I sit in the quiet hush of my chambers, the glow of the dying embers in the hearth flickering weakly against the deep shadows clinging to the corners of the room. The crib is gone, replaced by a proper bed, the space reshaped to reflect my status rather than my age. Heavy drapes frame the tall windows, the thick fabric muting the pale moonlight that tries to press through the glass. Shelves now line the walls, stacked with books beyond what a child should need.

  Across the room, Marla sleeps in the cot I had requested be placed near the hearth. The staff had brought it in without question, their expressions unreadable as they complied with my request. She had not argued either, though I could see in her eyes that she wanted to. That same conflict had warred in her when she gathered Clara into her arms and settled her against her chest. The little girl sleeps fitfully, her small hands still tangled in the fabric of Marla’s dress, even in slumber unwilling to let go. Her breath comes in uneven sighs, soft remnants of fear still clinging to her dreams.

  The whole estate sleeps. But I do not.

  I sit on the edge of my bed, my feet dangling not able to reach the cold stone floor, and I wait.

  The weight of my own breath is measured, calm. I do not fidget. I do not stir. I remain still, my eyes half-lidded, fixed on the last wisps of flame curling in the hearth. I do not need to check the time to know that she is close. Knowledge settles inside me, an instinct honed over lifetimes, a quiet certainty that the moment is coming.

  The air shifts.

  I feel it before I hear anything—the faintest ripple in the wards surrounding the estate. It is subtle, nearly imperceptible, but it brushes against my senses like a thread pulled ever so slightly from a tapestry. It does not alarm me. The wards recognize her, allowing her passage as if she belongs here.

  The door opens without a sound.

  Isla steps inside, moving as fluidly as ever.

  Her tunic clings to her frame where it must, loose where it allows flexibility. The fabric is reinforced in key places, subtle padding where armor would hinder rather than protect. She does not need heavy steel; her body is a weapon on its own.

  And she is covered in blood.

  Some of it dried, dark patches soaked into the fibers of her sleeves and chest. Some of it fresh, glistening wetly in the dim firelight, streaked across her gloves, staining the exposed skin of her arms. The scent of iron clings to her, thick and sharp, filling the air between us.

  She does not stop at the door. She does not hesitate. She crosses the room in smooth, measured steps. She kneels, perfect in form, unburdened by hesitation. The blood on her hands is not hers. The thought does not unsettle me.

  Silent. Still.

  I study her, unflinching.

  The blood does not disturb me. I have seen more than this, far worse, in lives too numerous to count. The way it clings to her, the way she kneels without hesitation, without remorse, only confirms what I already know.

  She was made for this.

  My voice is quiet when I finally speak, my tone even. "Is it done?"

  She does not hesitate. "Yes, my lord."

  Nothing more. No unnecessary details. No embellishments. Just the answer.

  The weight of the night settles into my bones. Not heavier. Not lighter. Simply there.

  I breathe in slowly, tasting the remnants of the night’s violence in the air, the knowledge settling in my bones. I do not ask how. I do not ask if she was seen or if they suffered. I already know the answer.

  The question was never if she would succeed. It was simply confirmation.

  I nod once. "Go clean yourself. Rest. We will speak tomorrow."

  She bows her head again in silent acknowledgment, then rises to her feet in one smooth motion. Without another word, she turns and disappears through the hidden passage leading to her private quarters attached to mine.

  The door clicks shut.

  The room is silent once more.

  I sit there, staring at the space she had knelt only moments ago. The fire has nearly burned itself out, the embers barely holding onto their glow. I should sleep. My mind is still sharp, still calculating, still absorbing every possible consequence. Yet my body, young and fragile in comparison to the lifetimes of knowledge crammed within it, begins to betray me.

  My limbs grow heavy. The exhaustion creeps in slowly, pooling in my muscles, dragging at my bones. The fire’s warmth no longer reaches me, and the steady flicker of the dimming embers lulls me, pulling me deeper into weariness. My breathing slows. The edges of my vision blur. My body sinks into the mattress, tension bleeding away with every exhale.

  ***

  Darkness. Wet stone beneath my hands. The scent of iron thick in the air.

  My fingers are slick. Sticky. Warm blood coats my skin, staining my palms, seeping into the cracks of my knuckles. I curl my fingers, and they press into something soft—flesh yielding beneath my touch. There is no hesitation in my movements, no uncertainty in my grip. I know what I am doing. I have done this before.

  A blade gleams in the dim light. It is mine. My tool. My extension.

  A ragged breath. A sob.

  I look up. A man is in front of me, trembling, barely able to hold himself upright. His hands are bound behind him, his body slumped against the cold wall of whatever dark place we occupy. His chest rises and falls unevenly, each breath a struggle, each movement a desperate attempt to find some way out.

  But there is no escape.

  I know this. And now, so does he.

  “Please,” he rasps. His voice is weak. Strained. “I—I have nothing left. I told you everything.”

  His eyes—wide, hollowed by exhaustion and fear—lock onto mine. He is begging. Pleading. Not for mercy. He knows better than that. He pleads for an end.

  I do not answer him. My hand moves on its own, raising the blade, the metal catching the dim light for the briefest moment before pressing against his throat.

  He does not flinch. He is beyond fear now.

  The silence stretches. My pulse is steady. My breathing even.

  Then, with practiced precision, I drag the blade across his flesh.

  A gurgled breath. A wet, shuddering gasp. Then, silence.

  I watch as the life drains from his eyes. I do not feel regret. I do not feel satisfaction.

  Only the weight of inevitability.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  ***

  I wake with a sharp inhale, my body jerking upright as if pulled from the depths of ice-cold water. The scent of blood lingers. My fingers twitch as if expecting to close around a blade. But there is no blade. My breath is ragged, my skin damp with sweat, the echoes of the dream still clinging to me. My hands clench into the sheets, my heart hammering in my chest as my mind struggles to separate the past from the present.

  A firm yet gentle hand presses against my forehead—cool, steady, grounding.

  "You're awake," Isla says, her voice quiet, measured.

  The moment shifts. My breathing evens out. The grip of the dream loosens its hold. I blink rapidly, the golden light spilling through the curtains blinding in contrast to the darkness I had just left behind.

  I glance around. The cot by the hearth is empty. Marla and Clara are gone—already in the dining hall, no doubt. I slept late. That is a rarity. A weakness. My body demanded rest, and for once, I had no choice but to give it.

  Isla stands beside the bed, back in her crisp maid’s uniform, as if nothing had happened the night before. As if she had not knelt before me in blood-stained clothing, her hands soaked in death. I wonder what she thinks when she looks at me now—her young charge, barely five years old, but with a composure beyond his years. She has seen me act with measured control, seen the way I command those around me without hesitation. It must seem unnatural. Odd. I make a mental note to speak with her soon, to understand what she sees in me—what she thinks of me.

  I exhale slowly, steadying myself. Isla does not move her hand right away, as if making sure I am fully present before withdrawing. She steps back, watching me closely but saying nothing about what she must have seen—whatever my body did in sleep, whatever expression crossed my face as I dreamed.

  I shift to the edge of the bed and slide off carefully, my bare feet meeting the cold floor. Even that motion feels strange—my body is still small, too young, but my mind commands it with the confidence of someone far older. The juxtaposition is frustrating.

  "My clothes," I say at last, my voice rough but controlled.

  Isla inclines her head slightly and moves to the wardrobe. She carefully lays out my usual attire—simple trousers and a shirt suited for comfort.

  I pause, considering.

  "Not those," I say, my voice firmer now. "The formal set."

  Isla stops, turning her gaze toward me. There is no question in her expression, only the briefest flicker of amusement before she nods and retrieves the outfit I requested—a miniature version of my father’s formal wear. Tailored trousers, a fine shirt, a waistcoat, and a fitted overcoat.

  I take my time dressing, allowing Isla to assist where needed. The fabric is heavier, the layers more constraining than my usual attire, but I welcome the weight. This is not the outfit of a child. It is the attire of someone who intends to be seen.

  I know what I did last night will change how the estate sees me. There is no undoing it, no slipping back into the role of an ordinary boy. If the staff is going to look at me differently, then I will lean into the role they now expect of me.

  Once dressed, I fasten the last button on my coat and smooth the fabric over my shoulders. I turn to Isla, catching her faint nod of approval.

  "Let's go," I say.

  She steps aside, opening the door for me without a word.

  I step into the hall, ready to face what comes next.

  The corridor outside my chambers is quieter than usual. The usual murmuring of servants, the casual ease with which the guards once stood, is gone. Instead, they stand stiffly, eyes flickering toward me and then away just as quickly. Their backs straighten just a fraction more as I pass, their hands resting more deliberately on the pommels of their swords.

  They see me differently now.

  I keep my steps measured, my expression neutral. Isla moves beside me, silent as a shadow, but I can feel the way she watches everything. The shift in posture, the hesitation, the subtle tension in the air—it is not just respect they feel. It is something colder, something I do not like.

  We reach the dining hall, and the sensation only grows. The staff inside had been speaking in low voices, but at my arrival, silence falls over them. Platters and trays shift slightly in nervous hands, and eyes flick toward me before quickly looking down. The scent of warm bread, eggs, and fresh fruit does little to mask the discomfort lingering in the air. The silence drapes over them like a heavy shroud. Eyes lower. Movements still. They do not look at me. Not fully. Not anymore. I pretend not to notice.

  Marla is by the hearth, fussing over Clara, though even she holds herself more stiffly than usual. I catch the way her hands tremble slightly as she adjusts the child's tunic. The tension coils tighter in my chest. This is not what I wanted.

  Before I can move to take my seat, the door to the hall bursts open, and Havish strides inside, moving with a rare urgency. His eyes immediately find mine, his face set with determination.

  "Your Grace," he says, stopping just before me and bowing slightly. "A message has arrived. Your father will return in five days."

  My mind sharpens instantly. Five days.

  The capital is more than a week away by carriage. Magically powered transport exists—fast, but uncomfortable and impractical for long distances. If my father has chosen to return this way, then the situation is far more complex than I anticipated.

  I nod, keeping my expression impassive. "Understood."

  Havish hesitates for only a moment before continuing, his tone shifting to something more insistent. "You should not be eating here with the staff, Your Grace. The formal dining room will be prepared for you at once."

  I stop short.

  The title. Your Grace.

  I let my gaze sweep across the room. No one meets my eyes. The servants hold themselves carefully, avoiding my notice. The guards at the door stand rigid, watching but saying nothing. Even Marla, tending to Clara, is tense in a way she never was before. There is no warmth, no familiarity.

  They are not simply looking at me as the heir now.

  They are looking at me as something else.

  Something to fear.

  A cold weight settles in my chest. This is not what I intended.

  I need to fix this. Now.

  I turn sharply to Isla. "Fetch Captain Valcroft."

  She gives a slight bow and disappears through the doorway, her movements swift and precise.

  Next, I look to Marla, who stiffens under my gaze. "Have someone take over tending to Clara."

  Marla hesitates, then nods. "As you wish, Your Grace."

  I turn back to Havish. "Come with me. You as well, Marla."

  Without waiting for an answer, I stride toward the main hall, my pulse steady but my mind already working. This perception must be corrected before it takes root.

  Breakfast can wait.

  The main hall looms ahead, vast and echoing with the weight of generations. Sunlight filters through tall stained-glass windows, casting patterns of deep crimson and gold across the polished stone floor. The banners of House Larkin hang high, their sigil—a black-winged falcon grasping a silver sword—standing as a silent testament to the legacy I am expected to inherit.

  As I step forward, the heavy doors swing open at my arrival, and waiting for me inside is Captain Valcroft. Havish and Marla step from behind me and join him in front of me. They kneel as one, their heads bowed, a show of deference that turns my stomach.

  I halt mid-step, my hands clenching at my sides.

  No. Wrong. This is not what I intended.

  I step forward. “Rise.”

  They obey, slow and measured, their eyes cautiously meeting mine.

  They think this is my move. That I have seized control in my father’s absence. That my sudden display of command and authority was not just necessary action, but a claim to power.

  I am five years old, but they have all seen what I am capable of. They have watched me read a room, weigh the weight of words before I speak them, move people into place like pieces on a board. And they believe that I, even at this age, am claiming the archducal seat.

  I take a slow breath, reigning in the cold frustration twisting in my gut. I do not want this.

  I step closer, my boots echoing against the stone floor as I approach them. Their silence is heavy, thick with expectation, with loyalty—and with an unspoken doubt. They do not believe I am ready, and yet, they kneel because they do not see a choice. Because they believe that if I want to claim this power, nothing can stop me.

  I sweep my gaze over them, taking in the tension in Marla’s shoulders, the rigid set of Valcroft’s jaw, the way Havish watches me as if calculating his next move.

  "You mistake my intentions," I say, my voice firm, carrying through the hall. "I am not here to take my father’s place. I am not here to upend the house that he has led with strength and honor. My parents have done nothing but care for me, for this house, for all of you. They do not deserve betrayal. And I will not be the one to bring it."

  Their expressions shift—Marla’s breath catches, Havish’s gaze sharpens with curiosity, and Valcroft watches, waiting for the deeper meaning behind my words.

  "You serve House Larkin," I continue, pacing slowly before them. "And so do I. You each hold a vital part of it. Captain Valcroft, you are the shield of this estate. You safeguard its walls, its people, its legacy. Havish, you maintain our ties to the city, the dukedom, and the capital itself. You ensure our standing, our influence. Marla, you are the heart of this house. Without you, it does not run."

  I stop and let the words settle.

  "I have no intention of replacing you. I have no intention of forcing my father out. This estate will remain whole. This house will remain strong. And when my father returns, I will stand before him as his son and heir—not as a usurper."

  Marla exhales a breath she has been holding, nodding slightly, as if reassured. Havish crosses his arms, thoughtful, a hint of something unreadable in his expression. Valcroft remains still, then dips his head slightly, not in submission, but in understanding.

  "You commanded us, and we obeyed," Valcroft says at last, his voice level. "Not because of your name, but because we saw someone capable of leading. That is not something that can be undone."

  I meet his gaze. "Then let it be known that I lead for my father, not against him. Until his return, we will do as he expects—protect House Larkin, keep its foundations steady."

  Havish nods once. "Understood."

  Marla clasps her hands in front of her, her tension easing. "As you wish, young master."

  Valcroft studies me a moment longer, then inclines his head. "Very well. Until the Archduke returns, we stand ready."

  The weight in my chest lightens, just slightly. The misunderstanding has been corrected. For now.