Life has settled into a rhythm, and nearly two years have passed since I started lessons with Alistair. The nursery is no longer a nursery—no longer a place of soft blankets and cribs, of hushed whispers and careful steps. It has changed, evolved, much like I have. The crib is gone, replaced by a proper bed, low to the ground but still grand in its own way. The space is no longer one of confinement but transition, a silent acknowledgment that I am no longer an infant. The walls have shifted to accommodate shelves of books and a small writing desk, subtle signs that childhood is slipping away in favor of something else.

  The mornings begin with breakfast, a communal affair now that I am older. The dining table in my chambers is larger than before, though still modest by noble standards. Lena brings Clara in, chattering and laughing as she settles the little girl beside me. Clara, now three, is a storm of boundless energy, filling the space with the ease of someone who has never known the weight of expectation. She has grown quickly, her words no longer babble but full of thought and playful command. Spending time with me has accelerated her speech, though she still has the innocence of childhood wrapped around her like a warm cloak. She adores me, and in my own way, I return her affections. I humor her games, indulge her endless questions, and sometimes, I even let my mask slip, if only for her.

  Lena smiles warmly as she places a plate before me, her motherly instincts making sure I eat well. Her pregnancy has passed, her body recovered, but she still carries the gentle weight of motherhood in her presence. Her daughter is her world, and yet, she still watches over me with the same care. She seems proud that Clara looks to me as an older brother of sorts, though I wonder if she sees the differences between us, how I am not like other children.

  Marla, ever composed, lingers nearby, her sharp gaze taking in everything with quiet assessment. She is not as ever-present as she once was—her duties have shifted as I have grown—but she still ensures that all is in order. I wonder, at times, if she is watching more than just the household. Does she see the things I try to hide? Does she suspect that I am more than I seem?

  Isla, however, remains. She always remains.

  After breakfast, I walk on my own to my lessons. It is a small freedom, but an important one. No longer confined to the nursery, I have the run of the estate—within reason. I move through the halls with measured steps, taking in the details I once missed. The placement of paintings, the way servants move, the banners hanging in the grand halls. Every day, I catalog more. I listen to the murmured conversations of passing staff, the shifting of guards at their posts, the subtle movements of those who serve House Larkin. Every detail matters.

  The study where I meet Lord Merrow has become a second home. The lessons are never rushed, never filled with unnecessary flourishes. He teaches with precision, dissecting knowledge with the same efficiency I have seen in master strategists. We no longer focus on basic literacy and arithmetic—those lessons are far behind me. Now, our studies delve into history, politics, and philosophy. The lessons are not just about memorization, but comprehension. I memorize every detail, absorbing not only what is taught but what is left unsaid. There are gaps in the history he presents, omissions that are deliberate. And yet, I do not press—yet.

  Sometimes, he watches me carefully as he speaks, waiting to see if I will question what is missing. I do not. I let him wonder what I do or do not know. He is not just teaching me—he is measuring me.

  I want more than books and discourse. I want training. I want steel in my hands, magic at my command. I have asked Sven about beginning my martial education, but he has been firm—I must wait. I understand his reasoning. A child training with swords is seen as play, a noble amusement. A child training with true intent is something else entirely. But waiting does not mean I am idle. My body is already far stronger than it should be, my muscles honed through quiet, methodical strengthening. And magic—I have not been idle there either. I know how to wield it now, in ways subtle and unseen, ways that do not disturb the wards. If it ever comes to a fight, I am ready. More than anyone suspects.

  Lunch follows, a quiet respite before the afternoons unfold. Some days are spent with my mother, walking the gardens or sitting by the great windows as she reads to me. She takes comfort in those moments, in the illusion that I am still simply a child listening to her voice. On other days, I am with Lena and Clara, where I am expected to engage, to play, to be what I am supposed to be. Clara chatters without end, her thoughts bouncing from subject to subject, unconcerned with the weight of words. I listen, nod, allow myself to be dragged into whatever small adventure she dreams up. Lena watches with quiet amusement, letting her daughter fill the silences I leave behind. I indulge her because I want to, because some part of me enjoys it. Because when she looks at me, she does not see the weight I carry.

  Evenings are different now. Lena takes Clara home before the sun sets, leaving me alone with Isla. No longer does she sleep in my room on a cot tucked in the corner. Instead, she has a small servant’s quarters of her own, just beyond the adjoining door. It is a subtle shift, one that acknowledges both of our roles. She is no longer merely a maid playing the part of a caretaker—she is my shadow, my hidden blade, ever-present but unobtrusive.

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  Each night, as the estate quiets and the world slows, I sit by the window, looking out over the grounds, feeling the weight of expectation settle heavier with each passing day. I am allowed more freedom now, but with freedom comes scrutiny. I am watched more closely than ever, measured not as a child but as something else entirely.

  But today is different. The usual rhythm of the morning is broken before it begins.

  I feel it first—a sense of imbalance, a disruption in the pattern I have grown accustomed to. The absence gnaws at the edges of my awareness before I even fully open my eyes. Something is wrong.

  When Marla enters my chambers with my clothes for the day, her steps lack their usual precision. Her hands shake just slightly as she lays out my attire. The set of her shoulders is tight, her face carefully schooled into neutrality, but I see the weight dragging at her posture, the forced control in the way she smooths the fabric needlessly.

  "Where is Lena?" I ask as she helps me dress.

  She stills, just for a moment, before continuing. "It’s nothing to concern yourself with, young master."

  A dismissive answer. A lie.

  Clara is not here either.

  It is not unusual for Lena to be absent for a day or two—she has taken time before, always with notice, always with assurance that she will return. But today, no one says where she is. No one looks at me when I ask. And Clara—Clara, who should be running into my room the moment she arrives, who should be clinging to my arm, demanding I say her name in that eager, laughing voice—is missing too.

  I finish dressing in silence, my thoughts sharp, threading together each strange detail like a puzzle that refuses to fit.

  I decide to eat breakfast in the dining hall with the estate staff. Marla hesitates when I announce my choice, her mouth pressing into a thin line. "Young master, wouldn’t you prefer—"

  "No."

  She does not stop me.

  When I enter the dining hall, the change in atmosphere is undeniable. Conversations are subdued, movements slower, heavier. Even the clatter of plates and cutlery seems muted. The weight in the air is not grief, not panic—but something close. Something is wrong, and no one wants to say it.

  I take my seat, scanning the room as I eat. The servants are avoiding my gaze. Even those who are usually friendly with Lena or Clara glance away when I meet their eyes. I wait for someone to speak. To explain. To reassure.

  No one does.

  "Where is Lena?" I ask again, my voice steady, clear.

  One of the footmen shifts uncomfortably. "She—she will be back soon, young master. Do not trouble yourself."

  Another lie.

  Something inside me tightens. A slow coil of heat rising from my chest, pressing into my throat. They are lying to me. They think I am too young to understand.

  "And Clara?"

  The answer comes slower this time, as if they are choosing their words carefully. "She’s with her mother. You need not worry."

  It is meant to be comforting. Instead, it fuels the fire.

  Need not worry?

  I tighten my grip on the edge of the table. It is a small thing, a slight shift in my fingers—but the response is immediate. A tremor moves through the servants nearest to me. A ripple of unease.

  And I feel it.

  The rage.

  Not just frustration, not just irritation, but the raw, searing power of fury that has burned through me in past lives. Rage that has shattered kingdoms, crushed empires, brought fire and ruin upon those who stood against me. I feel it building, rising, clawing for control.

  If something has happened—if Clara is hurt, if Lena has been taken because of me—

  The room is silent. A stillness unnatural in its weight. The air thickens, pressing down on the skin of everyone present. They feel it too.

  A spoon clatters against a plate. Someone shifts, a barely audible movement, but it sounds deafening in the hush.

  And then—

  A hand on my shoulder.

  Light. Firm. Grounding. Cool against the fire burning beneath my skin.

  "Calm yourself."

  The voice is quiet, but it slices through my thoughts like a blade. Isla.

  Her fingers tighten, just slightly—a silent warning, an anchor pulling me back from the edge. I take a slow breath, forcing the tension from my hands, pushing the fire down, down, back where it belongs.

  The moment stretches for a heartbeat longer, then the room exhales. The servants return to their work, though their movements are more careful now. They do not look at me.

  I push my chair back with deliberate slowness and rise to my feet. Control. The most important thing in the world. Without another word, I turn and leave the dining hall, Isla falling into step beside me.

  The hallways of the estate feel different now—not quiet, but hollow. The absence of Lena’s warm presence, Clara’s unfiltered joy, gnaws at the edges of my control. I have spent years shaping myself into something composed, something measured, but this—this unknown—is an offense I cannot ignore.

  As we near Alistair’s study, I slow my steps. Isla moves with me, silent, waiting. I glance around, ensuring no one is watching, before turning to her. My chest still feels tight, but I push past it. I lift my chin, steel my voice, and meet her eyes directly.

  I do not ask. I command.

  "Find out what happened," I say, my words deliberate, each syllable weighted with intent. A voice that has led armies, burned cities, ruled worlds.

  "Have the information ready before my lesson ends."

  For the first time, she hesitates. It is brief, but I see it—the flicker of something unreadable in her expression, the way her body tenses before settling again.

  And then, to my surprise, a small smile touches the corner of her lips.

  She bows. "As you wish."

  Then she is gone, vanishing into the corridors like a shadow slipping beyond the edges of the light.

  I square my shoulders, smooth my expression, and push open the doors to my tutor’s study.