The weight of silence presses against the walls of the study, thick and unyielding. The glow from the fireplace flickers, casting restless shadows across the dark wood paneling and the intricate carvings of the bookshelves lining the room. The scent of aged parchment, wax-polished furniture, and the faint trace of Catharine’s perfume mix in the still air.

  Isla is motionless, save for the slight tremor in her shoulders. Her breath comes in uneven gasps, hands clenched against her lap as if gripping something unseen, something slipping beyond her grasp.

  Sven watches her carefully, his fingers drumming once against the desk before stilling. He is composed, controlled, but there is something assessing in his gaze—as if he is weighing not just her words, but everything she has ever been.

  Catharine, however, is the one who moves. She does not hesitate, does not break the delicate moment of uncertainty with commands or judgment. Instead, she stands and steps toward Isla with quiet grace, lowering herself until she is at eye level with her.

  "You are still Isla," she says softly, her voice warm but unwavering.

  Isla exhales shakily, her hands tightening against the folds of her dress.

  Catharine continues, her fingers gentle as she reaches for one of Isla’s clenched fists, unfolding it with deliberate care. "You were Isla when you were five years old, sneaking into my father’s study to steal sweets. You were Isla when you first held a blade and decided you would carve your own path in this world. No title can take that from you."

  The memory stirs something in Isla, a flicker of recognition crossing her face, her lips parting slightly as if she wants to respond but cannot find the words. I watch her carefully, noting how her breath steadies, how her fingers, though still tense, no longer tremble so violently.

  Sven remains silent, allowing Catharine’s words to settle before he finally speaks, his voice quieter than before. "Your title has changed, but you have not. What you do next—what you choose to be—will matter more than what was written in blood."

  Isla swallows hard and finally looks up, her eyes searching Catharine’s face as though trying to understand the depth of the trust being offered to her. I see the moment she realizes it is real.

  Catharine shifts, adjusting her hold on me before, with deliberate care, she extends me back toward Isla. A final gesture, a silent reaffirmation.

  Isla’s breath catches, her hands lifting instinctively, but there is hesitation—a flicker of doubt, of fear.

  Catharine only smiles, pressing me gently into Isla’s arms. "You are still Isla. And you are still ours."

  For a moment, Isla doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Then, slowly—carefully—her arms tighten around me. Not like a duty. Not like a command. But like something she is afraid to lose.

  She exhales. Some of the weight lifts from her shoulders. "Yes, Your Grace."Sven nods once, satisfied, before moving toward the study door. "Then it is settled."

  Catharine lingers for just a breath longer, fingers grazing my forehead before she steps back, her expression unreadable but her meaning clear. Whatever storm has begun, we are in it together.

  The heavy door swings open, and Isla follows Catharine out of the study, still carrying me with an almost reverent care. The hall beyond is calmer now, though the remnants of urgency linger in the movement of the estate’s staff and guards. The grand corridors, lined with ornate wainscoting and rich tapestries, seem to breathe again as the crisis settles into quiet resolution. But I know better—this was no simple false alarm. The estate may return to routine, but nothing will be the same.

  Sven walks ahead, his long strides purposeful as he signals to the stationed guards. A few hushed words, and the lockdown is lifted. The guards disperse, their rigid stance softening as the tension seeps from their shoulders. I note how their gazes shift—some glance toward Isla, curiosity flickering before they suppress it. Whatever conclusion they draw, they do not voice it.

  As we approach the nursery doors, Sven slows. He turns toward Catharine, voice low. "I will see to the rest. The men need to be reassured. Stand them down properly."

  Catharine gives him a brief nod, her expression understanding. "I will handle things here."

  With that, Sven strides away, his presence receding down the hall, leaving only the soft rustling of his coat and the fading sound of his boots against polished stone.

  Isla carries me the final few steps, her posture still straight but her hold on me relaxed in a way that feels different. More natural. More certain.

  The nursery doors open to reveal Marla and Lena waiting inside, both standing with hands folded before them. Their expressions shift immediately—Marla’s eyes flicker with something like relief, but also curiosity. Lena, ever warm, smiles softly, though the quiet tension in the room remains.

  Catharine does not keep them waiting. "Isla will be Aurelius’ primary caregiver from now on."

  Marla’s lips part slightly, and though she does not protest, I see the faint flicker of disappointment in her eyes. It is not pride, not resentment, but something gentler. A sense of loss. She has cared for my mother, for me, and now a change has been made beyond her control.

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  Lena shifts, eyes moving between Isla and Catharine. "Of course, Your Grace. But may I ask—has something happened?"

  Catharine’s expression softens as she steps forward, looking between both women. "This is not a punishment, nor is it a slight against either of you. You have cared for my son with great devotion, and I am endlessly grateful. But Isla’s role has always been different. For her safety, for yours, and for Aurelius, this is what must be done."

  Marla’s lips press together, and a moment later, she bows her head. "Then I will do as I have always done—see to the household and ensure Isla has all she needs."

  Catharine reaches out, touching Marla’s arm in a rare show of warmth. "You are family to us, Marla. That has not changed and never will."

  Marla’s shoulders ease slightly, the tension slipping from her posture, though I see the way her fingers remain curled as if holding onto something unseen.

  Catharine turns to Lena next, who gives a small nod before glancing toward Isla. "Then we will support you as we always have."

  Something shifts in Isla’s posture—her shoulders lose their rigid set, her stance easing just a fraction. She inclines her head in gratitude but says nothing more.

  Catharine steps forward, gently brushing my hair back before placing a kiss against my forehead. "Rest well, my love," she murmurs before handing me back to Isla—a final confirmation of trust.

  As Isla settles me in her arms, I note the way her hold has changed. Less guarded. More resolute.

  The room settles once more, the weight of the evening still lingering in the air. But even as things return to normal, I know—nothing is as it was before.

  Marla moves first, ever the diligent head of the household, shifting back into the comforting familiarity of routine. She directs the remaining nursery staff to tidy up, smoothing out the crib linens and ensuring the fire in the hearth burns steadily. The golden glow flickers over the walls, casting long shadows that make the nursery feel warm, even as the echoes of uncertainty remain in the silence.

  Lena, though quieter than usual, pulls out a fresh blanket, running her hands over the soft fabric before laying it over the rocking chair by the window. "I'll check in the morning, Isla," she says gently. "If you need anything for the night, just send word."

  Isla nods, her voice steady, but softer than usual. "Thank you, Lena."

  Marla pauses near the door, her gaze flickering between Isla and me. Then, with a slight incline of her head, she steps out, leading the last of the staff with her, leaving the nursery wrapped in a peaceful hush.

  The fire crackles. The walls no longer echo with the weight of command or consequence. The estate carries on as though nothing has changed. But I know better.

  I remain still in Isla’s arms, listening to the quiet around me, letting my mind work through what must come next. The wards had reacted to something—whether it was Isla’s shifting title or my quiet drawing of magic. Either way, it was dangerous.

  I cannot afford to be careless again.

  My past lives had offered me countless forms of magical training—disciplines as varied as the worlds I had walked. But here, I must be cautious. If the wards react to direct manipulation, then I must find another way. A more subtle approach.

  I consider the possibilities. Instead of pulling magic into myself, what if I let it come naturally? Rather than bending the weave, perhaps I could let it flow around me, merely observing rather than directing.

  The trick will be restraint.

  I breathe steadily, slowing my thoughts, turning my awareness outward, past the rise and fall of my own tiny chest, past the warmth of the nursery’s fire, past the presence of Isla herself. The world hums, a faint resonance beneath reality, and I let myself feel it without grasping too hard.

  A quiet, waiting thread of power—watching, like I am.

  If I am to train without notice, I must learn to be as invisible as the breath in my lungs. And I must start now.

  But before I can so much as begin, Isla speaks.

  At first, I think she’s talking to herself, but then I realize—there is no one else in the room. She is speaking to me.

  Her voice is quiet, raw in a way I have never heard before. "If my title is true, then one day, you will need me to cut down your foes. But if you are to use me, you must first know me."

  She exhales softly, shifting in her seat near my crib. Her words have weight, not just from duty but from something deeper—uncertainty, perhaps even pain. I do not move, though my mind is sharp and alert, drinking in every syllable. She thinks I don’t understand. So she speaks freely. Open. Unarmed.

  "When I was a year old, like you, I was given my title at my naming ceremony. I was called Daughter of the Blade. Unusual for a commoner." Her voice hitches slightly, though she composes herself quickly. "Most children born to common families are given their parents’ names in their titles—Son of Marcus, Daughter of Elya. Later, their titles refine with their path. A baker’s son might become Son of a Breadmaker. A merchant’s daughter might gain a title reflecting her craft. Nobles, of course, hope for something grander—something that cements their place in history. House Heir. Archduke’s Successor. Names that are meant to shape destinies."

  She leans forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees, staring at the floor as though seeing something distant, something lost. "But me? I was named Daughter of the Blade. And my mother was just a maid. No father to claim me. A scandal, they whispered. A name that should have meant nothing. But my mother… she was never shamed. The previous Archduke saw to that. He knew the truth."

  She lets out a quiet, humorless laugh, shaking her head. "My father was the Spymaster of House Larkin. A ghost in the dark. And my title reflected that. I was never meant for a normal life. From the moment I could walk, my path was set. I learned to move unseen before I learned to read. I knew how to kill before I knew how to dance. “Titles change. They shift as you earn them, as you kill for them. So mine did. Daughter of the Blade—an orphan’s name, given meaning only by the blood I spilled. Shadow Blade. Hidden Knife. Master Assassin.”

  Each word carries a weight, a life built on blood and shadows. She has walked the path of death, and she had accepted it—until me.

  She exhales shakily. “And then you were born. And the blade I had sharpened my whole life… became a shield.”

  I watch her carefully. She clenches her jaw, her fingers tightening into fists. This was not just a shift in duty. This was fate reaching out and rewriting her purpose. Not an assassin. Not a hidden blade. A shield. A guardian.

  "That isn’t normal. It shouldn’t have happened. But it did. And that’s why your father and mother placed me in your nursery, why I was given the role of a maid. To watch over you. To see what it meant."

  She exhales, leaning back against the chair, staring up at the ceiling. Her voice is quieter now, as if saying the words aloud has drained something from her. "And now, it has changed again. Another shift that should not be possible. Now I am Aurelius’s Blade. A weapon given form. A knife for your hand."

  A blade. Not a protector. A tool meant to strike.

  She shakes her head, a bitter smile touching her lips. "But a blade is only as useful as its wielder. So, young lord, if I am truly meant to be yours, you must know who I am."

  I remain silent, feigning the sleepy stillness of an infant, but inside, my mind is turning, piecing it all together. Fate, she calls it. But I know better. Magic doesn’t rewrite lives without reason.