Orestis woke up content.

  The ceiling above his bed was familiar. Unfortunately. It had always been the first thing to mock him after each unsuccessful attempt at oblivion. But, in his magnanimity, he’d long since decided to forgive the ceiling for its faults.

  It helped that the past few months had gone well. There had been no institutions, no gods, and no need to burn everything down and start over.

  His family’s wealth was safe. Their reputation was bruised, but intact. The whole affair had been tedious, but effective—and he had managed to remain reasonably anonymous throughout.

  Orestis lay still a moment longer, hands folded over his chest, and allowed himself the small indulgence of satisfaction.

  So this is what it feels like when things go right. Just time. Spent in peace.

  He smiled faintly. Growing old and dying suddenly felt like a reasonable plan again. Breakfast confirmed that the world had not ended overnight.

  His mother was already talking when he entered the dining room, addressing one of the servants as she poured tea.

  “… and then he noticed the inconsistency himself,” she was saying, hands moving as if arranging invisible figures in the air. “I wouldn’t have caught it. And neither would you. But Orestis did.”

  His father cleared his throat into his cup. Orestis took his seat and reached for bread.

  “He’s always been sharp,” Avra continued brightly. “But lately? Oh, it’s like something clicked. All those books finally paying off.”

  She smiled at him, proud and unrestrained. Orestis met her gaze, then returned his attention to his plate. She was talking about it again. But he didn’t mind. This boasting, at least, was harmless.

  She wasn’t claiming divine favour. She wasn’t declaring him destined for greatness. She was exaggerating his intelligence in the way doting parents always did—rounding up, polishing the edges, turning quiet competence into something slightly miraculous.

  People would nod, smile, and forget by afternoon. He could live with that.

  Until I die, obviously—can’t lose sight of the end goal.

  After breakfast, he retreated to the library. It was still strange, seeing it full.

  Shelves upon shelves of books he didn’t remember owning. Texts on philosophy, history, mathematics, magic. Some familiar. Many not. All of them untouched by him, waiting patiently. He selected a volume at random and settled into a chair by the window.

  Reading, at least, was easy. The ideas were old, the arguments familiar. Magic theory had not changed nearly as much as people liked to pretend—and wouldn’t change much in the future either. Names shifted. Terminology evolved. But foundations were stubborn things; they endured.

  Occasionally, something bothered him. A misattributed principle. A simplification that crossed the line into error. An assumption that only held true under conditions the author had failed to specify.

  At first, he tried to ignore it. Then he sighed, reached for a quill, and corrected it.

  Just a note in the margin. A small adjustment. Nothing dramatic. He told himself it was for accuracy. Or for amusement. Or simply because it itched, and scratching cost nothing.

  Soon, the margins began to fill—not with commentary, but with quiet improvements. Clarifications. Corrections so minor most readers would never notice them.

  Orestis leaned back, satisfied. No one would read these notes. No one needed to.

  For now, he was exactly where he wanted to be. Quiet. Safe. Obscure. And for the first time in a long while, there was nothing he needed to fix.

  Except, apparently, the margins…

  He scratched out another line and wrote the correction.

  ***

  The knock came just after midday.

  It wasn't loud or urgent. It was the sort of knock that assumed it would be answered. Probably someone with authority, then.

  Orestis heard it from the library and didn’t move. It was far enough away to be someone else’s responsibility, which meant it was someone else’s responsibility.

  Voices followed. Polite ones. A servant’s measured cadence. His mother’s bright, welcoming laugh.

  Right. Welcome authority. That changed the context.

  He closed the book and set it aside, blotting the page with practiced care. Ink first. Then patience. He stood, already guessing the shape of the interruption.

  Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

  By the time he reached the sitting room, Avra was in full motion.

  “You should have written,” she was saying warmly. “Or sent word ahead.”

  A man stood near the doorway, cloak removed, posture relaxed in the way of someone who knew exactly how much space he was allowed to take. His clothes were unadorned but well kept—expensive in a way that did not invite comment.

  Beside him stood his wife, composed and observant, and between them—

  Oh.

  Orestis slowed half a step.

  The girl was about his age. Neatly dressed, hands folded behind her back, eyes already moving through the room with quiet attention. Not bored. Not impressed. Simply… assessing.

  “Avra,” the man said pleasantly. “We happened to be in the area.”

  Which was never true of merchants.

  Petros inclined his head, slipping easily into the reserve he used for negotiations that claimed to be informal. “Lysandros. You’re welcome here.”

  Introductions followed quickly.

  “This is my wife, Thaleia Aretaios,” Lysandros said. “And my daughter, Eirene.”

  The girl inclined her head. Nothing more.

  Orestis approved.

  “And this,” his mother said, turning with unmistakable pride, “is my son. Orestis.”

  He returned the gesture. No smile. No flourish. Anything more would invite expectations.

  Eirene’s gaze met his—steady, curious, not appraising—and then moved on. As if she’d already filed him somewhere provisional.

  Tea was brought. Pastries appeared. Conversation circled safe ground: recent events, mutual relief, the satisfaction of matters resolved properly. Avra told the story once. Then again, improved.

  Orestis listened and catalogued tone rather than content.

  Lysandros spoke less than he listened, which was notable. Merchants who talked too much were either insecure or hiding something. He appeared to be doing neither.

  Eventually, he set his cup aside.

  “My daughter is… unusual,” he said. Not apologetically. Not boastfully. “Bright. Independent. Difficult to place.”

  Eirene did not react.

  “I’ve found,” Lysandros continued, “that such children benefit from proximity to their equals.”

  Avra clasped her hands, delighted. “Oh, I understand completely.”

  His father did not smile.

  Thaleia spoke then, her tone mild but precise. “Nothing binding. Nothing immediate.”

  “Of course,” Lysandros replied easily. “Merely familiarity. An understanding.”

  Orestis recognized the phrasing. He had heard it used for shared storage contracts and experimental trade routes.

  His mother was already convinced this was sensible.

  “Why don’t the children get some air?” she suggested brightly. “Talk a little.”

  No one objected.

  Orestis rose with a faint inward sigh.

  Quiet obscurity, it seemed, had a surprisingly short half-life.

  They moved a short distance away, close enough to be seen, far enough to pretend privacy.

  He folded his hands and waited.

  ***

  They were all watching him.

  Eirene noticed it immediately—not because they were obvious, but because they weren’t. Adults who thought they were being subtle always leaned forward a fraction too much.

  Orestis Stathis stood with his hands folded, posture relaxed, expression neutral. He looked like someone who had learned good manners early. Too early.

  He did not fidget. He did not glance at the door. He did not look at her the way boys usually did—curious, shy, or eager to impress.

  Instead, he looked at her the way adults did when deciding whether someone was worth the effort of lying to.

  That was interesting.

  She spoke first on purpose.

  “You read a lot,” she said.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  She waited. He did not fill the silence.

  Strike one, she thought faintly. Or strike ten. Hard to tell.

  Most prodigies performed. They wanted recognition, reassurance, permission to continue being exceptional. This one behaved as though attention were a resource to be conserved.

  She tried again.

  “My father says you’re very capable.”

  Orestis tilted his head slightly. “Fathers say many things.”

  That earned him a mark in her mental ledger. He was careful. Not cautious, but selective.

  Eirene folded her hands behind her back, mirroring him unconsciously, and studied his face more closely.

  His eyes were calm. Not blank. Calm in the way water was calm when it was deep enough not to bother with waves. He was not trying to impress her. Which meant either he was arrogant beyond measure, or he had learned that standing out was dangerous.

  She suspected the second.

  “I don’t intend to marry you,” she said abruptly.

  There. A test.

  Orestis blinked once. “Good,” he said. “Neither do I.”

  No embarrassment. No protest. No relief exaggerated enough to be performative.

  Interesting.

  She watched him a moment longer, then nodded, satisfied.

  “We’ll get along,” she decided.

  He paused, then replied carefully, “That remains to be seen.”

  For the first time, Eirene smiled for real.

  ***

  They went back to the table together. His mother looked delighted.

  “Well?” she asked. “Did you enjoy talking?”

  “Yes,” Orestis said. “It was fine.”

  Apart from that smile at the end. That felt significant.

  Eirene nodded. “He’s interesting.”

  His mother took that as a victory.

  Orestis did not correct her. Some misunderstandings were structurally load-bearing.

  She waited until the Aretaios carriage had disappeared down the road before clasping her hands together and letting out a delighted sigh, the kind usually reserved for weddings and particularly successful desserts.

  “Well,” she said, turning to her husband, “that went wonderfully.”

  Petros made a noncommittal sound and reached for his cup. Orestis noticed his father did not drink.

  “They’re such a sensible family,” his mother continued. “So measured. And the girl—oh, she’s lovely. So composed.”

  Orestis stared into his own teacup and said nothing.

  “I think they got along beautifully,” his mother added, beaming at him. “Didn’t you?”

  Orestis considered several possible answers. Most of them involved explaining that the entire interaction had been a mutual agreement to disregard the premise entirely.

  “Yes,” he said instead. “It was… efficient.”

  His mother laughed softly, as though he’d made a joke. “See? He liked her.”

  His father cleared his throat. “Avra—”

  “Oh, don’t be so serious,” she said, waving him off. “Nothing is decided. But it’s nice to know we’re thinking along the same lines, isn’t it?”

  She leaned down and smoothed Orestis’s hair with fond satisfaction. Orestis endured the gesture with practiced stillness.

  “They’re both such clever children,” she went on. “If something comes of it one day, I wouldn’t be surprised at all.”

  Across the room, his father met his gaze briefly. There was apology there.

  His mother, oblivious, clapped her hands once. “Now! Who wants honey cakes? We should celebrate.”

  Orestis watched her sweep toward the kitchen, humming to herself.

  Celebrate, he thought faintly.

  Yes. That was exactly the word for it.

  ***

  That evening, Orestis lay in bed and stared at the ceiling.

  So far, he had avoided divine entanglement, avoided death, solved a mystery, and preserved his family’s name.

  And in return, he had been evaluated, praised, and very nearly pre-ordered.

  He turned onto his side.

  “If this eventually goes sideways,” he murmured to the darkness, “I’m faking mediocrity.”

  The ceiling did not argue.

  Which usually meant it was already too late.

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