The morning routine in the nursery has become predictable—comfortably structured in its repetition. But today, everything feels different before I even open my eyes. There’s an energy in the air, subtle but undeniable, a tension that isn’t present on an ordinary morning. I listen carefully, keeping my breathing slow and even, feigning sleep as I take in my surroundings.

  Lena moves about with soft efficiency, her steps lighter than usual. Clara babbles from her cot, her small hands slapping against the wooden bars as she plays some game of her own making. Marla’s voice is low, giving instructions, directing the order of things, but even she sounds different—more measured, more mindful. Isla is silent, as always, a quiet presence in the corner.

  Then, the door opens, and the atmosphere shifts entirely.

  My mother enters the room.

  She does not usually arrive at this hour. Her visits are structured, expected, woven neatly into the daily rhythm of the nursery. But today, she has come early, and though her steps are graceful as always, there is something deliberate in the way she moves, in the way the room reacts to her presence.

  “Good morning, my love,” she murmurs, and I feel the weight of her gaze settle over me. A soft touch runs over my hair, smoothing it down, and I know she is waiting for me to stir. “It is time to wake up.”

  I crack my eyes open slowly, blinking up at her as if I am still caught in the haze of sleep. It’s an easy illusion to maintain—let her see the tiredness, the slowness of a child rousing to the world. She smiles, warm and indulgent, as if savoring the moment before the day truly begins.

  “Up with you now,” she says, her voice light. “You have a busy morning ahead.”

  “A busy… morning?” I echo, my voice slow and hesitant, testing the words aloud.

  A busy morning. That is new. My days until now have been structured around simple lessons with Lena, brief visits with my mother, and the steady, unobtrusive presence of Isla. But today, something is different. Something has changed.

  Lena approaches with my clothes, already chosen with more care than usual. A fine but practical outfit, well-made but not ostentatious. My mother takes the garments from her, and I watch as Lena steps back, hands clasped in front of her stomach, a small, knowing smile on her lips.

  “Shall I fetch some warm water, Your Grace?” Lena asks, but my mother shakes her head.

  “No need. I will tend to him myself this morning.”

  Marla glances up from where she is folding linens. “Your Grace, we are more than capable—”

  “I know,” my mother interrupts, though her tone is soft, lacking any true rebuke. “But today is special.”

  She does not say why, but everyone knows. They do not question her. I remain still as she kneels beside me, lifting me gently from the crib, her arms steady and warm. She carries me to the washbasin and begins the careful work of wiping my face, straightening my hair, smoothing the collar of my undershirt before helping me into my clothes. It is a strangely intimate act, something I know she must have done for me when I was younger, but rarely now.

  She moves with quiet deliberation, as if memorizing the process, as if savoring it.

  “You will meet your tutor today,” she says at last, her voice thoughtful. “Lord Alistair Merrow.”

  I frown slightly, tilting my head. “Lord… Mellow?” I test the name, deliberately mispronouncing it in a way a young child might.

  She laughs softly, smoothing down my collar. “No, my love. Merrow. Lord Alistair Merrow.”

  I nod once, accepting her words without question.

  Clara, who has been quietly watching from her cot, chooses this moment to insert herself into the morning’s events. “’Relus,” she calls, kicking her feet against the wooden bars. “Go play?”

  My mother laughs softly. “Not this morning, little one.” She stands, lifting me with her, settling me on her hip in a rare display of affection. “Aurelius has important lessons today.”

  Clara pouts, her lip jutting out in a way that makes Lena chuckle. “No fair.”

  “You will have your own lessons soon enough,” my mother assures her, though there is amusement in her tone. “But for today, he must go.”

  Marla steps forward then, her expression carefully neutral. “I shall have everything in order for when the young lord returns.”

  My mother nods, but does not set me down. She keeps her hold on me as she turns, walking toward the door. “Come, my love,” she murmurs. “It is time.”

  As we leave the nursery, I catch a glimpse of Isla moving to follow. She is always there, always watching, and I find a quiet comfort in that. Whatever awaits me beyond this door, beyond the familiar, Isla will be there, lingering in the background, unseen by most but never unnoticed by me.

  We step into the hall, and I feel the shift settle over me. This is the first true change in my life since I have come into this world.

  The study is different from my father’s. It lacks the weight of politics, of war and legacy. This space is smaller, cozier, filled with books that are not just for show. Shelves line the walls, stacked with worn tomes and scrolls that carry the scent of parchment and old ink. There is an armchair beside a broad window, and a desk covered in carefully arranged papers. There is a warmth here, a sense that this is a place of study, not just command.

  And at the center of it stands Lord Alistair Merrow.

  I stare.

  He is not human.

  My breath stills. Only for a fraction of a second—not long enough to be noticed, but long enough for me to notice. I force my muscles to remain loose, my expression carefully blank, even as my mind reels.

  I have seen beings of all shapes and sizes in past lives, creatures of myth and machine alike. But never here. Never in this life.

  Had I missed something? Were there signs I had overlooked? The Naming Ceremony, the fleeting glimpses of the estate’s visitors—was there ever a hint?

  Nothing. I remember nothing.

  That thought unsettles me more than the sight of Alistair himself.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Alistair is tall, his body covered in thick, curly fur the color of aged parchment. His floppy ears hang down past his shoulders, twitching slightly as he tilts his head. A long snout, expressive dark eyes peering from beneath the curtain of his fur. His posture is relaxed but not slouched, the bearing of a man—or rather, a being—who is entirely at ease in his own presence.

  I push my thoughts aside. My mother’s demeanor remains unchanged—graceful, composed, welcoming. That is my cue. I must not let my ignorance show.

  She speaks first, her voice warm. “Lord Merrow, allow me to formally introduce my son, Aurelius Larkin.”

  The doglike man’s ears flick upward slightly, his dark eyes locking onto mine. He inclines his head. “It is a pleasure to meet you at last, young lord.”

  I manage a nod, keeping my expression calm, careful. “And you, my lord.”

  My mother watches closely, waiting for… something. When I give her nothing, she lets out a quiet, almost dramatic sigh. “Not even a blink,” she murmurs, half to herself. “Not even a gasp? No wide-eyed stare? No clinging to my skirts? My son, you wound me.”

  I giggle softly at her antics. She smiles, victorious.

  Lord Merrow chuckles, a low, rumbling sound. “He is composed. That is good.”

  Alistair straightens, folding his arms behind his back. “Then let us begin.” He gestures toward a low chair by his desk. “Come, young lord. Let us see where we must start.”

  I take measured steps forward, feeling the weight of my mother’s watchful gaze. Isla remains near the wall, silent but ever-present. Whatever this lesson holds, I must be prepared.

  I climb into the chair, my small hands resting on the smooth wooden armrests. Lord Merrow observes me for a long moment before pulling a heavy tome from a shelf. The book lands on the desk with a soft thud, the leather worn but well-kept. I glance at the cover—no title, only an embossed sigil of intertwining branches.

  “You are young yet your mind is sharp.” His voice is even, measured. “Tell me, young lord, what do you know of letters?”

  I pause. This is a test. I know letters, of course—I know more letters and languages than most can conceive of. But I must tread carefully. I let my brow furrow, tilting my head slightly in thought. Then, in a slow and deliberate voice, I say, “A… B… C…” trailing off on a couple of letters, but making it through the entire set. I see no reason not to earn Lena some praise for her simple lessons, especially after the frustration I made her suffer for refusing to talk.

  Alistair watches, his dark eyes unreadable beneath the fringe of his fur. “Good,” he says after a pause. “And numbers?”

  I take a moment longer, then murmur, “One… two… three…” Again, I pretend to struggle , letting hesitation color my tone. On reaching ten, I look at my hands and wiggle my fingers, before holding up one finger on each hand, “One…one?” I ask, knowing Lena never covered beyond ten.

  Catharine lets out a soft breath behind me, as if relieved. Isla does not react, but I know she is watching carefully.

  Alistair watches, his dark eyes sharp beneath the fringe of his fur. His ears twitch—an unconscious flick of intrigue.

  “Interesting,” he murmurs. “Most children count by habit. You count by recognition.” His gaze flicks to my fingers, still split into two. “You separate amounts, rather than simply repeat.” A pause. “Did you do that because you were taught? Or because it made sense?”

  I blink up at him. Let the question settle. Then, with careful hesitation, I murmur, “Made sense.”

  His ears twitch slightly, as if considering something. Then, a slow nod. “Some learn through sound, others through shape. You think in structure.”

  His clawed fingers tap the book in front of him. “This is High Script. You will learn both the written and spoken forms in time. Language follows patterns, just like numbers. We will see how quickly you recognize them.” He flips open the book, revealing neatly inscribed letters in a flowing script, different from the printed characters Lena had shown me before.

  I let my gaze settle on the page, taking in the graceful loops and sharp angles. It is different from the simple writing Lena has introduced me to, far more intricate. My fingers twitch slightly, but I do not reach for the book. Instead, I glance up at him, keeping my voice soft. “Hard?”

  A deep, approving sound rumbles from his chest. “Yes. But necessary.”

  He turns the page and traces a clawed finger beneath a line of text. “Read what you can.”

  I hesitate, knowing this moment is crucial. I let my eyes scan the page, then shake my head slightly. “Don’t know.”

  Alistair does not seem disappointed. If anything, he looks satisfied. “Good. You did not guess.”

  There is a quiet shift behind me—Catharine shifting slightly in her seat. I cannot see her expression, but I can sense her approval.

  Alistair closes the book. “That is enough for today.”

  I blink. That was it? One question, one test? I glance toward my mother, but she does not seem surprised. Isla, still against the wall, remains unreadable.

  Alistair clasps his hands behind his back. “Learning is not just about knowledge—it is about knowing what you do not yet know.”

  He meets my gaze, and for the first time, I see the sharp mind beneath his calm exterior. He is not just a tutor. He is a test.

  Catharine stands, smoothing her gown. “Thank you, Lord Merrow. I trust you will keep me informed of his progress.”

  He inclines his head. “Of course, Your Grace.”

  She steps toward me and holds out a hand. I slide off the chair and take it. She smiles down at me. “Come, my love. That is enough for today.”

  As we turn to leave, I feel Alistair’s gaze on my back. I do not need to look to know he is still measuring me.

  The walk back through the halls is quiet. My mother holds my hand gently, her pace unhurried. Isla follows behind, her presence an unspoken shadow. Though Catharine says nothing, I can feel the satisfaction in the way she holds herself—light, graceful, pleased.

  After a few moments, she glances down at me, her voice soft. “What do you think of Lord Merrow?”

  I take a moment before answering. “He is… different.”

  She hums in amusement. “Yes, he is. But he is one of the finest scholars in the kingdom. You will learn much from him.”

  I nod, processing her words. There is still much I do not know about this world, but today has been a step forward. I am beginning to understand its structure, the expectations placed upon me, the quiet power my parents wield.

  As we enter the nursery, Lena and Clara are there waiting. Clara, upon seeing me, claps her hands and bounces in excitement. “’Relus! Done?”

  Lena chuckles, smoothing her daughter’s hair. “I told her you were busy learning, and now she won’t stop asking when you’ll be back.”

  Catharine smiles at the exchange, but her attention soon shifts. “Marla?”

  The head maid steps forward, her hands folded neatly in front of her. “All is as you left it, Your Grace.”

  Catharine exhales, nodding before kneeling in front of me. “I must go now, my love. But I will see you at dinner.”

  I nod slowly. “Dinner.”

  Her smile softens, and she kisses my forehead before rising. “Be good for Isla,” she says, before sweeping out of the room, leaving behind the lingering warmth of her presence.

  The door closes with a quiet click, but the nursery is not yet empty.

  Marla is the first to move. She smooths down the apron of her uniform with practiced ease, straightening invisible wrinkles. Her gaze flickers to me—calculating, measuring—but whatever thought lingers in her mind, she does not voice it. Instead, she exhales softly, gathering a neatly folded blanket from the chair. “Come along, Lena,” she murmurs, already moving toward the door. “The young lord has had a full morning, and so have we.”

  Lena, still standing near Clara’s cot, hesitates for just a moment. Her gaze drifts toward me, fond and searching, before she bends down to scoop Clara into her arms. “Say goodbye to ‘Relus, sweetling,” she coaxes.

  Clara, who has been preoccupied with the wooden blocks at her feet, perks up at her mother’s voice. She grins, squirming excitedly in Lena’s hold. “Bye-bye, ‘Relus!” she chirps, waving her chubby hand with the exaggerated enthusiasm of a child who doesn’t yet understand partings are temporary.

  I meet her wide, eager gaze, lifting my own hand in a small, measured wave. There is no reason to deny her a response. “Goodbye, Clara.”

  Lena presses a kiss to the top of her daughter’s head, murmuring something too quiet for me to catch before shifting her toward her hip. Clara hums happily, nestling into her mother’s warmth, already losing interest in the farewell now that she has been picked up.

  Marla is already at the door, holding it open with the quiet authority of someone who expects things to move according to plan. Lena follows, giving me one last glance before stepping through. The door swings shut behind them with a soft finality.

  Now, the nursery is truly quiet.

  I glance at Isla, who has already moved to her usual post near the window. She doesn’t speak immediately, only watching me with that ever-present, unreadable gaze.

  Finally, she steps closer, lowering her voice. “You did well.”

  I tilt my head, waiting.

  She studies me for a beat longer before speaking again . “You were careful. That is good.” A pause. “But be careful not to be too careful.”

  I frown. “Why?”

  She holds my gaze, steady and sharp. “Because caution is useful.”

  She exhales, just once, before tilting her head slightly, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “But hesitation will get you killed.”

  I do not answer immediately. I let the weight of her words settle. A lesson, spoken plainly.

  Slowly, I nod. “I will learn.”

  She studies me for a moment longer. Then nods back. “Good.”