The estate is quiet in the afternoon light.

  Golden sunlight stretches across the open halls, casting long shadows across polished marble. The air inside is cool, thick with the scent of clean sheets and baked bread. I hear the hum of quiet conversations as the staff moves about their day.

  I should return to my chambers. Should rest, as I promised Marla.

  But I will not.

  The exhaustion in my body is like lead, pressing into every limb, coiling deep into my bones. Each step is a measured effort, my breath slow and steady, controlled. The day weighs on me, not just in body, but in mind. The aftershocks of what I did still ripple outward, shifting the balance of everything.

  Isla walks beside me, silent as ever, her presence like a blade held just out of sight. The way she watches me now is different. Subtle, but unmistakable. I know this morning’s conversation was not enough, but it was a start. There’s still time. This time, I caught it early. Before it could root itself.

  A vision of countless faces fills my thoughts, each gaze brimming with awe. Arrogance or blind ambition, whatever drove me in that life, led me forward without seeing how their devotion swelled into worship. By the time I notice the truth, they have already raised me to the level of a god. My pleas for restraint go unheard. Their faith is solid as stone, and I cannot break it. When the end arrives, I stand amid a red glow that fills the sky. Fire rages, black smoke chokes the air, and blood slicks the earth beneath my feet. Their cries echo, begging me to save them, but I can do nothing. I watch everything burn, trapped by their belief in me, and the bitter ash of my failure clings to the ruins left behind.

  I shake the memory from my mind and step outside.

  The shift in the air is immediate.

  Warm air brushes against my skin, carrying the crisp scent of freshly turned earth and sun-warmed leaves. The estate grounds stretch before me. Winding paths thread through neatly trimmed hedges and rows of late-season blooms. The sky begins to soften at the edges, blue deepening as streaks of gold and amber creep into the horizon.

  Ahead, the garden waits, my mother’s favorite place on the estate. She planned its design herself, every bloom and curve of stone set with care. A noble’s garden in every sense: refined, elegant, controlled. But at its center, hidden behind a high hedge, she allowed something different to flourish. A patch of near-wilderness, unpruned, untamed. It is one of the few places here that feels real. Unpolished. Free from the weight of expectation.

  Isla follows in silence as I pass beneath the archway leading into its heart.

  Only then does she speak.

  "You said you would rest," she says. Her voice is steady, unreadable. "But you are not heading to your chambers."

  I do not stop.

  "I am going to rest," I answer simply.

  A pause.

  The skepticism is unspoken, but I can feel it in her presence, in the sharp weight of her gaze.

  "In the gardens?"

  "Yes."

  She says nothing, but the silence that follows is expectant—waiting for the rest of the explanation.

  I debate, briefly, how much I should share. Isla sees much already. She always has. To dismiss her entirely would only make her more watchful. But trust, I remind myself, is a choice. And if I want her to see me as something human, I must be willing to offer her something real.

  I exhale, slow and measured. "The fresh air will aid my recovery."

  The words are not untrue, but they are not the truth she is waiting for.

  She does not press further.

  We walk in silence until we reach the great oak at the center of the garden. Its gnarled roots twist through the earth like the veins of something ancient, deep and unmoving. The tree has stood longer than the estate itself, its heavy branches stretching outward, sheltering the ground beneath in dappled shade. It has watched generations come and go, and it will watch many more.

  I lower myself onto the grass beneath the old tree, crossing my legs, letting my fingers sink into the warm soil. The pulse of the earth hums beneath my touch—subtle, but steady. A quiet reminder that life continues.

  I open myself to the weave of mana, and again, I reflect on how different it is in this life. In all my other lives where magic existed, natural mana behaved like the rest of nature: wild, chaotic, unpredictable. But here, it is... structured. Layered. Evenly distributed, like an unseen net stretched over the land. It flows with the calm rhythm of regulation, not instinct.

  There is still so much I don’t understand. So much I need to learn. I reach out with my senses and thread my core into the pattern, letting myself settle into its steady current. Perhaps it’s just the city, some ancient mage’s design, woven to ease casting or support stability. Maybe once I’m old enough to travel, I’ll find the wild mana I’m more familiar with beyond the city walls.

  For now, this will do.

  Minutes pass. The mana seeps into my limbs, into my joints, into the places where pain has nested. My shoulders loosen. My neck cracks. The ache fades, drawn out by the flow.

  Isla stands a short distance away. Still. Alert. The perfect sentry.

  I let the silence hold, let the mana do its work. Then:

  "Sit."

  She does not move.

  "I am fine standing," she says.

  I open my eyes. Meet hers. My voice sharpens, just slightly.

  "Please, Isla. It would be better if you sat."

  Her hesitation is brief, but present. I can see the conflict in her eyes.

  This is different.

  I am not commanding her. I am not instructing her as I normally would. This is a request, one without the weight of authority behind it.

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  Slowly, almost reluctantly, she lowers herself to her knees and sits back on her ankles across from me. Seated, but ready to stand in an instant and act. She remains stiff, back straight, posture controlled. Always poised. Always ready.

  I close my eyes again and inhale deeply.

  I let the world settle. The rustling leaves, the distant murmur of the fountain, the warmth of the setting sun against my skin. The flow of mana in the air.

  After a moment, I speak.

  "I am gathering mana."

  I do not need to see her to know she reacts. The stillness shifts, a quiet tension rippling beneath the surface.

  I continue, voice calm, steady. "The wards within the estate detect large mana movement. I cannot force my recovery indoors. The gardens, however, are open to the sky and ground, untouched by defensive magic. Here, I can restore myself quickly."

  I open my eyes.

  Isla watches me carefully, her expression unreadable. She absorbs my words in silence, but I can see the thoughts flickering behind her eyes, piecing things together.

  This is not some divine act. Not something beyond human comprehension.

  It is simply necessity.

  I let the moment settle before continuing.

  "I am not what you think I am."

  Her fingers twitch slightly against her knees.

  "And what do I think you are?" she asks, voice low.

  My answer is careful. "You are looking at me as something more than I am. That is dangerous—for both of us."

  She exhales slowly, but does not immediately respond.

  Instead, she studies me.

  "You are special, bound for greatness. You command and people obey. You act, and fate responds. Of this I am certain."

  I hold her gaze. "Then be certain in this—I am still just a boy."

  She does not flinch. Does not waver.

  “What happens when the temple notices, Isla? When the king begins to wonder? I am five. Not a prodigy. Not a prophet. Just a child in a noble’s house. Of those serving in the estate, you alone are loyal to me above the house.”

  She flinches at that. She has never spoken of her title, but the truth is there. Aurelius’ Blade, my name stamped in magic on her fate. She made the choice to dedicate herself to me, even if it was an unconscious choice. I can see in her eyes as her mind plays out the reaction of the temple, of the king, of the people. Her head bows, and I can see tightness in her shoulders as she tries to deny it. Heretic. Demon. Blight. The powers that would use any label to suppress something they perceived as a threat, and how would a child fight back?

  I soften my voice.

  “Isla,” her head snaps up and her gaze locks on my eyes at my tone. “What will my mother think? What will my father do?”

  I know that it is not quite fair to use them. I know how much they mean to her. But I need her to understand the path she is considering placing her feet on. There is a small glimmer of moisture in the corner of her eye, and I know I have gotten through.

  Slowly, she inclines her head in something close to acceptance. I know I haven’t completely changed her perception, but she will be cautious now. With time, I can tear down this idea. Time I have bought now.

  We sit in silence after that, the wind shifting through the leaves, the world exhaling around us. The sky above deepens into shades of amber and violet, the first stars flickering to life in the dimming light.

  The moment lingers.

  Then, quietly, she speaks.

  "If you are just a boy," she murmurs, "then why does it feel as if the world bends around you?"

  I feel a shudder run down my spine.

  But I do not answer.

  The following few days pass in a haze of quiet urgency. The estate hums with motion—not frantic, but purposeful, like a held breath before a long-awaited exhale. Servants clean rooms that haven’t seen use in months, fresh linens are laid out, and the kitchens send up warm smells of spiced broth and baking bread. Word has spread, Sven and Catharine are returning.

  After morning lessons the second day, I linger in Alistair’s study. The room still smells faintly of old paper and dry ink. Sunlight pools on the floor, where I sit cross-legged before a map of the city, marking routes and intersections in charcoal. The city planning table in the estate’s main hall is not yet mine to command, but here, on the floor of this quiet study, I begin to see the weave of it. Strategy is language. Pressure, patience, consequence.

  Footsteps interrupt the silence. I glance up just as Havish appears in the doorway, ever composed, his expression a mask of faint amusement tempered by duty.

  "Busy drawing lines through other people’s lives already, young master?" he asks, voice dry.

  I shrug lightly. “I’m only studying their paths. Lines are drawn if they fail to walk them willingly.”

  He steps fully into the room, his boots soundless on the thick rug. "Alistair will be pleased to see you're not wasting your return to routine. He speaks highly of your grasp of political geography."

  "He’s a good teacher. And I learn faster when he forgets my age."

  Havish chuckles, low and short. " Perhaps. On that note, your parents’ return remains set for two days’ time. No delays from the capital."

  I already know, but I nod anyway. “And the city?”

  “Stable.” He hesitates. "The last of the trafficking rings has been eliminated." His tone sharpens, just slightly. "The city guard sends its thanks for the estate’s cooperation. Captain Valcroft’s coordination was… effective."

  I catch the weight behind his words. "And the rest?"

  He shifts, hands folded neatly behind his back. "The magistrate was seen meeting with an envoy from the Aelwen province. The timing is… interesting."

  I tap the edge of the parchment thoughtfully. “Have you doubled the shift near the well gates?”

  His eyes narrow, and I catch the flicker of something—approval, perhaps. He inclines his head. “Already done, young master.”

  I dismiss him with a slight gesture, but as he leaves, he glances back once.

  “You’re growing too comfortable giving orders,” he mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.

  I smile without looking up. “And you’re growing too comfortable following them.”

  He grunts, but does not argue.

  Later, the afternoon is warm, the stones sun-kissed beneath my boots as I step into the courtyard. Isla is a half step behind, shadowing me as always. The flowers here are not ornamental, just simple greenery grown for comfort rather than spectacle. It is quiet, the kind of quiet that invites stillness, not solitude.

  I see her before she sees me.

  Lena sits on a bench in the shade of a flowering tree, her husband behind her, arms braced gently around her shoulders to keep her upright. Her hair has been brushed and pinned behind her ears, neatly, carefully, by someone else’s hand. Her eyes track the flight of a bird overhead, unfocused but not absent.

  When she notices me, she shifts.

  She tries to stand.

  Her arms tremble, legs unsteady, and I see her husband murmur something softly, his grip tightening.

  I raise a hand and shake my head. "Don’t," I say gently, letting the word settle between us. "Please, sit."

  She breathes out shakily and obeys, and something about that surrender strikes deeper than words.

  Clara is chasing a butterfly through the courtyard, and turns, hearing my voice.

  “Relus!” she calls, her voice bubbling. She runs to me, wild curls bouncing, and points to the sky. “It’s white and gold!”

  “Then it’s a rare one,” I say, leaning towards her. “White butterflies are lucky.”

  “Is that why Mama woke up?” She looks at me with shining eyes. “Did the butterfly come for her?”

  I place a hand gently atop her curls. " Maybe it did,” I whisper.

  She grins. “She smiled at me—like really smiled.” Then she dashes off in pursuit of the butterfly again.

  I look up.

  Lena’s eyes glisten, and though her face is pale, the smile she gives now is full. True. I made the right choice. I catch the look Isla and Lena exchange as I walk away. I would have outgrown Lena’s care eventually, this incident has only accelerated it. She must feel uncertain about her place in the estate, with no duties to perform. I make a mental note to speak to Marla and Catharine about it in the future.

  That evening, the moon hangs high in the sky by the time I finally retreat to my room. The candlelight flickers soft against the walls. My boots are off, tunic loosened, hair damp from a quick rinse. Isla stands by the door, silent.

  It has become a quiet ritual, her guarding as I prepare for bed. She never asks to stay. She simply does, only slipping away to her small adjacent room once I am in bed.

  Tonight, she lingers longer than usual.

  "You’ll have trouble pretending again," she says suddenly, voice low but clear.

  I glance at her from where I’m folding my tunic. "Pretending?"

  She nods, arms folded. "The staff saw you collapse. They’ve seen you recover faster than you should. Some know what you did for Lena. Others suspect. Your presence has changed. People look at you... differently."

  I set the folded cloth aside and meet her gaze. "Yes. I noticed."

  Her brow creases faintly. “You won’t be able to pretend to be a child anymore—not in their eyes.”

  I shrug. "Then perhaps it's time to stop pretending."

  Her silence stretches long enough that I wonder if she will speak again.

  Then: "You are still small."

  I nod. "I am."

  "You are still breakable."

  "Yes."

  "You are not alone, though."

  I pause.

  Then, quietly, "Not as much as I was."

  She exhales, a strange breath between relief and unease. "Good."

  I settle into bed. She dims the lantern.

  As the door closes behind her, I stare at the ceiling in silence, waiting for the moment it all begins to shift.