Life at the estate has settled into an easy rhythm. Days flow into weeks, weeks into months, each one marked by quiet consistency. Mornings bring the familiar sounds of the household stirring—servants moving through the halls, the soft hum of conversation drifting from the kitchens, the rustle of fresh linens being folded. The nursery remains my world, a confined space of warmth, order, and predictability.

  But that predictability has been slowly unraveling, disturbed by the presence of another child. Clara.

  She is a disruption, though not an unwelcome one. Where my days were once quiet, spent listening and learning, now there is chatter. Constant, bubbling, unfiltered chatter. Clara does not know silence. She does not know stillness. She is a force of nature, pulling at the corners of my carefully maintained world, breaking through the solitude I have built around myself.

  Two years have passed, and still, I have not spoken.

  At first, it was merely a curiosity. Marla and Lena would comment in passing, wondering when I would start to babble like other children. My mother, ever patient, would smile and say, "Some children take longer than others."

  Then, it became a concern. The staff whispered behind closed doors. My father remained unreadable, though I caught the glint of calculation in his eyes when he looked at me. My mother’s reassurances grew softer, as if she was beginning to doubt them herself.

  And now? Now, it is an expectation.

  The nursery, once a quiet sanctuary where I could feign innocence, has changed. The presence of another child has made it glaringly clear just how unnatural I am.

  Clara is a year and a half old and has already had her naming ceremony. She chatters constantly, even if half her words are nonsense. She babbles, giggles, shrieks with glee when she plays. She claps her hands and points at things, demanding names for them. She is exactly what a child her age should be.

  I am not.

  She stumbles across the floor, a flurry of energy and sound, while I sit quietly, composed, listening.

  She clings to her mother, buries herself in Lena’s embrace, and wails when she is set down. I do not cry. I never have.

  I watch as Clara pulls at the hem of Lena’s dress, babbling excitedly about something—about a bird outside the window, about how pretty Marla’s necklace is, about the soft plush of the rabbit toy she clutches in one chubby fist.

  “She’s so bright,” Lena says, her voice thick with affection. She bends down, brushing her fingers through Clara’s curls. “And so chatty! It’s a wonder she doesn’t exhaust herself with all the talking she does.”

  Marla hums, folding freshly laundered blankets with practiced ease. “You were the same at her age,” she says with a small, knowing smile. “And yet, we have our little lord, still as silent as the day he was born.”

  The words are light, not accusatory, but they land with weight nonetheless.

  I see the way Lena’s brows pinch together, the concern flickering in her eyes as she glances at me. “He’ll speak when he’s ready,” she says, but she does not sound entirely convinced.

  Clara, oblivious, waddles over to my side and plops down next to me, her toy rabbit dangling from her fingers. “’Relus,” she says, her attempt at my name clumsy but enthusiastic. She pats my arm insistently. “Say it! Say ‘Clara’!”

  I do not react.

  Clara pouts. “Say it!”

  Marla chuckles. “He’s stubborn, little one. You won’t get him to talk by demanding it.”

  Clara huffs, clearly unimpressed by my continued silence, and turns to Lena. “Mama, why won’t ‘Relus talk?”

  Lena sighs, offering her daughter a patient smile. “Because he’s waiting for the right moment, sweetling.”

  “You are more perceptive than you realize, Lena,” Isla murmurs from where she stands near the window, arms crossed as she watches the scene unfold.

  Her presence has become as much a part of my world as the nursery itself. She is always here, quiet but watchful, a sentinel in the corner of my vision. I know that she has already guessed the truth—that my silence is not due to inability, but intent.

  Clara wriggles closer, leaning against me with all the weight of a toddler who does not yet understand personal space. “You talk in your head?” she asks, tilting her head at me. “Maybe your words are stuck!”

  Lena laughs, smoothing Clara’s hair back. “Perhaps, sweetling.”

  Isla, however, does not laugh. Her sharp eyes remain on me, unreadable. Then, after a pause, she speaks again, her voice quieter this time. “It is a powerful thing, to wait.”

  I meet her gaze, and for just a moment, something passes between us. An understanding.

  That evening, the nursery settles into its usual routine. The fire crackles in the hearth, casting flickering light across the room as Marla and Lena prepare Clara for bed. The warmth of the flames contrasts with the cool air of the night, the nursery wrapped in a comfortable hush.

  Lena hums softly as she strokes Clara’s hair, the little girl already beginning to nod off, her tiny fingers curled around the ear of her favorite stuffed rabbit. Marla moves with practiced efficiency, ensuring that every blanket is folded, every toy returned to its rightful place. Isla, as always, remains near the window, her silhouette outlined against the faint glow of the estate grounds. The sound of the fire crackling in the hearth mingles with the soft murmurs of their conversation, lulling the room into an easy rhythm.

  Clara stirs, blinking sleepily at her mother. “Mama, is ‘Relus sleep too?” she whispers.

  Lena glances over at me, her expression softening. “I think so, little one. He’s had a long day.”

  Clara wiggles against her mother’s hold, clearly fighting sleep. “Night, ‘Relus,” she mumbles, barely coherent.

  Marla chuckles, shaking her head. “Perhaps tomorrow, little one, he’ll surprise us all.”

  Lena tucks the blanket more securely around Clara and presses a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Maybe,” she agrees, though her voice carries a quiet uncertainty.

  I remain still, eyes closed, letting the words drift past me. I have grown adept at feigning sleep, at appearing as I should, while my mind continues to move, calculating, considering.

  A few days from now, my father will return from the capital.

  I overheard Catharine speaking with Isla earlier in the day. Sven has been gone for weeks, attending to affairs I am not yet privy to. But his return is significant—not only because of his absence, but because it marks a rare occasion. A formal dinner, one in which I will sit with both my mother and father.

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  My first in his presence in many months.

  The weight of expectation presses against me. It will be the perfect moment.

  The household is already shifting in preparation. The servants move with an urgency not present in their usual duties. New arrangements are being made, the dining hall prepared with a level of detail that speaks to the importance of my father’s return. The silver is polished to a mirror shine, the deep violet banners of House Larkin newly hung, cascading like flowing ink along the marble columns of the hall. Even the air smells different—a mix of polished wood, fresh florals, and something more restrained beneath, something sharp and metallic. Anticipation.

  In the nursery, the preparations reach us in small ways. Marla ensures my attire for the evening is fitted properly. Isla inspects the servants who will be present in the dining hall, subtly weeding out anyone who doesn’t meet her expectations. I watch all of it unfold, knowing that the coming night will shift the dynamic of my place here, of how I am seen, of what I can do.

  I listen as Marla reminds Lena to ensure that Clara is kept occupied elsewhere that evening. A child’s babbling will not be welcomed at such a formal gathering.

  “Best to keep the little one with the wet nurses for the night,” Marla advises. “The Archduke’s return is always a grand affair, and he won’t be in the mood for distractions.”

  Lena sighs but nods. “Of course. Clara won’t like it, but she’ll have to manage.”

  Marla studies her, then shakes her head. “No, Lena, you’ll stay with her tonight.”

  Lena blinks, caught off guard. “I thought I was to help prepare—”

  Marla’s tone is gentle but firm. “It’s just family. His Grace won’t expect a full serving staff, and you needn’t trouble yourself. Clara will settle better if her mother is with her.”

  A mixture of relief and hesitance crosses Lena’s face, but in the end, she nods. “Yes, of course.”

  Even without understanding all the finer details of my father’s business, I recognize the significance of his return. The estate will be watched more closely in the days leading up to it, and the tension I have seen in my mother’s posture will only grow heavier. There is a sense that the dinner is not just about family, but about setting something in place, a structure, an expectation.

  That evening, my mother spends more time with me than usual. The nursery is quiet, Clara already settled elsewhere, Lena absent for the first time in months. Isla remains nearby, but she does not intrude on the moment as Catharine kneels beside my crib, brushing my hair back with careful fingers.

  Her expression is softer than usual, the fine lines of worry that have begun to etch themselves into her features less pronounced. “Your father will be home soon,” she says, her voice low, thoughtful. “He will be pleased to see you, to see how you’ve grown.”

  I watch her, taking in the quiet note of something beneath her words. Not fear, not anxiety—something more fragile, more personal. A kind of hope she rarely allows to surface.

  She leans closer, her lips curving in the faintest of smiles. “I have a feeling you’re going to surprise him.”

  The evening of the dinner arrives with an air of expectation so thick it clings to the halls. The estate has been polished to an almost unnatural perfection—every candle wick trimmed, every silver goblet gleaming. The long dining hall, typically vast and impersonal, is prepared for a more intimate meal, though the grandeur of its high-arched windows and intricate chandeliers remains as imposing as ever.

  I am dressed in a finely tailored ensemble, dark fabrics embroidered with silver thread. A miniature reflection of my father’s formal attire. My mother carries me from the nursery, her posture poised, her grip on me firm but gentle. Isla follows, her presence as quiet and unobtrusive as a shadow, but I know she is watching everything.

  As we enter the dining hall, I see my father standing near the far end of the table. The weight of his presence settles over the room. He is as I remember him—tall, composed, the aura of command woven into his every movement. His silver-threaded coat bears the crest of House Larkin, the dark fabric pressed to impeccable precision. He turns as we approach, his gaze settling on me with an unreadable expression.

  Catharine lowers me into my high chair, positioned between them at the head of the table. My feet do not reach the floor, but I sit upright, mimicking the stillness I have observed in him so many times before.

  The first moments pass in near silence, save for the quiet clinking of utensils as the meal is served. The staff move swiftly, placing dishes of roasted meats, stewed vegetables, and rich sauces before us. The aroma is warm, familiar, though I hardly notice it. My focus is on them—on the unspoken words between my mother and father, on the expectation that lingers beneath their carefully controlled expressions.

  Catharine is the first to break the silence. “It is good to have you home.”

  Sven inclines his head slightly. “It is good to be home.” His gaze flickers to me. “I see our son has grown.”

  Catharine smiles, resting a hand lightly on my shoulder. “He has. Though he remains as quiet as ever.”

  There it is. The shift. My father’s gaze sharpens, though his expression does not change. “Still?”

  Catharine exhales softly, almost wistfully. “Marla says he listens well, understands even better, but not a single word.”

  Sven considers me for a moment longer, his fingers tapping once against the polished wood of the table. “There is no need to force speech before it is time. Some take longer to find their voices.”

  He says it as if it is unimportant, as if he is unconcerned—but I see the way he watches me, waiting. Testing.

  I lower my gaze to my plate, pretending to focus on the careful way I grip my utensils, as if the simple task requires all my concentration. My heart beats slow, steady. I will not waste this moment.

  I wait until the conversation resumes, my mother asking about his time in the capital, my father responding with measured words. The murmurs of their discussion weave around me, and I listen, absorbing the cadence of their speech, the subtleties in their tones.

  Then, at the perfect moment—just as my father takes a sip from his goblet, just as my mother’s fingers lightly trace the rim of her own—I lift my head. This is the moment. The first step in a long, dangerous path. Once I begin, I cannot stop. They will expect more. Demand more. And yet… power is never gained in silence.

  And I speak.

  “Mother.”

  The word is soft but clear, deliberate. The sound of it cuts through the air like a blade through silk.

  Catharine freezes. Her breath catches, eyes widening as if she isn’t certain she heard correctly. Her hand trembles slightly as she covers her mouth, fighting back the moister gathering in her eyes. My father sets his goblet down with a quiet clink, his gaze snapping to me, sharp and intent. I can see the tension in his hand, gripping the glass a bit tighter.

  I let the silence stretch, let them absorb it, let the weight of the moment settle deep.

  Then, with measured care, I turn my gaze to my father.

  “Father.”

  A breath of stunned quiet follows. My mother’s hand tightens slightly against my shoulder, her body taut as if holding herself back from gathering me into her arms. My father remains motionless, his expression unreadable, but there is something—just the barest flicker of something—in his eyes.

  It is Catharine who reacts first. She exhales, a soft, almost disbelieving laugh escaping her lips, and then she turns fully to me. “You—” She hesitates, then gathers herself. “You speak?”

  I meet her gaze and nod.

  Her laugh comes again, quiet but rich with emotion. She reaches for me then, fingers brushing over my cheek with a gentleness I have rarely seen her allow herself. “Oh, my love. You always did like to keep us waiting.”

  Sven does not react as quickly, his gaze locked on mine. I do not lower my eyes. I meet his stare with the same unwavering calm I have spent these two years perfecting.

  Finally, he exhales, slow and measured. “A slow start,” he muses, the ghost of something that might be approval slipping into his tone, “but strong words.”

  He leans back slightly, his posture relaxed but his focus never straying from me. “Perhaps now we will see where your mind truly lies.”

  I do not respond—not yet.

  For now, I have given them what they wanted. A beginning.

  That night, my mother carries me back to the nursery, her movements unhurried, as if she wishes to extend the moment a little longer. She hums softly, an old lullaby I have never heard from her before, a melody that is gentle yet tinged with something wistful.

  Isla follows at a distance, as she always does, but tonight, she lingers just a little longer in the doorway as my mother settles me into the crib.

  Catharine smooths my hair back, fingers warm against my forehead. “You truly surprised us tonight,” she murmurs. “But I suppose I should have expected nothing less.”

  I watch her, silent now, as she studies me with something close to reverence. Not just as her son, but as something more—something shifting, something she is beginning to realize she does not fully understand.

  She kisses my forehead, a lingering press of warmth, before rising gracefully. “Sleep well, my love.”

  She does not see the way Isla watches me as she leaves.

  I stare at the ceiling as the nursery dims, the glow of the dying hearth casting long shadows across the room

  Isla’s gaze lingers on me, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she crouches to eye level with my crib. The moment stretches as I meet her gaze, not hiding my awareness. Her voice is barely above a whisper, edged with something sharp.

  “Tell me, little lord,” she murmurs, “was it difficult?”

  I know what she means. Deciding when to speak. What to say. I meet her gaze, offering nothing.

  She tilts her head slightly, waiting.

  “No,” I say at last.

  She exhales, almost amused. Almost approving.

  “Then I suppose we have much to discuss.”

  Speech is power.

  And I have just taken my first step toward wielding it.