Sven waits without a word, watching as the last person files out of the council room. Valcroft stations himself just outside the door. His presence is a silent wall, disciplined and unreadable. Isla has not shifted from her place. She watches the doorway, sharp-eyed and ever ready.

  Then, with a slight tilt of his head, Sven signals.

  “Come,” he says simply, offering a hand. I can probably jump down from the table with no issue but see no reason to refuse the offer. I take his hand and step off the edge, letting him slow my descent to the floor.

  The tension in my legs hasn’t faded, but I ignore it. My father’s gaze rests on me, a shadow of calculation behind the almost-smile that never quite forms. Whatever he had hoped would be accomplished at the meeting, I see he is pleased with the results. For a moment I think he might speak, but then without another word, he turns and strides toward the hall. Valcroft falls in step beside him, his movements sharp and disciplined. I follow and behind me Isla shadows my steps without a sound. Even after the council's uproar, she remains calm.

  We pass through the dim corridors of the estate, the soft light of the morning sun filtering through narrow windows. A few servants move about their tasks, careful not to linger. They bow low as we pass, though their gazes flicker toward me, curious, uncertain. Word will spread soon. The Archduke’s son did not crumble under the council’s doubts. That alone will fuel whispers for days.

  I glance at Isla. She doesn’t return the look, her expression a mask of stillness. But I know her well enough. The slight shift of her shoulders, the way her steps remain precisely one pace behind mine — she’s thinking. She always is.

  “Did I pass?” I murmur.

  “Did you think it was a test?” Her voice is low, but there’s a flicker of amusement.

  “It was.” I don’t wait for her agreement. “And I did.”

  A soft sound, barely a hum, is her only response.

  We reach the heavy door to my father’s study. Havish is already there, waiting with his usual patience, hands folded behind his back. He opens the door without a word. Inside, the room is lined with dark shelves, the air thick with the faint scent of old parchment and pine smoke. The desk near the tall window is meticulously arranged, though a few fresh letters rest unopened at the edge. Sunlight spills in thin slants through the windows, catching dust motes that drift lazily.

  Catharine stands near the hearth. The light from the flames catches in the silver threads of her gown. She turns at our arrival, her eyes flicking first to Sven, then to me. There’s relief in her eyes, though she buries it beneath composed curiosity.

  But it is the woman standing by the window who draws my eye next.

  Sienne.

  She stands near the far window, half-hidden by the velvet curtains. Her foxlike ears twitch slightly beneath her hood, the fabric parted to accommodate them. Tawny fur lines their edges, the same shade as her tail, which sways faintly behind her. She wears the pale white robes of the temple, embroidered with faint gold sigils, a stark contrast to the modest healer’s garb she wore when I last saw her.

  She doesn’t meet my gaze. Instead, her golden eyes flick nervously toward Sven and Catharine, then drop to the floor. Her posture is uncertain, her hands clasped tightly together at her front. The slight stoop of her shoulders, the anxious twitch of her tail, all of it betrays her unease.

  She wasn’t like this when she treated Lena. Then, she was a healer with purpose. The nerves were still there, but her hands had not trembled when she worked. But now, in the presence of the Archduke and Archduchess, that uncertainty coils around her like smoke.

  “You have met Sienne,” Sven says, his voice low and steady. “But not in her full capacity.”

  Sienne’s ears dip slightly, and she lowers her head in a quick bow.

  “I-I am… honored, Young Master.” Her voice is soft, with that faint stutter that emerges when her nerves fray. “And humbled. I d-did not expect… to meet you like this.”

  I nod, watching her carefully. “You have new robes.”

  “Yes,” she murmurs. “The temple in Falkensgrave… the old head has retired. I was sent from Karadel to succeed him.” She hesitates, then quickly adds, “With his guidance, of course. H-he remains as an advisor. For now.”

  “You are young,” I observe. I know it is rude, but one of the few pleasures I find each childhood I live is the bluntness that children can speak with and not offend.

  Her ears flick back, but she bows her head once more. “I am.” The words are barely above a whisper. “But I will serve as best I can.”

  “She is more than capable,” Catharine interjects gently. “The central temple rarely appoints those who lack both talent and resolve.”

  Sienne's hands tighten. “I-I only hope to prove worthy of their faith.”

  Sven steps around his desk, the chair creaking softly as he lowers himself into it. He steeples his fingers, his gaze shifting from Sienne to me.

  “There is something we must discuss,” he says. “Something that happened in the capital.”

  Catharine waves a hand with mock impatience, a spark of fondness dancing in her eyes. “Oh, you. It can wait a moment. Always straight to business with you.” There is just a hint of pout in her voice, the playfulness I know my mother has but rarely gets to express. I find myself smiling at her.

  “You’ve done well this morning,” Catharine says, her voice low as she steps toward me. Her hand brushes my hair back lightly. There is no grand praise, only that simple touch. But the warmth in her gaze is enough.

  Sven gives a small cough, giving his wife a hooded look.

  “Fine,” Catharine relents, and before I can protest, she scoops me up with the effortless confidence only a mother possesses. She settles into one of the chairs, tucking me into her lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I am caught off guard a bit, but seeing Sven roll his eyes slightly, I decide against jumping down in protest. I have proven I have the maturity for what Sven has assigned to me already, to keep insisting on acting adult would be too much. I lean into my mother’s arm instead, holding her wrist in both of my hands. After Sienne is seated as well, Valcroft pulls a padded stool from somewhere and sits as well. Havish has taken a spot standing beside and just behind Sven, and Isla remains just inside the door, standing to the side.

  “We have something that we should look at,” Sven begins again, his gaze sweeping the room. “What happened in the council chamber was necessary. But the matter in question arose while Catharine and I were at the capital.”

  I wait.

  Sienne folds her hands in front of her, her expression composed. But I see it — the slight tension in her shoulders. Whatever this is, it troubles her.

  “Three weeks past,” Sven continues, “a naming ceremony was held in a small village on the western plains. A barony under House Verdane’s authority.”

  He pauses, as if weighing how to proceed.

  A naming ceremony. Hardly an unusual event. Titles are bestowed by the divine through the church, offering insight into a child’s path. Most are unremarkable — Farmer’s Son, Weaver’s Daughter, perhaps a rare Gifted Healer or Honored Scholar. But the weight with which Sven speaks makes it clear this was no ordinary ceremony.

  “The child of a commoner family received a title. The usual blessings were given. The rite completed without incident. Until the title itself was announced.”

  My eyes narrow. “And?”

  “She received the title of Heir’s Chosen.”

  The words are like cold iron. For a moment, the words mean nothing. Then the weight of them settles.

  The chamber seems to shift, the quiet growing heavier. Catharine’s lips press into a thin line. Valcroft’s brow furrows. Havish, ever composed, remains unreadable — though I notice the faint flick of his eyes toward me.

  Heir’s Chosen.

  My title is simply Heir. Rare. Significant. But not entirely unheard of. My existence alone is proof that the title is no hollow honor. It carries weight. Meaning. Power.

  But for another to be named Heir’s Chosen — that is no coincidence.

  “House Verdane knows my title,” I say slowly.

  “They do,” Sven confirms. “When the list of naming ceremonies reached the temple archives in Karadel, the name and title were recorded. When House Verdane caught word, they acted swiftly. A caravan was dispatched to retrieve the girl and her family.”

  My jaw tightens. “Why?”

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Control,” Catharine says softly. “If they believe she bears significance to your future, she will become a pawn. A piece to bargain with.”

  “I don’t know her,” I say flatly. “Titles are not fate.”

  Catharine’s eyes flick toward Sven. “But they are rarely meaningless.”

  “She’s just a baby,” I murmur. My hands tighten against my mother’s wrist. “She didn’t choose it. Neither did I. But that won’t stop them from using her anyway.”

  “And there are those who would twist meaning to suit their desires,” Sven adds.

  A bitterness rises in my chest. I feel for the poor girl, only a year old and a pawn in a game she has no hand in. I can play this game, born into a family with power and position, with all the benefit of myriad of past lives to draw from.

  “They think she will be…what? A future wife?” Valcroft’s tone mirrors my repulsion at the idea. Never again.

  Sienne stiffens, her tail flicking nervously. “It is… possible. Though unlikely. The girl is—” She hesitates, her voice dropping. “She is only a year old.”

  “Absurd,” I say, though the disgust lingers. “I don’t know her. Why would we even consider that?” I look back and forth between Sven and Catharine’s faces, hoping for a sign they have no plans for this.

  “Perhaps,” Catharine murmurs. “But denied titles can become chains in unexpected ways.” I feel something burn inside me. I will not do this, even for them.

  Sven leans forward. “Which is why I wish to understand. Sienne, has the temple ever encountered titles that were… fabricated?”

  The silence settles once more. Then, slowly, Sienne speaks.

  The fox-kin healer’s eyes widen. “F-fabricated?” Sienne’s ears twitch, and she wrings her hands once, hard. “F-false titles? N-not from a Founder’s Tome. It’s b-binding. I swear it.” She looks to Catharine, to Sven, then finally to me. “I-I don’t always know what’s right. But that? That I know.”

  “Founder’s Tome?”

  She nods. “The sacred texts passed down through the Dominion’s temples. The old temple head here used one during your ceremony. It amplifies the magic, ensuring the title is true to the soul.”

  I frown. “Why did you say a true naming ceremony?”

  Sienne hesitates. “Not all temples have Founder’s Tomes. They rely on Orbs of Meaning.” I recall the thing Sven used to show Isla’s change of title. “There have been… instances. Rare. Difficult. But it has been attempted.”

  “Another reason she and her family are being brought to the capitol, to ensure that a true ceremony with a Tome is performed.” Catharine’s voice is pitched down, she does not like this. Her fingers run through my hair in a slow rhythm, as much to ground herself as to ground me.

  Sven’s eyes narrow. “And what of titles that change?”

  “Titles often shift gradually,” Sienne replies. “A person’s choices, growth, and failures can alter their title. But a complete and sudden change?” She shakes her head. “That is far rarer.”

  Catharine’s voice lowers. “It has happened.”

  Sienne’s brows draw together. “When?”

  Catharine’s gaze shifts. Not to Sven. Not to me.

  To Isla.

  I see no change in Isla’s expression. No flicker of discomfort. Only stillness.

  “Twice,” Catharine says. “To her.”

  Sienne’s eyes widen. “That’s impossible.”

  “It isn’t,” Isla says quietly.

  A moment passes. Then Sienne straightens. “If you permit it, I can confirm. The truth of your title — and its history.”

  Sienne’s words linger in the air like a challenge no one rushes to meet.

  My mother’s arm tightens gently around me—not a restraint, but a tether. Her hand rests warm at my side, fingers curled in the soft folds of my coat. I lean into it. Just a little. It would be foolish to pretend I don’t want the comfort.

  Isla, of course, remains unreadable.

  She stands a few steps from the hearth, her posture perfect, her uniform immaculate. No glint of steel, no overt signs of threat. And yet, her presence crackles with the tension of a drawn wire. Still. Coiled. Waiting.

  Then, without waiting for direction, Isla steps forward.

  She kneels.

  Not before Sven. Not before Catharine.

  Before me.

  “Master,” she says, her voice clear, unshaken. “I would like to share this with you.”

  Her words are strong—but I see the faint tremor in her left knee. She's nervous.

  Not of the others. Of me.

  She doesn’t know I already know.

  I was there—barely a year old—when my father used House Larkin’s Orb of Memory to verify the sudden shift in her title. They all thought I was too young to understand. And maybe I was. But some truths echo, even into early thought. I remember the light. The names. The silence in the room.

  I see the flicker of surprise ripple through the others at the way she addressed me. Not “young lord.” Not “heir.” Just "master". And not in the sense of station, but of allegiance. The shift does not go unnoticed.

  “I understand,” I say softly. I keep my voice light, a child’s tone. But my stomach turns. I do not want her to do this. Not for their sake. Not even for Sienne.

  But if she’s offering this to me… if this is her choice…

  Sienne fumbles with her satchel, her hands visibly shaking as she unclasps the leather strap. Her tail flicks low behind her robes, ears dipping just beneath her hood.

  “I-It will only take a moment,” she mumbles.

  She draws the silver orb from her satchel. It gleams, runes etched across its surface like rippling script. Light curls over the metal in a slow, quiet pulse, pale and patient. This orb isn’t like my father’s, that one was black. I will need to learn why and what the difference is in the future. Now is not the right time to ask.

  Valcroft shifts in his seat. Just slightly. I catch the twitch in his brow. He doesn’t like tools he can’t read. Especially not magical ones.

  “This will show her title?” I ask. I keep the question short. Simple. Believable.

  Sienne nods. “Y-Yes, Young Master. It will display her current title, and…” she swallows, “the history.”

  “How far back?”

  “To the title’s origin,” she says. “Every evolution. Every moment of change.”

  I glance at Isla. “Does it hurt?”

  “No,” Isla replies. “Not in the way you mean.”

  That answer makes something in me twist. I understand the pain of laying yourself bare, striped of all the little lies we tell each other, even ourselves. To let magic declare what you are, what you’ve been? I couldn’t. Not if it read all my lives. I know there are truths about myself I am not willing to see, even just to myself.

  Sienne steps forward and places the orb on the table. It catches the firelight and throws it back as a soft ripple across the walls. She speaks a short prayer in a language I don’t recognize, temple words. Holy and hollow.

  The runes pulse. A hum thickens in the room, soft as a heartbeat.

  Sienne looks to Isla. “I will need—”

  But Isla is already moving. She slips a small blade from the fold of her sleeve. Thin. Silver. Sharp enough to vanish between ribs without a whisper.

  Valcroft tenses. Only a flicker, a small, instinctive reaction. He knows she isn’t a threat. Not here. Not to us. But the appearance of any weapon in a confined space is enough to make any soldier tense.

  With no ceremony, she slices across her palm.

  A clean line. Blood wells bright in her hand. She holds it over the orb.

  The first drop falls.

  It lands on the orb with a sound too quiet for its weight.

  The runes ignite.

  Blue light spills upward, twisting into threads. The air thickens. No one breathes.

  And the first title appears.

  ---

  Daughter of the Blade

  (1–8 Years Old)

  ---

  The letters hover in the air, glowing pale silver.

  “She was born to it,” Catharine murmurs. “Even then.”

  The orb pulses again.

  ---

  Shadow Blade

  (8–13 Years Old)

  ---

  Darker now. Sharper. The innocence is gone. This one is colder, merciless.

  “At eight?” Valcroft breathes.

  “She earned it,” Catharine answers.

  ---

  House Larkin’s Hidden Knife

  (13–17 Years Old)

  ---

  I feel my mother’s breath catch.

  This one is personal. It marks what she became for us. Not just a killer. Our killer.

  The orb brightens, then darkens.

  ---

  Master Assassin

  (17–24 Years Old)

  ---

  The glow shifts deep crimson. It hums with the weight of lives taken. Of orders followed. Of blood spilled in silence.

  No one speaks.

  Then the pulse falters. The runes shimmer.

  The change hits like thunder.

  ---

  Protector of House Larkin’s Heir

  (24–25 Years Old)

  ---

  The air shifts.

  That was the day I was born.

  Isla’s title changed when I was born.

  Not before. Not in anticipation. It waited.

  So maybe the weave doesn’t decide. Maybe it just… listens. And watches. And waits until we decide for ourselves.

  Not a blade in the dark. A shield in the light.

  My throat tightens around something I can’t name, grief, maybe, or awe. Or guilt, for what her life became the moment mine began.

  Then the last title forms.

  ---

  Aurelius’ Blade

  (25 Years Old — Present)

  ---

  My name. Burned into her soul.

  The letters blaze white-gold.

  Sienne staggers back. “T-this…” she breathes. “A title bearing a person’s name. That’s—”

  “Unheard of,” Valcroft mutters.

  But I know the truth.

  It’s not unheard of.

  It’s dangerous.

  It means she is mine. In the eyes of the weave. Of fate. Of magic.

  It means I could command her soul.

  “I won’t,” I whisper. My voice is soft. Small. Honest. “I won’t use it. Not like that.”

  Isla meets my eyes.

  And bows.

  Not to Sven. Not to the room.

  To me.

  There’s a thread between us now. Not forged in duty, but choice.

  Sven leans back in his chair, fingers steepled, gaze distant. His voice is low.

  “So. Titles can change. Drastically. Suddenly. Without warning.”

  He glances toward the orb, now dim.

  “That doesn’t prove fabrication. But it proves the weave is less rigid than we thought. And that makes House Verdane’s move more dangerous than I feared.” He looks to Sienne. “If someone has learned to force a title… to push it into being… what then?”

  “No one else saw the girl’s ceremony?” I ask.

  “Only the officiating priest, and the villagers,” Sienne replies. “But once the Tome confirmed it in Karadel… it was accepted without question.”

  She hesitates, ears twitching. “After today… I will begin to question more.”

  Sven’s jaw tightens slightly. “That girl is either an innocent burdened with a political lie… or worse, proof someone has learned to manipulate the weave itself.”

  I don’t look at him right away.

  Instead, I watch the silver threads still fading in the air above the orb’s surface, the final title’s glow etched faintly behind my eyes.

  Then I speak. Quietly. “But what if it’s neither?”

  The room stills again. Sven’s gaze turns toward me.

  “What if her title’s real?” I ask. “Not a trick. Not what they think. Just… true.”

  Sven doesn’t respond at first. Then his eyes slide to Catharine.

  She exhales slowly. “If the title is true,” she murmurs, “then it will change, if it is not lived into.”

  “Titles shift,” I say. “That’s what Sienne said.”

  “It’s rare for them to break,” Valcroft mutters. “But not unheard of.”

  “If she really was born with it,” I say, “but I never choose her, never go near her…maybe the title changes. Fades. Becomes something else.”

  Catharine nods, slowly. “Let it starve, rather than fight it.”

  Sven looks at me again, sharper now. “You’re certain you want no part of it? No contact?”

  I don’t flinch. “She’s a baby,” I say. “And I don’t want to hurt her. But I’m not going to be forced into something just because a title says so.”

  For a moment, my father studies me, not like a child, but like a chess piece he didn’t expect to move this early. Then he gives a single, quiet nod.

  “Then we do nothing,” he says. “No reaching out. No investigation. Let House Verdane make their plays. We’ll make ours.”

  “We?” I ask.

  “You will become more public,” he says. “Not exposed. But visible. You have your new appointment. Use it. Show the city you are your own person, already shaping your own future.”

  “And if the title was real,” Catharine adds, “it will change. If you never move toward her, never give it shape, then it was only one possibility. Not fate.”

  She brushes my hair back gently. “You deserve to choose, Aurelius. So does she.”

  There’s a quiet after that.

  Sienne bows, deeply. “I’ll search the archives. I’ll find what I can.”

  Sven gives her leave with a nod, and she slips from the room, the orb clutched tightly to her chest. She entered like someone who believed the weave never lied. She leaves holding proof that even truth can tremble.

  When the door closes behind her, I turn back to Isla.

  She’s finishing tying off the bandage around her hand, fingers nimble. She doesn’t look up.

  “Thank you,” I say quietly. “For showing me. You didn’t have to.”

  “I did,” she replies, still not meeting my eyes. “Not because they needed to see. Because you did.”

  I don’t know what to say to that.

  So I just nod.

  Isla’s shoulders lift, just enough, and I know relief when I see it.