The courtyard smelled of sweat and smoke. Circles of chalk scarred the flagstones, their edges smudged by boot scuffs and ash. Giara’s staff tapped out a rhythm, guiding the Hazen sisters as they moved in mirrored steps inside the ring. Breath for breath, their bodies aligned—pivot, reach, recoil—until faint threads of light pulsed along the chalk, quivering like a held note.

  Danira flinched at the shimmer, nearly breaking the rhythm. Lyzara steadied her with a clipped whisper, both of them gasping as the seam of light folded inward. Giara gave a single nod, sharp and unforgiving. “Again. Until it listens without burning.”

  On the rail above, Stavera stood with arms folded, gaze fixed. Shan leaned further along the stone, watching as well. Neither spoke until the silence between them grew sharp enough to cut.

  “You think because you married in later, you understand this place?” Stavera said at last, voice low and biting.

  Shan didn’t flinch. “I think I understand you’d rather paint over cracks than admit they’re spreading.”

  Stavera’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t compare Jonrel to Frannor.”

  Shan turned fully now. “Why not? You think they’re different? One chases ghosts, the other makes them.”

  The training circle hummed faintly, swallowing the sting between them. Below, Giara barked another command, the sisters straining to keep pace.

  The training circle flared and sputtered again. Danira’s sleeve smoked faintly where her arm had brushed the edge; Lyzara pulled her back, teeth clenched as they fought to stay in step. Giara slammed her staff once, the flare folding in like a reprimanded child.

  “Again,” she ordered, voice cold as iron. “Until you can trust each other’s breath more than your own.”

  On the rail above, Shan and Stavera’s argument ground to silence only when boots struck stone behind them. Frannor had come up from the yard, his cloak still dusted from the outer patrol. His eyes caught the tension and narrowed.

  “You look like you’re measuring each other for graves,” he muttered, brushing past them.

  Stavera’s glare shifted to him, sharp but unreadable. Shan said nothing, her gaze falling back to the circle where Giara drove the Hazens harder.

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  Across the yard, PJ sat on a bench with a crow hopping bold at his boots. Gresan leaned over a whetstone, working the edge of a dulled blade, while Scuran flipped coins from knuckle to knuckle.

  “They’ll break before they bind,” Scuran said, nodding at the sisters.

  Gresan snorted. “Better they burn the edge off here than out on the field.”

  PJ flicked another crumb to the crow, unbothered. “This house has more fault lines than the Pyrethorne. Best we laugh loud enough the cracks forget they’re there—that’s my strategy.”

  Giara’s staff struck again, silencing even the peanut gallery. The Hazens straightened, sweat-slick but standing, their breath ragged but matched. The circle flickered one last time, then went still.

  Shan’s eyes softened despite herself. Stavera crossed her arms tighter, jaw set.

  Frannor lingered at the rail, watching all of them with a look that didn’t warm. “Fault lines don’t kill you,” he said at last. “Falling through them does.”

  No one answered. The courtyard swallowed the words whole, the chalk still faintly glowing at the sisters’ feet.

  — — —

  Franz shut the door behind him with more weight than was needed. The chamber was dim, a single taper guttering against stone, maps strewn where they had been left after council. Draven stood at the far table, one hand resting on the hilt of a practice blade he’d carried in from the yard.

  “They’ve spirit,” he said without looking up. “But spirit alone breaks on the first wall it meets.”

  Franz crossed the room, loosening his cloak. “Giara will temper them. She has to.”

  Draven gave a low grunt. “She’s hard enough, but they’ll need more than staff drills. They need steel in their arms as well as breath in their lungs. When the time comes, no one asks if your rhythm is pretty. They ask if you still stand.”

  Virella emerged from the window’s shadow, her eyes on the scattered maps rather than either man. “They’ll stand. Or they’ll fall and another will rise. The hour doesn’t wait.”

  Draven finally looked up, his gaze sharp beneath the torchlight. “Then I’ll keep the rest from dulling while she hammers at those two. A house can’t hinge on one pair of shoulders.”

  Franz’s mouth tightened, but he nodded once. “Walk the lines. Make sure the patrols don’t grow lazy.”

  Draven slid the practice blade back into its rack, turning toward the door. “Aye. I’ll keep the steel honest.” He paused, eyes flicking to Virella. “Don’t grind them to ash before they’re ready.”

  Then he was gone, boots steady on stone.

  The chamber felt quieter without him. Virella moved a map aside, the candlelight catching the fine tremor at the edge of her sleeve.

  Franz caught it, his tone harder than before. “You’re planning something. Tell me it, before it cuts us in the back.”

  Her eyes lifted, steady, unreadable. “Morric Vale. The threads point there. Wax, scars, whispers—they all converge in that wood.”

  “I’ll ride with you,” Franz said at once.

  “No.” Her answer was sharp, final. “I need you here. The house needs you. If I vanish a day, maybe two, Everveil still stands. But if you leave with me, the cracks widen.”

  Franz’s jaw flexed. “I don’t like it.”

  “You’re not meant to,” she said. “You’re meant to hold the walls while I follow what waits.”

  The candle guttered again. Neither spoke further.