The nursery is quiet, but silence does not exist here.

  The fire in the hearth crackles softly, its embers shifting as the last remnants of flame flicker and fade. Distantly, the faint shuffle of boots on polished floors marks the night watch making their rounds. Occasionally, a breeze sighs against the heavy curtains, rustling the fabric like a whisper from beyond the glass.

  I lie still in my crib, my body motionless, my breathing even. To anyone watching, I am just a sleeping infant, curled beneath warm blankets, lost in peaceful slumber.

  But my mind does not rest.

  I turn over Isla’s words, dissecting them with the precision of a surgeon.

  “A blade is only as useful as its wielder.”

  Something about it unsettles me.

  I do not want a blade.

  A blade is a weapon, a tool, an instrument of another’s will. A blade does not choose where it strikes, who it cuts, or why it kills. A blade exists only to be wielded.

  That is not what I want.

  I want control.

  Over myself. Over my fate. Over whatever force keeps shaping this world around me. Over the unseen threads of magic that bind names to destinies, that shift lives as easily as a hand turns a page.

  I have lived too many lives dictated by the hands of others. Some as a ruler. Some as a pawn. Some as both at once.

  Not this time.

  A deep breath, drawn through my nose, held, released. Slow. Measured. Controlled.

  I stretch my awareness outward, seeking the currents of mana that flow unseen through the estate. Carefully. Gently. I do not reach. I let the world breathe, let the weave of energy exist without disturbance, only observing.

  At first, there is nothing.

  And then—

  A familiar pull. A shift at the edges of my consciousness. Something stirring, something old. Not of this world, but of another.

  The firelight dims, shadows stretching long across the wooden beams overhead. The weight of the nursery fades.

  ***

  Rain pours in sheets, hammering against the glass-paneled skyline. Neon lights bleed into the puddles at my feet, staining the world in sickly hues of blue and violet. The city looms around me, steel and concrete woven together into a labyrinth of glass towers, suspended walkways, and smog-choked streets. The air smells of burnt circuits, oil, and the sharp tang of ozone. A world that never sleeps, where even the shadows pulse with synthetic life.

  This was one of my early lives. Before I understood reincarnation. Before I questioned why I came back, again and again, in different forms, in different worlds. Back then, I thought it was fate. That I was trapped in an endless cycle, shackled to something greater than myself, bound to a role I had no choice but to play.

  But the corporations did not need destiny to bind me. They forged their own chains.

  I was created, not born. Sculpted, not raised. A tool shaped by neural conditioning, cybernetic enhancement, and the cold efficiency of data-driven warfare. They sharpened me into something lethal, honed me to follow orders without question, to kill without hesitation. They rewired my instincts, burned away my past, and replaced my thoughts with directives and parameters.

  And still, it was not enough.

  I am not Aurelius here. I am something else, a ghost in the systems of power.

  The memory is clear, sharper than the others. Not a haze of impressions, but a recollection carved into me like data etched into a chip.

  A job. A target. A name buried under layers of security, scrubbed from every public database. But my handlers had found him. And I was the one sent to erase him.

  The city is a beast with a thousand eyes, but I move unseen. Bio-synthetic muscle fibers hum beneath my skin, reacting before thought, turning my body into a machine of calculated efficiency. Neural implants filter out distractions—the distant sirens, the ever-present advertisements flashing across the skyline, the low thrum of music leaking from clubs lining the underbelly of the spire.

  I perch on the ledge of a high-rise, the rain slicking off my coat as I scan the penthouse window below. Inside, a man sits hunched over a terminal, his fingers ghosting over the holographic interface. A scientist, they said. A liability to the corporation that once owned him. He had knowledge they didn’t want in the wrong hands.

  Simple.

  Except… he wasn’t alone.

  A child. Small, barely five, clutching at his father’s sleeve, wide-eyed with a fear that cut through the numbness of my programming.

  For the first time in this life, something in me hesitated.

  It was a fraction of a second. A pause barely longer than a breath. But it was enough.

  Warnings flashed across my HUD, detecting the error. A command pulsed through my neural feed—finish the job. No hesitation. No deviation.

  But I had already deviated.

  It wasn’t mercy for the man. It was mercy for the child.

  The scientist moved. He knew. He must have had his own warning systems in place. I saw his hands move, reaching under the desk for something—an override switch, an EMP pulse, a concealed weapon.

  I adjusted my stance and let my body react before thought could betray me again. I fired two quick shots through the window, shattering the glass. The man fell back, stunned but alive.

  Then I let the pulse hit me.

  Pain bloomed at the base of my skull as the EMP shorted out my augments, frying my neural link. My vision blurred, static and error codes filling the edges of my sight as I staggered backward, letting my body go slack. I had one chance to sell this. One chance to make them believe.

  I collapsed, limbs twitching as my systems sputtered and failed, my body locking into rigor.

  Feigning death.

  I hit the ground hard, glass cutting into my cheek, rain pouring over me as alarms blared from the penthouse above. The scientist moved cautiously, dragging himself to his terminal with shaking hands. I watched through half-lidded eyes as his fingers danced over the holographic keys, pulling up the secure network I had already infiltrated. I had left him a warning, buried deep in the code. A final act of defiance before my handlers could send another to finish what I had refused.

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  A single line of text flashed across the screen, its message stark and unchangeable:

  THEY KNOW. RUN.

  He reads it once. Then again. His hands shake. A deep breath, then he grabs the child and runs. That’s what I would have done. That’s what I hope he does. It’s the only chance he has.

  I wait for the signal feed from headquarters to die, then brace myself. No hesitation. Fingers wrap around the metal ridge at the base of my skull and pull. Fire lances through my spine, white-hot and searing. The connection severs. My body wretches, cold, empty, cut from the grid. The city noise floods back in, unfiltered, raw. I am alone.

  Stripped of my augments, stripped of the connection that had once made me an extension of the corporate machine, I felt the cold settle into my bones. Rain slicked down my back, mixing with the blood, washing away the last remnants of what I had been.

  They had tried to strip away everything—my name, my past, my choices. But they could not take my sense of right and wrong.

  I could not save him. I could not save his child. But I had given them a chance.

  And in the end, it was the closest I had ever come to mercy in that place.

  ***

  Morning filters into the nursery in soft golden hues, slipping through the heavy curtains to pool across the wooden floor. The warmth of the hearth has kept the night’s chill at bay, but there is an undeniable shift in the air, a new rhythm settling into place.

  Isla is already awake. She moves with quiet precision, her hands deft as she tidies the space around my crib, ensuring everything is in order before the rest of the household stirs. I remain still, feigning the last vestiges of sleep, observing her. She is no longer hesitant in her movements. There is no uncertainty in the way she adjusts my blankets or smooths out the linens. She has accepted her role.

  When Marla and Lena enter, the atmosphere changes, but only slightly. Marla carries herself as she always does—efficient, poised, commanding without words. Lena, softer in her approach, is quick to check on me, brushing my hair back with gentle fingers.

  “You’re awake early, little one,” she says, her voice light with affection. “Did you sleep well?”

  Isla, standing by the crib, responds before I can even shift. “He didn’t stir once,” she states simply. “A peaceful night.”

  Marla eyes her for a moment, an unreadable expression flickering across her face. There is no challenge, but there is something else. A quiet evaluation. “Good,” Marla finally says. “Routine is important. Stability even more so.”

  Lena smiles, unaware or perhaps uninterested in whatever is passing between them. “I’ll prepare his breakfast.” She moves toward the door, glancing over her shoulder at Isla. “You’ll be joining us?”

  There’s a pause—brief but noticeable. Isla tilts her head slightly, considering the question. “Yes,” she answers at last, and something in Marla’s posture eases.

  The nursery is soon a flurry of quiet activity. Clothes are readied, the day’s tasks subtly discussed between Marla and Isla, with Isla adjusts to her new place within the routine. She does not simply stand guard. She is part of the motions now.

  When we enter the dining area, the staff already moving through their morning routines all pause—if only for a second. Their eyes flick to Isla, noting the shift. She is not among them as before, not simply another maid tending to the young heir. She is something else now. Something higher.

  The conversations resume quickly, but I do not miss the way some of them adjust their demeanor around her. A few nod in quiet respect, others glance her way with curiosity, some with caution. Isla, as always, says nothing, but she meets each look with steady confidence.

  Breakfast is familiar, but the presence of Isla beside me alters the usual dynamic. She does not fawn or coo the way some of the other maids might have. She does not dote unnecessarily. She observes, calculating, but when she helps guide a spoon to my mouth or wipes a stray bit of food from my face, it is done with the ease of someone who no longer questions why they are doing it.

  Lena and Marla speak as they always do, but Isla listens in a way she hadn’t before, her role now deeper than mere duty. When Lena casually mentions something about estate repairs being overseen that afternoon, Isla’s head tilts slightly. “Will the guards be involved?”

  Lena blinks at her. “I assume so. They oversee anything that requires access to the outer grounds.”

  Isla doesn’t respond immediately, merely nods and returns to the quiet, but I see it—she is already cataloging everything, learning every movement of the estate that might be relevant to my safety.

  By mid-morning, Catharine visits.

  She enters the nursery gracefully, the weight of her position settling over the space without effort. Her eyes sweep over me first, assessing, as if she expects to see something different in me now that a full day has passed since my naming. If she notices a change, she does not comment on it.

  Then her gaze shifts to Isla.

  For a moment, nothing is said. But something passes between them—something unspoken but undeniable.

  “You seem well-adjusted,” Catharine says at last.

  Isla bows her head slightly. “I am.”

  There is approval in my mother’s expression, but also expectation. “Good. This arrangement is not temporary.”

  “I understand, Your Grace.”

  Catharine moves closer, running her fingers gently along my cheek. Her touch is warm, and despite the air of authority she carries, it is genuine. “We will speak again soon, Isla. But for now, continue as you have. You have my trust.”

  Isla does not falter. “And you have my loyalty.”

  Catharine nods once, lingering for only a moment more before she picks me up. She stays as long as she can, holding me, playing, helping Lena with my morning lessons.

  As the day continues, I watch, listen, and learn. Isla has begun integrating herself into the estate’s flow, no longer a hidden blade waiting in the shadows, but a force moving within the walls of House Larkin.

  The evening settles over the estate with the glow of dim candlelight and the softened murmur of distant voices. The nursery is quieter now, the activity of the day winding down as the staff move through their final tasks before retreating to their own quarters. The fire in the hearth burns low, its embers casting shifting shadows across the room.

  Isla moves with the same careful precision she always does, but there is something more deliberate in her actions now. No longer just a silent guardian hovering at a distance, she has begun settling into her place—not as a maid, not as a protector, but something in between.

  She leans over my crib, and even in the dim firelight, I catch the faint flicker of hesitation before she reaches for me. It vanishes almost instantly, replaced by a quiet resolve as she slips her hands beneath me.

  Her touch is steady, practiced, but not cold—fingertips brushing against the soft linen of my nightclothes, her grip firm enough to support me yet careful not to disturb the peaceful stillness of the room. The warmth of her hands seeps through the fabric, a contrast to the lingering chill of the night air.

  With effortless ease, she lifts me from the crib, adjusting her hold so that my head rests against the crook of her arm. I can hear the subtle shift in her breathing, the faint exhale as she compensates for my weight, the near-silent rustle of fabric as she moves. The scent of leather, steel, and faint traces of lavender clings to her—less like the perfumed elegance of the noblewomen in the estate, and more like something practical, efficient, clean.

  A quiet hum vibrates in her throat—not quite a sigh, not quite a thought spoken aloud. “You are heavier than you were yesterday,” she murmurs, the words barely more than a breath.

  I say nothing, of course, but I feel her studying me, the subtle flex of her fingers as she shifts my weight slightly, adjusting her grip. Measuring the change, calculating the difference, as though she can somehow sense the impossible reality of what I am—even if she does not yet understand it.

  She carries me toward the chair near the fire, her footfalls soft, deliberate, each step placed with the kind of controlled grace that only years of training can instill. The warmth of the hearth brushes against my skin as we draw closer, the flickering glow casting long shadows that dance across the carved wood of the nursery walls.

  She settles into the chair with careful ease, her body adjusting to hold me in a way that feels instinctive, not rehearsed. The leather of the chair creaks slightly beneath her weight as she leans back, the firelight illuminating the sharp angles of her face, softening the edges that are so often hardened by discipline.

  She cradles me against her, one hand supporting my back, the other absently smoothing the fabric of my blanket in slow, rhythmic strokes. The repetitive motion is not idle—it is grounding, a habit formed from years of silent contemplation.

  There is no need for words, but after a long moment, she exhales softly. The sound is something between resignation and acceptance, a weight she had been carrying shifting just slightly.

  “I don’t know if you understand me, little lord,” she says, her voice low, steady, but touched with something quieter—something uncertain.

  Her fingers still against the fabric. Just for a moment.

  “But if you do… know this.”

  Her grip tightens just slightly, not possessive, but certain. “I will guard you. Not just your safety, but your secrets.”

  She glances toward the door, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “Not even your family will know what you do in the dark.”

  The words leave her lips as if rehearsed, but something lingers in her expression—an unease, a question she does not voice.

  She exhales, slow and controlled, as though steadying herself.

  “Train as you need. I will not stop you.”

  The words settle between us, unspoken understanding forming where certainty had already begun to take root. Isla does not see me as something fragile, something to be coddled. She sees what I am—or at least, she knows I am something more than what I seem.

  She stands, carrying me back to the crib, placing me down with more care than I have ever known from her before. As she tucks the blanket around me, she hesitates for a moment, then murmurs, “Sleep well, little lord.”

  She steps back, watching for a breath longer before turning away. The fire crackles. The night is quiet.

  And for the first time, I feel as though I have an ally. A blade, perhaps—but one that, for now, still chooses to remain in my hand.