House Larkin’s banners speak louder than bells.

  From the outermost turrets of the estate walls, our crest unfurls like a promise made in steel, flanked by winter pennants that whip and twist in the sharp morning air. At the edge of the estate, beyond the outer gates where the old stones meet the city’s cobbled road, a new banner rises: tall, deliberate, unmistakable. It says what I do not have to:

  House Larkin means to act.

  The western spire bears the largest banner, vertical, thunderous, a column of black and silver that splits the skyline like a blade. It snaps in the wind with the rhythm of a drumbeat, a tempo Falkensgrave hasn’t heard in years. A second banner hangs above the great front doors, its bottom just grazing the top of the arched stone entry. It doesn’t flutter. It looms—heavy, motionless, like a verdict still waiting to be passed.

  No one enters without walking beneath it.

  No one walks beneath it without feeling the weight.

  Outside, the house guard move with clipped precision—every coat fastened to regulation, every boot polished to a high gleam. They do not speak unless giving orders. Their eyes sweep like blades across every movement, every breath.

  Inside, the estate staff wear their finest house livery—deep black trimmed in silver thread, sleeves pressed sharp, shoes shined to mirrored reflection. They move with the coordination of ritual, not routine. No wasted steps. No idle chatter. Only the sound of purpose.

  At the entrance to the Grand Ballroom, the herald’s voice rings out—crisp and ceremonial, echoing against the stone.

  And beyond him, the ballroom itself waits.

  Unused. Undisturbed.

  For two and a half years, it has held its breath.

  The last time it stirred, I turned five, presented to the full peerage of House Larkin. Every banner was flown. Every seat filled. They came then to see who would rise in Sven Larkin’s shadow.

  They come now to see whether that shadow speaks with a voice of its own.

  “Lady Aerwyn of the Western Pine, sworn to Highpost.”

  She enters with quiet dignity, her cloak modest, her step measured. At her breast, a blue lily brooch catches the light, subtle to most, but not to me. It is a mark of honor. Of debt. House Highpost will always answer House Larkin’s call, no matter how small the summons. Without us, Highpost, and all of Western Pine, would be a wasteland. She bows her head as her name is announced, then lifts her gaze to mine. Calm. Steady. Ready to act at the slightest word.

  One by one, carriages roll across the stone courtyard, wheels crunching through thin layers of packed snow. The nobility of Falkensgrave, such as it is, have decided to come, not many, but enough to matter. Enough to be seen.

  Some loyalists to the Archduke. Others loyal only to curiosity. They come not for me, but to see what a child dares to do. Let them.

  House Rendale, bright with frost-blue sashes. House Torring, their patriarch in quiet black, once Sven’s rival, now… curious. Some look at me with measure, others with amusement. I catalog them all.

  The herald announces each one as they cross the ballroom threshold. Their names ring out against marble and velvet and carved stone, Lord Cellen Torring, of the Western Courts. Lady Mirra Velline, sworn of the Eastern Crest. Sir Tharn of Brokenpass. Formality wraps each entrance like a cloak.

  Each noble bows and steps aside, taking their place as a witness, not a participant. This is not their forum. This is not their war. But they want to watch it unfold.

  And I stand for them to see.

  I do not sit.

  My father’s chair is at my left. Empty. I do not claim it. I stand beside it. Because I do not speak as him. I speak for him.

  Behind and slightly to my right, Isla stands still as steel. She wears no maid’s garb today. No field cloak. No estate livery. She wears House Larkin’s officer uniform, tailored to her frame, clean lines, high collar, but stripped of insignia. No rank. No assignment. A warning unspoken. No one mistakes her for anything less than dangerous.

  Valcroft stands at the foot of the dais. Ceremonial dress, sword sheathed at his side, eyes unmoving. Today, his presence says more than an entire honor guard.

  The ballroom hushes.

  Then the doors open again.

  This time, the herald does not speak.

  This time, there are no names announced.

  No titles called. No names announced. Just five figures walking together, past the herald, unchallenged.

  They are not nobles. Not peerage. I recognize the uniforms, the posture. Treasury officials, appointed, not born to power. They wear no house colors, bear no ancestral crests. Their authority is quieter, built of ledgers, statutes, and the weight of coin. These are the heads of the Treasury, appointed civil servants tasked with overseeing Falkensgrave’s financial machinery, and through it, the veins of trade and wealth that run across the Duchy of Larkin.

  A domain vast enough to shadow provinces, its borders stretch across a third of the Luminara Dominion, the heart of Elessia’s power, and the spine of its crown.

  If corruption has reached even here, into the arteries of a system this vast, it is not just misrule. It is infection. And it will spread.

  The head of the Exchequer, Torran Mirkell, leads the treasury group. He is a round man with a pinched mouth and a velvet vest too tight across his gut. His expression is serene, smug in a way only those who believe themselves untouchable can manage. His shoes squeak faintly with each step, and he does not look at me as he approaches. He looks at the nobles, the banners, the room. All of it, like it’s a formality he’s already conquered.

  Beside him, the two officials from the Mint are another story altogether. The woman is older, precise in every thread of her gray cloak, her posture military and her expression unreadable. Hair tied in a coil so tight it could hold stone. The man beside her looks like he was carved from ice, unflinching, detached, the faintest curl of a lip betraying either disdain or boredom. They are aloof because they have nothing to fear. They oversee the validity of coinage, not its misuse. Whatever reason I’ve summoned them for, they are confident their ledgers will clear them.

  The last two trail behind.

  They are younger. Civil-bred. Commoners, both.

  One is thin and twitchy, ink still staining the beds of his nails. He glances between the others constantly, adjusting the spectacles on his nose with a nervous twitch. He doesn’t look afraid of me. He looks afraid of everyone else.

  The other is a woman, slightly overweight, clearly once proud, now forced into stillness. Her coat is well-tailored but lacks the embellishments of the others. She walks with the posture of someone trying to channel nobility but burdened by what she knows. Her shoulders say everything: she doesn’t want to be here.

  They know.

  Not just corruption. Not just negligence.

  They know what was taken. The allocations rerouted. The coin that vanished into shadows. Perhaps they even tried to stop it, raised quiet warnings, penned reluctant letters, sent cautious messages through back channels.

  But when you stand between two names — mine, and Corvis’s — between fire and storm, there is no safety.

  Not for commoners.

  And they know what happens to those caught between nobles playing games with real stakes.

  They burn. Or they vanish.

  I wait.

  I say nothing as the treasury heads approach, their steps slowing as they near the dais.

  When they reach the center of the ballroom, four of them kneel at once. Smooth. Practiced.

  But not Exchequer Mirkell.

  He stands alone, belly forward, face pulled into a smile a hair too smug to hide the calculation behind it. The hush in the room breaks in a wave of murmurs. Some shocked. Some expectant. All watching.

  He glances around, as if searching for allies. As if he's still playing the room.

  “Forgive me, my young lord,” he says, his tone rich with mock-apology, “but these knees... age makes them uncooperative…”

  He doesn’t finish the sentence.

  Steel rings as drawn.

  Valcroft is already in motion, no signal, no hesitation. The tip of his blade rests against the soft meat of the man’s throat before the last syllable falls. His ceremonial cloak barely stirs from the movement. He is not acting as a guard. Not right now.

  He is judgment given form.

  I raise a hand. Not high. Just a single tap of my index finger against the brass of my scabbard, an old signal I’ve seen my father use more times than I can count.

  The blade does not fall.

  But the room feels it.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  The hush deepens. The nobles watch with eyes wide and faces pale. The commoners flinch.

  And Torran Mirkell, the self-satisfied, knee-weary man, freezes.

  His breath stutters.

  His eyes dart.

  I let it sit.

  A heartbeat.

  Then another.

  Until the silence grows teeth.

  “Welcome to House Larkin,” I say, voice steady. “You have not entered a civic hall. This is no boardroom, no ledger office. You now stand in a noble court.”

  My gaze cuts across the room, sharp and cold. “You will conduct yourselves accordingly.”

  Mirkell tries to swallow, but his throat betrays him. His tongue presses against words he does not dare speak.

  “Captain,” I say, soft as falling snow. “The Exchequer’s knees appear to cause him pain.”

  A pause.

  “Please relieve him of them.”

  Gasps flare like struck flint across the room, sharp, breathless, unbelieving.

  A noble at the edge of the crowd stirs, a voice half-formed in protest. Too late.

  Valcroft moves.

  A pivot.

  A low step.

  One clean motion. Precise. Silent. Merciless.

  Steel sings through air and bone.

  One clean arc.

  And Exchequer Mirkell falls.

  Not with grace. Not even with clarity.

  Just collapse—like a man never meant to bear his own weight, suddenly remembering the truth of it.

  His severed knees hit the marble with a sickening crack, his body folding inward as if to hide from the pain. But there is no hiding from this.

  Blood pools quickly. Thick. Viscous. It spreads like ink spilled on a sacred page, crawling across the floor with grim intent.

  His scream tries to escape, but it falters—caught somewhere between shock and disbelief. The sound he makes is little more than a wet, rattling gasp. A man who thought himself untouchable, now discovering just how mortal he really is.

  I step down from the dais—measured, controlled. Not quickly. Not casually. Every motion controlled, precise. Form over fury.

  Hands clasped behind my back. Spine straight. Gaze level.

  And as I descend, I push.

  Not with voice. Not with gesture.

  With power.

  I call the mana, gather it as weight, as wrath. And beneath it, I feel it: the chemical storm rising. The adrenal spike. The cortisol surge. A child's body, wired for flight or fury, now drowning in fuel it barely knows how to burn.

  In another life, I would have ridden it down, smothered it with practiced breath and logic.

  But not this time.

  This time, the fury serves. The fear sharpens. The flush of raw, instinctive need to act—to strike—aligns with purpose.

  So I don’t fight the fire.

  I open the gates.

  Let it catch.

  Let it burn.

  Seven years in this life.

  Hundreds before it.

  I summon everything I’ve earned, everything I’ve hoarded, everything the weave will grant me.

  And I press it down.

  On him.

  To crush.

  The air buckles. Pressure coils downward, folding around Mirkell like invisible iron. I feed the weight into him, mana laced through the air, poured into the space his presence once filled with arrogance. It flattens him further with every breath. Bones creak. His spine bows. His hands scrabble uselessly against the slick stone, smearing blood as he tries to pull himself upright. There is no air left in his lungs to cry out now. No dignity. No power.

  He chokes on silence.

  And the rest—oh, the rest feel it too.

  The other treasury heads shrink within themselves. I see it, the subtle, involuntary recoil. Shoulders curving inward. Eyes flicking wide. One of them sags further into a kneel, as though the air has grown too heavy to resist.

  The nobles around the perimeter stiffen, straight-backed and still, as if posture alone might shield them from the truth curling through the room like smoke.

  Even Valcroft’s sword, always steady, always sure, trembles. Not visibly. Not to most.

  But I see it.

  A single, delicate tremor at the tip. Just enough to break the bead of blood free. It drops.

  A soft pat.

  A crimson dot on polished stone.

  And still, I walk forward.

  The mana hums—thick and hot, like a forge left open too long. It coils through the air, dense and searing, not wild but waiting. It spills outward, not only across Mirkell’s twitching form, but across the polished stone of the ballroom. It laps at boots, brushes against exposed skin, curls into the ears of every noble and civil official like a whispered threat wrapped in heat. It does not form words. But it says everything.

  I ease the pressure back only as his last breath rattles loose, wet, broken, final. I manage to keep the satisfaction from curling my mouth into a smile. Barely. I have sentenced men before. In other lives. For darker crimes. But this life… this one still smells of ink and parchment and childhood. But now, there is blood on these young hands.

  Two estate staff move instinctively at the edge of the chamber, their training too well-ingrained. They step forward, ready to remove what remains of the Exchequer. I halt them with nothing more than a flick of my gaze. They freeze mid-step. Obedient.

  I let the nobles see him—see this. Let the scent of blood steep deeper into the velvet-draped air, iron blooming sharp and inescapable. No one speaks. No one dares pretend this wasn’t justice.

  Truthfully, I had planned to bait him, let him speak, let him stumble, maybe give me something more… dramatic to work with. But he had entered this hall like a man above consequence, an adult in a child’s playpen, and handed me every justification I needed with open palms and a puffed chest.

  Isla’s reports had long since convinced me this man needed to be removed. I just hadn’t expected him to make it so easy. But to walk into a noble court under summons, with witnesses present and banners flying, and still refuse deference?

  That was not arrogance.

  That was treason.

  He wrote his own sentence. I merely signed it.

  The silence hangs thick, deeper now. Settled. Like dust after collapse.

  Then I turn my eyes to the others.

  Four remain.

  Still kneeling, heads bowed, bodies drawn tight with tension.

  The pair from the Mint, older, composed, lift their chins, their expressions neutral. Unshaken. Unapologetic.

  The two from the Bureau of Allocations are another matter entirely.

  They are not the architects of the theft. That much is clear. But they saw it happen. And they let it.

  “You may rise,” I say—quiet, but firm. “Those who serve in truth have no need to grovel.”

  They rise slowly, unsure if I mean it. The woman from the Bureau first, her shoulders shaking just faintly beneath her cloak. Her counterpart follows quickly, eyes darting between Isla and Valcroft, as though one wrong move might call their judgment. The younger man trembles, ink smudged along his wrist and beneath his fingernails. He stays close to the older woman beside him, who straightens only with effort. Her coat is finely made, but her hands are clenched tightly at her sides, knuckles pale. He keeps close to her, as if proximity might shield him.

  Chancellor Arvin Dellor and Examiner Maeren Thorne—the two from the Mint—exchange glances, then rise. Thorne brushes invisible dust from her sleeve as she straightens, posture crisp as parchment. Dellor adjusts his cuffs, then clasps his hands behind his back like this is a garden inspection, not a reckoning.

  I step closer, and the pressure lifts more.

  I begin. My voice is even. Crisp. "Coin. Allocation. Oversight. Every street repaved, every sewer line repaired, every heater in the orphan wards, all flow through your hands."

  No response. But their eyes are fixed on me now.

  "Then perhaps you can explain," I continue, my tone sharpening, "why the personal seal of Lord Taven Corvis—who holds no seat in Treasury, and is not present—has appeared, multiple times, on official Treasury-issued letters?"

  A ripple of noise flows through those gathered. I am sure some of the gathered nobles expected a child to whine, to demand. Not present statements and question actions.

  Dellor frowns for the first time. Thorne’s brows knit. The two from the Mint had clearly not known. The two from the Bureau though, pale, the younger visibly startled.

  "My lord," Examiner Thorne says slowly, choosing her words with care, "Lord Corvis has no position in the Treasury. If his seal has been affixed to Treasury documents—"

  "It has," I interrupt. I withdraw folded letters from within my coat, stepping closer. “Here. Here. And here.” I tap each letter in turn. “Treasury letterhead. Addressed to city planners. Reconstruction boards. All bearing his seal. Each one authorizing the siphoning of emergency funds: Forgewell, Marrow Hill, Riverbend.”

  I toss the stack at their feet. Some are from my own office, but I have had Isla gather more, from other offices affected by Corvis’ greed.

  Gasps stir among the watching nobles. One of them murmurs a curse under his breath.

  "These letters," I say, letting the words carry farther, sharper, "have been used to block post-fire reconstruction in the Forgewell Quarter. To siphon coin from winter heating allocations in Marrow Hill. And to delay emergency repairs to Riverbend’s water mains."

  A fresh wave of murmurs ripples through the nobility gathered around the room. Soft gasps. The rustle of sleeves as heads turn. The weight of the words settles into the bones of the chamber.

  The Bureau head flinches—Director Elvra Varnet, still silent, still sweating.

  The younger man beside her stares at the floor. Twitching fingers. Glassy eyes. Guilt worn raw. I remember his name now—Rallen Dore. The senior clerk.

  "The Archduke," I continue, voice steady but colder now, "left precise instruction. Nine months ago, before he and the Archduchess departed for the eastern frontier, he ordered a freeze. No new funding, no discretionary expenditures, unless cleared as emergency authorization—and only under direct review."

  I pause. Let the weight of that memory, of that directive, fill the silence.

  "And yet here we are. Not only have real emergencies failed to receive support, but the funds themselves have moved. Without approval. Without review. Without reason."

  The silence is dense now. A stillness that aches. Even the fire in the sconces seems to burn quieter.

  "Why?" I ask, voice softer now, but sharper. "How?"

  For a moment, no one speaks.

  Then Director Varnet, still trembling, finds her voice. It scrapes up from somewhere deep and uncertain.

  “Your Grace… these letters... they are not official Treasury statements,” she says, eyes darting nervously toward Dellor and Thorne, then back to me. Her voice quivers at the edges. “We have approved all properly submitted emergency requests. No new spending orders have passed through the official channels.”

  Her hands are wringing beneath the edge of her cloak now, the fabric of her sleeves twisting under her fingers.

  I study her closely. Her words are careful. Too careful.

  She isn’t lying.

  But she isn’t telling the truth either. Not the whole of it. Not the truth I need laid bare here, in the sight of peers and nobles. Not the truth Isla found curled beneath layers of redirection and ink-stained bureaucracy.

  I can’t say what I know.

  Not yet.

  So I force my silence into pressure, watching them shift under it. Four of them, each reacting in their own way.

  Dellor and Thorne, their composure is finally starting to slip. Surprise flickers behind their eyes, genuine and sharp. They hadn’t known. Of that, I’m certain. Thorne’s jaw tightens. Dellor’s fingers twitch faintly as he processes the implications.

  But the Bureau?

  The portly Varnet is sweating now, a sheen glistening along her brow and collar. Her breath is shallow, and she dabs at her cheek with a handkerchief she hadn’t needed when she walked in. Her body shifts subtly as though trying to shrink beneath her own clothes. She’s cracking.

  And the younger man—

  Dore is unraveling.

  His hands tremble openly now, fingertips twitching like marionettes tugged by guilt. His lips part again, then close, then part once more. Words pile up behind his teeth, but none escape. Not yet.

  But I see it, boiling behind his eyes.

  Not resistance. Not anger.

  Guilt.

  The slow, drowning kind. The kind that chokes a man quietly until he begs for someone to let him breathe.

  His posture leans forward unconsciously, like his own spine is trying to escape his body. Everything in him screams: get me out of this. But there’s nowhere left to run.

  So I let the moment stretch.

  Let the silence grow roots, thick and oppressive, coating the room like soot in a long-abandoned chapel.

  And still, he says nothing.

  I hate what I must do next.

  “Captain,” I say, quietly, but with steel.

  Valcroft doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. The moment his boot shifts, just the suggestion of movement…

  “No!”

  The word tears out of the man like a wound opening.

  He stumbles forward, nearly falling to his knees, eyes wild with panic.

  “Please—please don’t hurt her—she didn’t know!” His voice is cracked, too loud, frantic with desperation.

  I don’t blink. “What didn’t she know?”

  And with that—he breaks.

  “She didn’t know the letters weren’t from us!” he blurts, voice cracking under its own weight. “Director Varnet thought the Exchequer was sending them—we all did! But I—I realized they weren’t… they weren’t going through our systems. I checked the routing logs. They didn’t match—”

  “Dore!”

  Director Varnet’s voice slices through the air, sharp and commanding.

  But I already have what I need.

  And I won’t let her smother it.

  A flick of my hand—clean, absolute.

  Valcroft moves like lightning, his sword drawn and pressed against Varnet’s throat before her next breath.

  Gasps ripple. Fabric rustles.

  Five guards step forward on cue, swords drawn. Two flank the Mint pair, hands at hilts but restrained. Two more seize Dore by the arms, firm but not cruel. He doesn’t resist—he’s too far gone.

  The fifth moves to stand behind me, silent as shadow.

  The room has shifted.

  Tension has re-knotted itself.

  Dore’s outburst has pulled every gaze back to the center.

  “Oh gods,” he whispers, eyes darting wildly. “Oh, gods.”

  He’s shaking now, chest hitching in short, panicked breaths.

  He knows what this moment could become.

  He’s given me enough to warrant execution. Defiance alone would justify it. It would be the easiest path.

  But I don’t need a corpse. I need clarity. I need truth. Spoken. Heard. Known.

  Because snuffing out the symptoms of rot does nothing.

  I want the root.

  And now I have someone willing to drag it into the light.