? Who enacted the lockdown protocols? Who used the emergency scroll to contact us?”

  There’s a beat of silence.

  Then another.

  Havish’s jaw tightens—just slightly—and I see the hesitation there. Not fear. Not guilt. Just the weight of choosing how to speak the truth aloud.

  “We didn’t initiate lockdown immediately,” he says at last.

  Catharine straightens slightly. “You didn’t?”

  “No, Your Grace. Not that night. The attackers were either dead or in custody. There was no immediate evidence of further threat to the estate. It wasn’t until the following morning—after Young Master Aurelius was made aware of the situation—that the order came.”

  The shift in the room is palpable. Valcroft’s gaze lifts from the fire. Catharine’s brows draw together, not sharply, but with an edge of concern. Even Sven stills, his fingers steepled lightly before him.

  Catharine turns her head slowly to me. “You gave the order?”

  I don’t answer immediately. I can feel all of them watching me now—Marla, Havish, Catharine, Sven, Valcroft—all waiting. I keep my posture still and composed, but I let my gaze drift downward, inspecting my fingers, turning them slowly as if searching for something invisible beneath the nails.

  “I wasn’t told what happened,” I say quietly.

  That admission ripples through the room. I see Marla shift beside the hearth. Havish lowers his gaze. Catharine doesn’t speak.

  I let the silence settle for a moment longer. Then I continue.

  “I noticed Lena’s absence. Her patterns don’t shift often. When I asked where she was, the answers were... gentle. Vague. Empty.” I glance up then, meeting no one’s eyes. “So I ordered Isla to find out.”

  There’s a moment of stillness in the room. Heavy and expectant.

  Sven arches a brow.

  Catharine narrows her eyes, just slightly. “And did she?”

  I finally look up.

  “She’s very good at what she does,” I say.

  A beat.

  Valcroft lets out a short breath—almost a chuckle, though there's no humor in it. “That explains how the patrol logs vanished from my desk before breakfast.”

  “I left them on your chair when I was finished,” I say mildly.

  Sven leans back in his chair again, arms folding. “And once you had the truth?”

  “I gave the order,” I reply. “Lockdown until we confirmed it was an isolated incident. Then I told Havish to contact you.”

  Catharine studies me, not with reproach, but with something older and deeper. There is a softness in her gaze, but also something calculating. Evaluating.

  Sven, meanwhile, is still and quiet—watching, always watching. I can’t tell what he’s thinking yet.

  But no one challenges me.

  Marla clears her throat. “If I may,” she says, looking at Catharine. “None of us intended to keep the truth from him. Not out of malice. It was… protection. Or what we thought was protection.”

  Catharine nods once. “Intent is not in question, Marla. But we must all now understand something very clearly—”

  She shifts her gaze back to me.

  “He is already part of the decisions we make.”

  “I have been since the beginning,” I say quietly. “You just didn’t see it yet.”

  Sven’s expression doesn't change, but he lets out a low hum of acknowledgment. “No. I see it now.”

  The fire crackles into the silence that follows Sven’s words.

  No one speaks.

  Havish’s pen rests forgotten on the desk. Marla’s hands are folded tighter than before, her knuckles pale against her dark skirt. Valcroft watches me with a new kind of scrutiny—one reserved not for a child, but for a potential ally… or threat. Catharine and Sven say nothing, but I can feel the weight of their eyes.

  So I cut through the silence.

  “Father?” I ask.

  Sven’s gaze sharpens, returning fully to me. “Yes?”

  I meet his eyes. “What has changed in House Verdane that they would act against us?”

  The question hits the room like a thrown blade.

  Marla draws in a sharp breath. Valcroft’s head snaps toward me. Havish stiffens visibly, his shoulders pulled taut. Even the fire in the hearth seems to quiet, as if the flames themselves are listening.

  It sounds like a non sequitur. A child’s stray question in a hall full of adults.

  But it isn’t.

  It’s the only question that matters.

  This—right now—is my chance. To pin it down. To push the conversation where it needs to go. Everyone else is reacting to symptoms. I am hunting the source.

  Sven doesn’t answer immediately.

  Instead, he leans back in his chair, a slow exhale pushing through his nose. His eyes flick to Catharine. And there, barely a movement, she shifts her hand, one gloved finger tapping lightly against the carved arm of her chair.

  They’re speaking. Not aloud. Not with words.

  A glance.

  A breath.

  A gesture.

  Catharine’s eyes remain on me. She’s assessing, more than before. She has always been sharp, always seen more than she spoke. Now she’s recalculating the shape of this room, the shape of me within it.

  Finally, her voice cuts through the stillness. “Why do you believe House Verdane has moved against House Larkin?”

  She doesn’t refute the suggestion. She doesn’t scoff. She simply asks.

  So I give her the truth.

  “All of this,” I begin softly, “was noise. Uncoordinated. Sloppy. The men who attacked Lena weren’t professionals, they were bait. A message. Meant to provoke a response, to test our reaction time, our reach.”

  I pause.

  No one breaks the silence.

  “I saw the pattern. I responded. I secured the estate, ensured Lena and Clara were cared for, and gave orders to contact Father.”

  I exhale.

  “Then I sent Isla after the fifth man. The one who fled.”

  The room is dead still.

  I don’t look at anyone now. I keep my gaze level, steady, just above the flame of the hearth.

  “She found him.”

  Another pause.

  I hear Catharine’s teacup touch its saucer with a faint click.

  “She confirmed a connection to House Verdane. Not in writing—never that direct. But through payment channels, through safehouses. She was thorough.”

  A pause.

  “She killed him. On my order.”

  Gasps catch in throats but never escape. Valcroft’s jaw flexes. Havish doesn’t move, though I see his eyes tighten at the corners. Marla’s breath catches in her throat, but she says nothing.

  I finish quietly.

  “He will never be found.”

  And in the silence that follows, no one asks me why I gave the order.

  They already know.