Time passes.

  Not with the slow listlessness I remember from other childhoods, where the days stretch like molasses between duties meant to occupy a child. Here in Falkensgrave, my days feel...shaped. Constructed with care. Forged into something with purpose. The estate breathes with quiet rhythm again, and I breathe with it. Mornings come with the scent of steam and hearth smoke, and for the first time in this life, I feel anchored.

  I take breakfast in the estate messhall most mornings, not in the high dining chamber, not in my room with a silver tray. Instead, I choose to eat with the staff. No one questions me, at least not yet. I like the noise of it: the clatter of dishes, the shuffle of boots and slippers, early laughter drifting through the room before the day hardens people with work.

  Marla holds court here in the mornings, assigning duties and managing the estate's rhythm like a conductor with her orchestra. Lena serves now as waitstaff, moving through the rows with quiet grace. A small limp is the only sign of her ordeal. Clara is often there too, bouncing between chairs, snatching bites from unwary plates, and burning off the energy faster than she can eat it. She talks too much, too fast, and never in straight lines.

  I like her.

  When Mother and Father are home, I eat with them; formal, quiet, brief. The high dining chamber sees more use for that than anything else. But Sven is rarely here. He’s gone more often than not, traveling the breadth of the duchy, shoring up allegiances, inspecting garrisons, speaking in rooms thick with polished crests and strained smiles. Catharine goes with him. Diplomacy, she says. It isn’t a lie. But it isn’t the whole truth either.

  I remember the anguish in their faces the morning after my naming ceremony, six years ago, when Sven wove a spell to deliver a message to me upon his death. At the time, neither of them expected to see me grow up. I suspect that fear still lingers in Catharine.

  She doesn’t travel with him only for politics. She goes because she cannot bear the waiting, cannot sit in the estate listening for footsteps that might never return.

  I know that fear. I have lived it, on both sides.

  I do not envy her choice.

  To ease my own mind, I’ve layered Sven and Catharine in wards of my own making.

  Here in Falkensgrave—and as far as I’ve learned, across this world—mana does not flow freely. It moves in narrow streams, bound into a structured weave. A lattice shaped by the Founder's order, or so the temple claims. Every spell, every enchantment, must draw from this fixed current. Access comes only through the titles the weave grants, and even then, the flow is barely a trickle to me. A measured sip, doled out with restraint.

  I remember what it’s like to draw mana by the handful. To cast wide, burning arcs across the sky. To shape storms. To mend bone with a breath. To tear down a city wall with a single, perfect phrase.

  That power isn’t gone. It’s just caged.

  The one saving grace is the fount I created in the garden. A breach. A cracked pipe in the perfect lattice. Mana spills through it, wild and raw, soaking into root and soil. Hidden beneath ivy, tucked into the heart of the estate’s only truly wild space. The magic there sings differently, untamed, natural, mine.

  I draw from it slowly, carefully. Just enough to avoid attracting attention. But even at its slow flow, it gives me more than this world would ever willingly allow. Enough to strengthen my body beyond its years. Enough to layer enchantments the temple would call sacrilege. Enough to prepare.

  With that strength, I’ve built my wardings, subtle, undetectable. I’ve placed them on Sven and Catharine. On Clara, Lena, and Marla. On Valcroft. On Havish.

  But not on Isla.

  She feels it when I touch magic. Always. A shiver through the air, or a shift in her stance. I haven’t asked her permission yet. I don’t need to. If I asked, she would say yes. If I ordered it, she would kneel.

  But that’s not why I wait.

  I want her to think about it. To choose it. Some day soon, I hope.

  When breakfast ends, my mornings belong to Lord Alistair.

  The old dog waits behind a desk too old to be anything but solid oak, and too tall for me to sit at without a cushion. His study is always a touch too warm, cluttered with books that seem to breed in the corners and maps so ancient they flake at the edges when touched. Sometimes, I find him curled up on the large floor pillow in front of the radiator, half-dozing like a creature from a gentler age.

  He’s slower than I’d like, methodical in a way that would frustrate anyone without the patience of many lifetimes. But we’ve found a rhythm. He teaches. I learn. Faster than any student he’s had before, and he knows it.

  In a life long past, I once taught siege mathematics to the crown prince of a coastal empire. That boy resented every lesson, unless it involved ballista. So I caved. I skipped the fundamentals and gave him what he wanted. He died beneath the rubble of a wall that could have held, had he understood how to brace it properly.

  Alistair insists on starting at the roots. He needs the order. The structure. So I give it to him. And in return, I get the shape of Larkin history carved into my bones. He enjoys teaching—he just enjoys doing it his way.

  And I let him.

  Lunch is taken with the estate guard, usually in the barracks courtyard. It isn’t required of me, which is precisely why it matters that I go.

  The food is simple: thick stew, barley bread, roasted roots. Sometimes smoked fish or game, when the kitchens are feeling generous. I take whatever is served, find an open bench, and sit.

  At first, they stiffened when I appeared. Bowed too low, stayed too quiet. But I made a habit of showing up. I never take the head of the table, never speak over them, and I never complain about the food. So now they talk, and I listen. I learn the names behind the armor, the turns of phrase that mark a soldier from Black Hollow versus one from Larkridge. I collect stories like breadcrumbs. Valcroft says I’ve earned their trust, though I think it’s more that I’ve learned how to not ask the wrong questions.

  They talk about long marches and worse billets. About how cold the stone floors get in winter, and how Valcroft once chased a would-be thief barefoot through three alleys and a garden party. They speak of aches that won’t go away and joke about whose boots will fall apart first.

  And under that, quieter, but never far, there’s gossip. Whispers of unrest in the Forgewell Quarter. A brawl that started over wages but ended in a fire. Rumors that a few of the old nobility are funding pamphlets that call Sven a usurper, say I was named heir only because no one else was left to take the role. That Catharine is the last true Larkin, and the line ends with her. Some even say the Archduke is grooming me for rule, not of the duchy, but of all the Luminara Dominion.

  They don’t think I hear. I do.

  Valcroft doesn’t stop them from talking when I’m there. And I know why. Gossip moves faster than orders in a place like this. And those who serve don’t forget the ones who sit at their tables.

  Afterward comes training. Sword forms in the courtyard. Grappling in the padded cellar. Endurance drills in the old stables where the hay still smells faintly of horses, though none are stabled there anymore.

  Sometimes I train with Valcroft. Sometimes with one of his lieutenants. They’re sharp, loyal, and competent. I push harder than they expect. I’ve stopped being treated like glass.

  Never with Isla, though. She’s not allowed to spar with me. I’ve asked.

  She only raised an eyebrow.

  Afternoons belong to the city.

  My office sits within the Blackwood Citadel, the ancient stone heart of Falkensgrave. Long before the Archduke ruled from his modern estate, House Larkin lived here. Fought here. Bled here. Its halls remember war in their bones. Even now, when the wind turns right, the old bells echo faintly down the corridors, a memory of alarms long past.

  I’ve been given the war council chamber in the east tower. Once, this room held generals and lords, bent over siege maps and supply chains. Now it holds me. The walls are lined with shelves that haven’t been dusted in years, and the air smells of ink, iron, and stone. A round table dominates the space, black oak, heavy enough that even Valcroft needed help to shift it when we cleared the cluttered room.

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  This is where I work.

  I’ve begun to organize it. Slowly. The massive council table will become the base for a scale model of the city, once the details are exact. For now, I use it to spread old maps, some so brittle I must turn them with gloves, and overlay them with new ones drawn from city watch reports and recent surveys. I chart the city like blood vessels, searching for blockages, abscesses, weak points in the bones of stone and brick. When the model is complete, if I can work the enchantments correctly, I’ll tie it to relay nodes in every watchhouse. Real-time reports. Instant alerts. Centralized awareness.

  But I can’t build it yet. Not until I understand the flow of Falkensgrave. Not until I know how it breathes.

  So I gather. I read. I listen. I compare foot traffic patterns from old civic records to recent patrol reports. I draft suggestions for better street lighting in Old Market, more frequent patrols along the wharf at night, adding a signal bell in Forgewell Quarter where none has been heard in three generations.

  I send these proposals through the proper channels. They return unread, or worse, accompanied by excuses written in polite ink. Budgetary strain. Lack of workforce. Not a current priority.

  And some, like Lord Taven Corvis, don’t bother to pretend.

  Corvis is the head of the Artisans’ Oversight Guild, one of the more powerful merchant associations in the city. He responded to my advisement regarding increased safety standards for outer-ward textile mills with a note full of condescension, cloaked in civility.

  “While we appreciate the Young Lord’s enthusiasm, it would be prudent to leave such matters to those whose experience extends beyond arithmetic lessons and parlor games.”

  His seal was pressed deeper than necessary, as if force alone gave it more weight.

  He isn’t the only one. Other minor lords echo the same sentiment, couched in flowery dismissal, clipped by titles they wear like armor. Some don’t even send written replies. Just silence. The kind that drips contempt between the lines.

  Still, the work continues. I track the flow of goods through the markets. Measure how long it takes for a runner to reach the outermost patrols. Chart where the watch is understrength and when. I send Isla to confirm the accuracy of certain patrol reports that feel too clean, too rehearsed.

  She brings back names. Habits. Shortcuts taken. Bribes collected.

  She brings back the truth.

  From the tall arched window behind my desk, I can see the Grand Ceremonial Square laid out before the citadel like a stage. The Founder’s Temple rises directly opposite, a spire of stone and glass that watches the city with ageless patience. Between us lies the parade ground, then the square, paved in clean-cut granite, worn smooth by generations of boots.

  Beyond that, the city stretches in rings. The old shield walls still divide them, like growth lines on a felled tree, each layer a scar of history, each stone a memory. Every street, every alley, every rooftop, each one a vein in the body of Falkensgrave. A body that doesn’t yet know it’s wounded.

  But I see the signs.

  In the hesitations between lines in patrol reports. In the tremble of silence when I ask too direct a question. In the way some watch captains can’t quite meet my eyes. The rot hasn’t taken root, not fully. But it’s there. Beneath the surface. Waiting.

  And still, they see a child playing office. A boy pretending at governance while the adults whisper and maneuver in corners they think I can’t reach.

  The light through the high windows of Blackwood Citadel falls in long gold beams, catching dust in the air like a drifting constellation. My fingers ache from holding a quill too long, ink smudged along the side of my hand. The wax seal on the final report is still soft beneath my palm, warmth lingering like breath on glass.

  I lean back in the tall chair that doesn’t quite fit me, the wood groaning faintly beneath the shift of my weight. The war table sprawls before me, half-covered in vellum, string, brass pins, and memory. My gaze drifts past the cluttered table, out the window. Dusk softens the rooftops. Lamps flicker to life. The city exhales.

  Outside, the bells toll the sixth hour.

  Dinner will be waiting in the estate’s west hall. Likely something quiet. No guests tonight. Just warm food and the chance to open the ancient tome Sienne found buried in the Founder’s Temple annex. It’s older than most buildings in the city, bound in cracked leather and stitched with threads that hum faintly with old, forgotten spells. It still smells of cold stone and firelight.

  The thought of it—quiet study, a warm room—is enough to let my shoulders loosen. Just for a moment.

  Today has been quiet. And it feels like the kind of quiet that drapes the world in stillness, like snow before the storm. A hush that waits to be broken.

  I reach for the candle snuffer.

  The door opens instead.

  A runner stumbles through, breathless. His boots scrape too loud on the stone, echoing into the silence like a warning bell. He’s barely sixteen, his uniform sash soaked with sweat and skewed across his chest.

  He bows low, then thrusts a folded paper toward me. No wax. No crest. Just ink, smeared with haste.

  “From the Watchhouse, my lord,” he pants. “Commander said—said it couldn’t wait.”

  I take it. The seal is already broken.

  The message is short. Blunt.

  ***

  Smoke rising near Riverbend clocktower.

  Fire confirmed.

  No initial casualties.

  Evacuation in progress.

  Awaiting report from officers on scene.

  ***

  No signature. No assessment. No orders issued.

  Just the shape of a crisis. Waiting to spread.

  The Riverbend district is a mess of old foundries and warehouses — and newer homes built too fast around them. I flagged it two weeks ago as a hazard. The district commander hadn’t responded.

  I turn to the runner. “When was this dispatched?”

  “Two and a quarter bells ago, my lord.”

  I don’t curse. I don’t breathe for a moment.

  Instead, I move. I cross to the desk, yank open the bottom drawer, and pull out three small scrolls already inked and sealed. Emergency reroute orders. I wrote them weeks ago. Just in case.

  I hand them to the runner. “Deliver these to Watchhouses at Greyflood Pier, Eastgate, and Southwall. Tell the captains to redeploy their evening patrols to cover Riverbend’s zone. Tell them it’s not a drill.”

  The runner hesitates.

  “Now.”

  He bolts.

  “Isla,” I say without turning.

  She’s already pulling on her coat, the color of dusk and rainwater. The livery is plain, the sigil stitched small over her shoulder, but there’s no mistaking who she is. Or what.

  “I need eyes on the fire. Substructures, smoke direction, crowd movement. Do not engage unless necessary. Get as close as you can.”

  She’s gone before I finish the last word.

  Two estate guards wait just outside the door. I give them a nod. Neither questions where we’re going. Their boots echo down the citadel stairs, sharp against the stone as we descend into the cooling light of evening.

  I don’t know yet what’s burning.

  But I know Riverbend. I know how a single spark can become a wound that festers. And I know this city now better than anyone else ever could.

  The main Watchhouse of Falkensgrave stands on the third ring, wedged between an old grain hall and a row of crumbling administrative buildings, like a soldier grown too big for his barracks. At this hour, its courtyard is half-shadowed beneath the raised banners of dusk patrol.

  We pass through the outer gate without pause. The guards spot estate colors and snap to attention. One of mine moves ahead to announce me. I follow without breaking stride.

  The front hall is chaos. Boots scuff stone. Orders and updates barked across desks. A harried clerk nearly collides with me, then stammers, paling when he sees my face. I don’t speak. I don’t need to.

  I know where I’m going.

  The Watchmaster’s office is above the dispatch floor—a square room with thick stone walls, tall windows, and a door too stubborn to creak. I push it open and step into the warm spill of lanternlight.

  Watchmaster Garin stands at the map table, heavyset and broad, his beard tied in three neat bands. His jacket hangs open over a sweat-damp shirt. The table before him is littered with counters and hasty notations. Four officers stand around him. None of them turn at the sound of the door.

  I wait. One beat. Two.

  Garin finally looks up. “Ah,” he says mildly. “The young lord graces us with a visit.”

  Polite. Too polite.

  “I was sent notice,” I say. “I’ve rerouted patrols to compensate for Riverbend’s draw. What’s the latest?”

  One officer—Lieutenant Curn, I think—snorts. Another mutters behind a hand. Garin doesn’t respond. I hope he remembers the day of my appointment. If not, he will now.

  I step to the map.

  The fire is marked near the eastern edge of Riverbend—too close to the clocktower. Too close to the grain warehouse. I scan the scribbled notes.

  “No wind off the river,” I murmur. “It’ll sweep west. The forge sheds will catch within the hour.”

  Garin frowns. “We’re waiting for confirmation on the source.”

  “You don’t need confirmation,” I say. “You need to evacuate the south row and reroute the canals. If you don’t block the fireline, it’ll take half the district by morning.”

  He waves a hand. “We’re managing. The local captain has experience with industrial fires. He’ll send a report soon.”

  “He’s in the fire zone,” I snap. “If he hasn’t sent anything, it means he can’t.”

  The silence in the room shifts—like a hinge turning. One officer folds his arms. Another glances at Garin, waiting.

  Garin looks at me. Not harshly. Just the way an adult looks at a child playing dress-up with titles.

  “My lord,” he says, carefully. “This office was given to you to observe. Not to command.”

  I pause.

  I have tried. Gods know I’ve tried. For months I’ve offered reforms wrapped in courtesy. I’ve written advisories. Respected chains of command. Waited for the slow machinery of protocol to turn.

  But I am not a child playing at power.

  And Falkensgrave cannot afford another man who waits.

  I place both hands on the table. It rises nearly to my shoulders, but I look Garin in the eye and let my voice fall soft and low.

  “You’re wrong.”

  One of the officers twitches. Another starts to speak—but I don’t give him room.

  “This isn’t localized. I told you three weeks ago the clocktower gas mains were unstable. The logs you ignored showed stress from the winter floods. There are eight fuel caches in Riverbend, only three with manual locks. If this fire crosses Canal Street, the southern ward will be cut off.”

  I glance at the map.

  “You are not managing this. You are watching a fire become a disaster because you’re waiting for permission to act.”

  Garin’s jaw tightens.

  “You were given this office to observe,” he repeats, quieter.

  “No.” I straighten. My hands fold behind my back. The weight of my title filled the air, woven with a thread of magic, subtle but undeniable, a pressure that made the air taste of copper and old stone. Let them feel it. Let them remember it. “The office was given to observe. But I command. I am the heir to this city. To this Dukedom. Listen and obey, or be stripped and tried for treason. I have no time left for courtesy. Not when MY city is threatened.”

  There is a sound behind me, subtle, final. Both of my guards shifting, hands resting on their hilts.

  They’ve eaten with me. Trained with me. Watched me grow.

  And they know I mean it.

  I pull a folded parchment from my coat. A copy of the fire ward plan I redrew last month.

  “You have one hour to deploy blockades along the third canal. Open the eastline sluices. Redirect fire crews from Central Works.”

  I hold out the paper. Garin doesn’t move.

  So I set it down, slowly, on the map between us.

  And then I look up. My voice like flint striking steel.

  “If you cannot do that, step aside. I will.”