The grand hall stands in eerie silence, the weight of expectation pressing down like a thick fog. It is no longer just a room of duty and politics; it is a stage where the balance of power within House Larkin has subtly shifted, and I am at its center.

  Havish, Captain Valcroft, and Marla stand before me, each holding the same careful stillness, their gazes lingering on me in ways that are different from before. Last night has altered something irrevocably. They do not see a child. They do not see an heir waiting to grow into his title. They see someone who, in a single night, commanded the estate with authority no five-year-old should possess. And they are waiting—to see if I will keep pushing forward, if I will step into power fully, if I will cast aside the careful patience I have long cultivated.

  But I am not their lord. Not yet.

  Havish, ever the pragmatist, moves first. His bow is measured, not deep, but still one of respect. His usual calculating eyes are unreadable, though I know they see more than they reveal.

  “There is much to arrange, Your Grace,” he says smoothly, the words rolling off his tongue with practiced ease. The title grates. It does not belong to me. Not yet. But correcting him would only solidify what he already believes—that I am unprepared to bear it.

  “The merchants and guild representatives will need reassurance that the estate remains stable,” he continues. “They will expect swift confirmation that House Larkin’s affairs remain in steady hands. If you have no further need of me, I will see to it.”

  His words are a test. He is offering me a choice—one that will define how he continues to view me.

  A true usurping heir would summon him for counsel, would demand updates, would assert their authority over every decision. A child would hesitate, would yield fully, would ask permission rather than give direction.

  But I am neither.

  I let the pause stretch, long enough to acknowledge the weight of the moment. Then, I incline my head—not in command, not in deference, but in something measured between the two. “See to it.”

  The words are simple. Not an order, but not a plea. I am not replacing my father’s will, but I am lending my presence to it, allowing my name to fortify the weight of his authority.

  Havish studies me for a moment longer. The flicker in his gaze is not just approval, it is calculation, reassessment. He expected me to grasp or withdraw, to claim or concede. Instead, I have done something else entirely. He averts his gaze, adjusting his cuff.

  With a small nod, he turns and strides from the hall.

  It is small, almost imperceptible. But it is there. He sees me now—not just as the heir, but as someone worth watching.

  One down.

  Captain Valcroft steps forward next, his broad form imposing, his hand resting loosely on the pommel of his sword. But it is not a gesture of threat, it is one of understanding.

  To my surprise, he extends his hand.

  A handshake.

  I blink, caught off guard by the rare informality from the seasoned warrior. “I’m relieved, lad,” he says, his voice rough but not unkind. “For a second, I thought I’d be taking orders from you from now on.”

  I smirk, accepting the handshake with a firm grip, my small hand engulfed in his. “Not yet.”

  His lips twitch slightly, but the humor fades just as quickly, replaced by something more serious. He watches me carefully, measuring me in a way that is not unlike Havish—though Valcroft’s test is not one of politics. It is one of loyalty.

  “You’re quick. Sharp. No question about that,” he says. “But tell me, young lord—are you ready for proper martial training?”

  Excitement stirs in me before I force it down. This is the test. He wants to see if I will grasp for more power, if I will overstep the boundary I have drawn by my own hand.

  I exhale, schooling my expression into one of reluctant acceptance. “I’d like nothing more,” I admit. Then, pointedly, “But Father refuses. He says I’m too young.”

  Valcroft nods slowly, as if he expected the answer. A flicker of approval flashes in his eyes. “He’s a cautious man,” he murmurs. “But I’ll have a word with him. Perhaps we can convince him.”

  The test is passed. He wanted to see if I would betray my father’s authority, if I would seek secret training beyond what was permitted. I did not.

  Valcroft clasps my shoulder once, then steps back. “We’ll speak again soon.”

  I nod, watching him go.

  Two down.

  Marla is the last. She has remained silent throughout, but I have seen the battle in her expression. She is watching me as she always has, since I was a silent child who refused to speak until the moment was right. I see the shimmer of unshed tears in her eyes—not of fear, but of something deeper.

  She feared, I think, that I would grow into the kind of noble she has seen before. The kind who sees people as tools. Who plays loyalty like a game.

  I step forward, my voice softening. “Marla, it is the kindness you and Lena have shown me, and the love of my parents, that taught me to value the people of House Larkin.”

  She exhales sharply, as if she has been holding her breath. And then, she bows—not out of duty, but in relief. I see the tension bleed from the set of her shoulders.

  For a brief moment, I allow myself to feel it—the quiet reassurance that I am not what she feared. That the kindness I was shown remains within me. I bury it quickly, locking it away beneath careful composure.

  I let the moment settle before speaking again. “Clara should not see Lena like this. Would you stay with her? Keep her away from the infirmary, at least for now?”

  Marla blinks at the request. She understands its significance. This is not an order—I am trusting her with this task, not commanding it.

  She nods. “Of course, young master.”

  I let out a slow breath, rolling my shoulders back. The weight of the room lingers, but the moment has passed. I have not taken power, but I have claimed my place within it.

  Without a word, Isla moves to my side, a silent shadow, and together, we step toward the doorway.

  The infirmary is dimly lit, the scent of antiseptic and crushed herbs thick in the air. The quiet murmur of healers drifts like a soft undercurrent, their movements practiced, their voices hushed. There is no panic here, no sense of urgency—only the steady rhythm of practiced care.

  Lena lies motionless on the cot. Too still. Her face is pale, her breathing shallow but even. Fresh bandages wrap her torso, her arms, concealing the wounds that should no longer exist, thanks to the healers’ efforts. She is clean, washed of any blood or dirt. Yet she does not stir. She does not wake.

  She looks small, frail. In another life, I have seen warriors brought low like this, men who carved their names into history, only to return as ghosts. I have seen the hollow eyes of emperors who won every war but lost themselves in the silence afterward. The body may endure, but the soul does not always follow.

  I step forward, my footfalls barely making a sound against the stone floor. The healers in the room glance up at me, their expressions guarded. One of them, a young woman clad in the white robes of the temple, shifts uneasily. The heavy cowl of her uniform drapes over her head, her dust-brown triangle ears poking through slits cut into the fabric. A sharp muzzle and a black button nose peek from beneath the shadow of her hood, her russet-red tail flicking nervously behind her.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  She is young—too young to be the temple’s best. And yet, she is the one tending Lena. Either the temple ignored my summons for the best, or she is more skilled than her years suggest. Both possibilities warrant attention. Later. For now, Lena is what matters.

  She straightens abruptly, clutching a satchel of dried herbs to her chest at my approach. Her golden eyes flicker up, hesitant, uncertainty twisting in her expression. How does one address a child who does not act like one? I see the war in her gaze, the frantic search for an answer.

  She swallows hard and tries. “Y-Young Lord Larkin, it is an honor—”

  I lift a hand, cutting her off. “I don’t need pleasantries,” I say, my voice even, measured. “I need answers.” I turn my gaze to Lena’s motionless form, then back to the healer. “When will she wake?”

  She hesitates, her long fingers twisting in the hem of her robe. The movement is small but telling. I see it in the way her tail flicks, the way her ears twitch ever so slightly backward. I recognize uncertainty when I see it.

  Her hesitation is enough to tell me that I will not like the answer.

  She wets her lips, glancing around as if searching for someone else to speak, but no one steps forward. Her voice wavers slightly when she finally answers. “H-her wounds have been fully healed. There should be no lasting physical damage.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Then why hasn’t she woken?”

  The healer fidgets again, her fingers curling tightly into the fabric of her sleeves. “The weapons used in the attack…” she trails off, as though willing the words to die in her throat before they can escape.

  I step closer. “Say it.”

  She flinches at the weight of the command but obeys. “The blades were coated in poison.”

  A slow breath in. A slow breath out. Measured. Controlled.

  I do not move. I do not tense. Only the barest narrowing of my gaze betrays me. But inside—inside, something sharp coils deep within me, an old, familiar heat. In lifetimes past, I have felt it take me. Let it rule me. It is easier, sometimes, to let the fire rise. But I do not. Not yet.

  “What kind of poison?” My voice is quiet. Too quiet. It makes her ears twitch in response and she flinches back just a bit.

  She swallows visibly. “A mix,” she finally says, her voice barely above a whisper. “A paralytic and a psychoactive agent.”

  Something cold and sharp settles in my chest. I already know what that means, but I force her to continue.

  “Elaborate.”

  She nods quickly, ears twitching. “The first poison is a paralysis agent. It has frozen her limbs, left her helpless while…” She stops, struggling to say the words aloud. “…while they took the child.”

  Clara.

  My hands curl into fists, nails pressing into my palms. A slow inhale steadies me. I have seen men paralyzed before. I have seen what happens when they are left defenseless in the hands of those with cruel intent. But this—this was Lena. And Clara. My chest tightens, but I keep my voice measured.

  I force myself to stay still, to keep my breathing slow and even. “And the second?”

  The healer visibly struggles to meet my gaze, her golden eyes flickering downward. Her voice is barely a whisper. “The second is meant to… break the mind.”

  A slow, seething silence stretches between us.

  My pulse thuds, steady, measured. Every breath is a calculated effort. I keep my expression unreadable, but I know the way the air shifts around me betrays my mood. The young healer’s tail flicks in sharp, uneasy movements, her ears tilting back in submission. She knows she has given me news I did not want to hear.

  I do not speak for a long moment. I simply let the weight of the information settle.

  She expects rage. A noble’s fury. A demand for answers she cannot give. But I have lived enough lives to know this truth, no amount of anger will wake Lena.

  I inhale slowly, exhale evenly, then finally say, “Look at me.”

  She hesitates but obeys, lifting her gaze cautiously.

  I do not speak immediately. I let her linger in the silence before finally saying, “I do not hold you responsible for telling me the truth. Do not hesitate to do so again.”

  For a moment, she only stares. Surprise flickers through her golden eyes, as if she had braced for something far worse. The tightness in her shoulders eases—not fully, but enough. When she speaks again, her voice is still nervous, but steadier. “I-it is hard to know what kind of damage has been done,” she admits. “The effects of the psychoactive poison vary. Some victims recover fully after days or weeks. Others…” she looks toward Lena, ears lowering slightly. “…never return to themselves.”

  My fingers dig into the fabric of my coat, but my voice remains calm, collected. “What do you recommend?”

  She exhales slowly, as if relieved that I am still listening, that I have not reacted with anger or dismissal. “Time, Young Lord. And careful observation. I will return daily to monitor her condition. If she wakes, if she speaks, we will know more.”

  I nod once, accepting this.

  She bows deeply. “My name is Sienne, Young Lord.”

  I study her for a moment, then incline my head slightly in return. “Sienne.” I let the name settle on my tongue. “Thank you.”

  The way her tail flicks tells me she does not quite know what to make of me. But she nods quickly before gathering her things and backing away, disappearing into the quiet of the infirmary’s shadowed corners.

  I turn my gaze back to Lena.

  Poisoned. Left to suffer while they stole her child away.

  I exhale slowly and straighten. I cannot stay here long. There is more to be done.

  But I stay a moment longer, looking at Lena. She is still as stone, her mind locked away in some unreachable place. Her body survived, but I wonder… how much of her remains?

  A flicker of memory stirs. Another life, another battlefield. I have seen the eyes of warriors who returned from war only to find their minds had never left it. Some wounds heal. Others linger, unseen, waiting to swallow the wounded whole.

  The thought settles, heavy and unwelcome.

  I glance at Isla, standing near the doorway, silent as ever.

  “Find Valcroft,” I say evenly. “I want a full report.”

  She inclines her head and vanishes down the corridor, leaving me alone with the weight of what I now know.

  I don’t wait long. Captain Valcroft enters as the last healer leaves, his armor clinking softly as he moves. He stands at attention, posture rigid, the lines of his face unreadable. He’s waiting for me to set the tone.

  “Sit,” I say, motioning to the chair across from me.

  He hesitates, just for a fraction of a second, then obeys, settling into the chair opposite me. The infirmary is quiet save for the soft rasp of Lena’s breathing. The scent of antiseptic and herbs lingers in the air, sharp and cloying.

  “The city guard found all but one of the attackers,” he begins. “Petty criminals. Hired hands with no real connections to one another. Paid to abduct Clara. Killing Lena was secondary.”

  I keep my expression unreadable, though I feel my pulse steady into something sharper, more focused. That means no ideological motives—no personal grudge. Hired hands mean there was someone behind them, someone who wanted distance from the act itself.

  Valcroft exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve seen these types before. Low-life scum. Could be traffickers. We thought we’d stamped most of them out, but it looks like there’s still rot in the city.”

  Human trafficking. It makes sense. A thriving black market in stolen people. But something about it doesn’t sit right. Human traffickers don’t usually use poisons like this—they work in speed and anonymity, in easy transactions. This was too public, too brutal. And Lena was supposed to die.

  “They used poison,” I say, watching him carefully. “Not just a paralytic—something designed to break the mind.”

  Valcroft frowns. “Yeah. That’s what’s bothering me. Most of these bastards don’t go that far. They want live goods to sell. Poisoning their merchandise? Risky. Expensive.”

  Expensive, yes. Unnecessary for traffickers. But not for someone looking to send a message.

  I’ve seen this before. Not in this life, but in others. Assassins’ guilds in crumbling empires, corporate agents in the underbelly of towering cityscapes, warlords ensuring compliance through terror. When you want someone to fear you, you don’t just kill them—you make an example of them.

  “What did the guards learn about the one who got away?” I ask.

  Valcroft shakes his head. “Vanished. No known affiliations, no record of his face in the usual circles.” He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands fisted together. “My gut tells me this wasn’t about a simple snatch-and-grab. Someone wanted to make a statement. And I don’t like that it was aimed at House Larkin.”

  Neither do I.

  But I let his assumption stand. Let the guards hunt down the traffickers, burn out the remnants of that filth from the city. Even if they chase the wrong enemy, they’ll still be doing something good.

  Valcroft continues, his voice shifting slightly, becoming less of a report and more of a debriefing between commanders. He doesn’t notice the shift—most don’t. “We need to hit them hard. These kinds of criminals thrive in places where people turn a blind eye. If we don’t push, they’ll keep testing boundaries.”

  “And what do you suggest?” I ask, tilting my head slightly.

  “Raids. Pressure on the city watch. A show of force so no one thinks House Larkin is weak.”

  It’s a sound strategy. I nod slowly. “Keep them moving. Make them paranoid. If this wasn’t just traffickers, whoever is behind it will be forced to make a move.”

  Valcroft’s gaze sharpens, and for a moment, he almost smiles. “Smart.”

  I see it then—the unspoken recognition. He’s no longer speaking to me as a child, but as someone playing the same game.

  Silence lingers between us, stretching into something contemplative. Finally, Valcroft exhales, pushing himself up from the chair. He straightens, casting me a considering look. “You’re handling this well, young master.”

  I don’t reply, my mind already turning over the implications, the deeper threads beneath the surface.

  He mistakes my silence for concern. He softens, just slightly. “You’re not alone in this. Your father will be here soon. And until then, we’ll keep things locked down.”

  I meet his gaze. He’s trying to reassure me. I let him believe I need it.

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  He nods once, then turns and strides from the room.

  I remain seated, staring at Lena’s still form.

  The infirmary is nearly empty now.

  I take a slow breath. Then lift my gaze.

  “Please ask all staff to leave the infirmary,” I say softly.

  Isla hesitates. “…Do you want me to leave as well?”

  I nod.

  She does not question it. She ushers out the remaining staff, pausing only at the threshold.

  She looks back at me.

  She lingers. A heartbeat too long.

  Something in her eyes—hesitation, maybe worry.

  Then, the door closes.

  And I am alone.

  Alone with Lena’s still form.

  Alone with the knowledge that someone out there wanted to break House Larkin.