The Citadel office is quiet.

  Not silent, not entirely, but close. The kind of stillness reserved for libraries at dusk or a cathedral just before service. Heavy. Intentional. Like the stone itself is holding its breath.

  Quill strokes. The faint creak of parchment. A page turned.

  Light filters through the frost-laced glass windows in soft gold, catching dust motes midair. Outside, the bells of Founders Temple toll the first hour past noon. Their chime is faint at this distance, muffled by stone and snow-laced wind.

  It’s been three months since the fire.

  Three months since Riverbend burned and Falkensgrave blinked awake for the first time in a decade.

  But winter is colder this year. Sharper. As if the city remembers what it nearly lost, and what it nearly became.

  I sit at my desk, sleeves rolled, ink smudged just beneath my cuffs. The fireplace at my back burns low but strong, no radiators or pipes in the old citadel. The room holds the steady warmth of well-maintained hearths and tightly sealed windows.

  In the corner Yaerith is hunched over his ledger. Second stack of the day. His handwriting has grown cleaner. Tighter. He doesn’t fidget anymore. Doesn’t glance up for approval.

  He’s learning.

  Outside these walls, the city murmurs with motion — slow and brittle, the way only deep winter can make it. Couriers crunching through half-cleared snow, engineers marking frost-bitten lines along failed cisterns, watchmen tightening their collars as breath ghosts from their mouths.

  And above it all, the nobles circle like birds sensing something old stirring under the ice.

  The Archduke is still gone. East, the edge of the Iron Frontier, where raiders harass the border towns and petty kingdoms jostle for relevance. Archduchess Catharine travels with him, keeping trade lines stable and steel alliances breathing.

  They won’t return until spring.

  Until then, Falkensgrave belongs to the City Council.

  And the nobles believe the council answers to them.

  There’s a knock at the door. Soft, then firmer. Measured. Polished.

  Isla opens it without waiting for instruction.

  A courier stands in the hall, breath fogging the air. His coat is threadbare beneath his noble insignia. The wind has chapped his cheeks red. His satchel bears the Estate Relay Office seal, not city. Not civil. Private noble dispatch.

  He bows, quickly, and offers the stack of envelopes to Isla.

  She doesn’t glance at him. Just takes them, closes the door, and walks to the desk with quiet, purposeful steps.

  She sets the stack before me without a word.

  Ten letters. Maybe more. Each one thick, elegant. Wax seals glinting in the afternoon light, gold, silver, emerald, garnet. Each sigil belonging to a house that did not attend the last City Safety Council. The ones who sent no representatives to the fire reconstruction hearings. The ones who refused to vote, but now send their thoughts.

  Too careful to oppose me in person.

  But not too careful to delay me in ink.

  I let my fingers rest on the top envelope.

  It’s still warm from the courier’s coat.

  The first letter is from Lady Virrel of Highpost. Elegant script, dry tone.

  “Commendable initiative. Such youthful fire. The city needs more passion in its planning.”

  Followed three lines later by:

  “However, budget realignment cannot proceed without Ministry consent, and unfortunately the upcoming session has been delayed due to artisan strikes and winter levy review. Please speak to your father before submitting more plans.”

  The second, from Lord Carrel: verbose, patronizing, and carefully devoid of commitment.

  The third is short. Lord Fenward of Hollowmere.

  “Your proposals, while energetic, must be tempered with experience. Suggest consulting your elders before restructuring public works. Really a decision for the Archduke upon return.”

  I read through them all. One by one. Quietly.

  Each one polished. Respectful.

  And utterly useless.

  Every page nods toward change — then gestures behind the curtain, where nothing moves. They thank me. Then ignore me. Praise me. Then delay me.

  “Cowards,” Yaerith mutters under his breath.

  I glance up.

  He flinches. “Apologies, sir. That was—”

  “Correct,” I say. “But you don’t need to say it aloud.”

  He nods. Ducks his head back down.

  Another knock.

  Not a rhythm of hesitation this time — firmer. Sharper. The kind of knock that carries weight behind it. Expectation.

  A second courier steps through the open door. Younger than the last. His coat is new, but his boots are wrong — polished, not worn. He carries a single envelope. Heavy. Thick. Expensive parchment stiffened by winter and purpose.

  The wax seal is crimson.

  Pressed deep.

  And I know the mark before I even touch it.

  The Treasury Office.

  But something’s wrong.

  I lean forward, brushing my thumb across the seal. Slowly. Precisely.

  Not the official sigil of the Exchequer. Not the Mint. Not the Bureau of Allocations.

  This seal is personal.

  Baron Taven Corvis.

  His sigil. Brazen and unmistakable — the twisted compass rose of the Artisan Oversight Guild, pressed into Treasury red wax like it belongs there.

  It doesn’t.

  He has no right. No title in that office. No charter authority. And yet here it is. Again.

  I break the seal.

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  The parchment creaks in protest, thick with varnished ink and arrogance.

  “Regarding your inquiries into infrastructure redirection and engineering compensation, please be advised that the Artisan Oversight Guild has submitted temporary adjustments to funding flow, pending review by the relevant city board. As such, repairs in the Forgewell and Marrow Hill corridors have been paused to prioritize artisan district relief, per the Guild’s advisory.”

  There’s no signature.

  Just the seal. Stamped at the bottom in crimson wax again, like a sneer that dares me to bite.

  I fold the letter with care.

  The weight of it bends beneath my fingers.

  I place it on the desk, slow and measured, resisting the urge to toss, to slam.

  But the wood creaks anyway. I press my fingers into the grain, into the bones of the desk, like I can anchor myself with pressure alone.

  Across the room, Yaerith flinches, not visibly, not dramatically, but his pen pauses. A bead of ink pools at the tip.

  Isla’s head snaps toward me. Sharp. Alert.

  The room shifts.

  A hum beneath the stone. A sudden heat behind the ribs. Mana trembles in the air like pulled thread, not cast, not shaped, but straining to move. The weave responds to me now with almost no effort. My touch is lighter. My will clearer. But when emotion flares—

  Control slips.

  Not enough to crack stone. But enough to make the weave twitch, like it knows I’ve stopped pretending to be patient. Enough for the pressure to build across the office in a raidiating pulse of heat and weight. Not visible. But real.

  I take a breath.

  Slow.

  Measured.

  It barely helps.

  Because even with centuries of knowledge, with all the lives I’ve lived and the disciplines I’ve mastered, I am still seven.

  And there are days when that matters more than I want to admit.

  The body, young. Chemicals. Instincts.

  The anger burns fast. White-hot. Untamed.

  The injustice of it—

  Not just the overreach, but the audacity.

  Corvis, again. Always Corvis.

  The Marrow Hill diversion.

  The so-called "clerical error" last winter that siphoned sewer maintenance funds into the artisan festival.

  He moves coin like it’s his own, pressures treasurers into silence, browbeats clerks into compliance.

  And every time, he does it under the guise of procedure—backed by titles he doesn’t hold, authority he doesn’t possess, and a smile that dares me to call him out.

  He knows.

  And now, he’s daring me to make it formal.

  I close my eyes.

  Let the mana simmer down, slow and reluctant, like a beast crawling back into the bone, unsatisfied.

  The room still hums faintly, tension clinging to the corners like residue.

  But I stand anyway. Smooth my cuffs. Stack the letters.

  I leave the Citadel office in silence, the snow crunching softly beneath my boots as Isla follows behind. The wind bites sharper tonight, like the city itself is bracing.

  By the time we return to the estate, dusk has fallen fully.

  Dinner is taken in one of the smaller estate parlors, a room lined in deep walnut and duskgold trim. The air smells faintly of saffron, pine ash, and polished silver.

  The fire burns low, not neglected, but restrained. No need for ostentation tonight. Just heat enough to hold the cold at bay.

  Three brass lamps glow along the wall, their light catching the edges of the white linen tablecloth and the thin silver filigree along the cutlery.

  Havish sits across from me.

  He has already begun his meal, but only just. Every movement is deliberate. Each bite measured. And when I enter, he doesn’t rise, doesn’t bow, only nods, once.

  I slide into my chair.

  He sets down his fork with the same care one might place a blade. Then folds his hands atop the polished mahogany table and regards me with the quiet weight of someone who already knows what’s coming.

  He is always precise. Always silent a breath longer than expected. And always watching. His uniform tonight is estate-black, as ever, but trimmed in winter gray. A quiet nod to the season. To time’s passage.

  “The Forgewell fire?”

  I nod. “He did it again. Corvis. Issued a letter on Treasury seal. Personal. Redirecting repairs to cover his pet districts.”

  “No title in that office,” Havish murmurs.

  “No authority,” I add.

  “Yet.” A faint tightening of his brow. “He knows the limits. And he tests them. Repeatedly.”

  “I’ve let him,” I say, quietly. “Because after the fire, you advised I wait. Let the city breathe. Let my role settle.”

  “And you were right to do so,” Havish says, with neither flattery nor doubt. “Had you issued a summons in the weeks following Riverbend, even as heir, the council would have balked. Not because of the right, but because of the look.”

  “Because they’d see me using one title to circumvent the limits of another.”

  “They still will,” he says. Calm. Unbothered. “But now they no longer have the same ground to protest.”

  I lean back in the chair. Let my eyes find the slow roll of the firelight on the silver utensils.

  “The ballroom,” I say.

  Havish arches a brow.

  “For the summons. It will be hosted at the estate. Not the council chamber. Not the city square. The Grand Ballroom is logged under the House Larkin ceremonial ledger. Its records go to the noble court, not civic oversight. That means any attendance is a matter of peerage.”

  Havish’s expression does not change — not exactly — but something in the lines of his face approves.

  “You intend to summon the heads of Treasury,” he says, “not as the Strategic Office… but as the heir of House Larkin, invoking noble precedent.”

  “Yes.”

  He inclines his head once. “Then it will be done.”

  I reach for the decanter of water and pour. The glass is chilled from the tray, frost still hugging the base. “How soon can the summons be drafted?”

  “I already began it this morning,” he replies, “after I received word of the sealed dispatch from Corvis. I knew you’d decide tonight.”

  My lips curve. Barely. “And what else have you already done?”

  “Confirmed the ballroom schedule. Cleared the steward’s calendar. Spoken to the House seamstress.”

  I glance at him.

  “You’ve outgrown your fall coat,” he says simply. “A new formal uniform will be tailored to your exact dimensions. Black velvet, steel-thread embroidery, house crest on the left shoulder.”

  “And the sword?” I ask.

  He doesn’t blink. “Valcroft has commissioned it from the estate smith. Functional, not ceremonial. Dress steel, not silver. He said you’d prefer weight over filigree.”

  “He was right.”

  “Of course he was.”

  The warmth of the fire pulses once, a breeze outside tugging gently at the window seals.

  I sit in the silence for a moment longer. Letting it settle.

  Then: “I want the banners flown.”

  Havish doesn’t hesitate. “Four points?”

  “Six,” I correct. “Two outer turrets. One above the ballroom. One from the western spire. And the main gate.”

  He gives a rare, small nod of approval. “That will be unmistakable.”

  “Let them whisper,” I say. “Let them remember what it means when House Larkin calls its banners in winter.”

  Another moment of stillness.

  Then Havish rises, folding his napkin precisely beside the empty plate. “I will see to the ceremonial staff preparations.”

  He pauses at the door, hand on the latch.

  “You’ve chosen your ground wisely, my lord,” he says, just before he leaves. “The Grand Ballroom belongs to House Larkin. And in its walls, no civic office may challenge your right to command.”

  Then he’s gone.

  And I sit alone in the hush of the flame and the long, dark wood of the estate.

  Twelve days pass, not in silence, but in quiet movement. The kind that builds pressure beneath marble and whispers through linen drapes. The summons went out under the seal of House Larkin, not the city, not the council, and the city stirred as though Falkensgrave itself had drawn a breath it hadn’t taken in a generation.

  The Grand Ballroom had not seen full ceremonial activation since the Archduchess’s winter court three years prior. Now its crystal chandeliers blazed back to life, its velvet runners replaced, its columns draped in seasonal banners bearing the crest of House Larkin. Silver-polished sconces. Waxed floors. Staff drilled to near-military rhythm. The estate moved like a machine built for spectacle.

  And the city reacted.

  Nobles whispered. Artisans speculated. Guildmasters reviewed their ledgers twice over, and the heads of the Treasury, summoned by a child’s title but a sovereign’s will, found themselves with no excuse strong enough to refuse. A formal summons of civil authority by the true master of the city, with all noble peerage invited to attend, just as protocol dictated.

  They would come. Because they had to.

  Because even those who doubted me knew the truth: when House Larkin calls court, the walls listen.

  The morning of the summons breaks clear and sharp, sky like steel washed pale, snow clinging to the upper railings of the estate balconies. Falkensgrave is wrapped in a hush too brittle to be peace. In the main corridor, the floor has been swept twice already. Silver bowls of chilled winter roses line the gallery niches. Outside, the ceremonial banners whip with slow dignity from six points of the estate. A city watching.

  Inside my chambers, it is warm. Still. Isla moves like the second hand of a clock, precise, unobtrusive, inevitable.

  She helps me into the formal layers one piece at a time. Undershirt. Fitted jacket. The new uniform is cut from deep black velvet, the embroidery done in steel-thread, not as ornament, just weight. The Larkin crest is sewn onto the left shoulder, silver and charcoal against the dark. At my hip, the sword hangs heavy in its new scabbard. Real steel. No filigree.

  Isla steps back to inspect her work. Her brow furrows slightly, and then she reaches up to adjust the collar.

  “Sharp,” she murmurs, smoothing the edge. “But not stiff.”

  A line she has said before. Many times, over many collars. It meant more than cloth. It always has.

  “Still fits?” I ask, voice dry.

  “Barely,” she says, but there’s something almost fondness behind it. “You’re growing.”

  I don’t say it, but the truth hums beneath my skin: I’ve grown taller. But I’ve never really been small.

  Not in here.

  As she finishes the last adjustment, my gaze drifts to the frost-laced windows and the banners beyond. For a moment, a memory surfaces, not from this life, but one of the others. A palace of glass and fire beneath the rings of a gas giant, where monarchs wore mirrored helms and spoke in mathematically perfect tones. I remember standing in ceremonial robes trimmed in synthetic silk, the colors of an empire that had forgotten its own flag, waiting to be announced before a court that measured power in light-years.

  And yet, it was the same.

  The rhythm. The staging. The studied pauses between words. The weight of fabric. The practiced silences between the pageantry.

  Across worlds, across centuries, the game never changes. Power dresses itself in different skins, iron, velvet, chrome, but it always plays on the same stage.

  Today is no different.

  Today, the walls will hear my voice.

  And over my many lives, I have learned to make them listen.