I cannot focus.

  The words in my book blur, swimming before my eyes as I stare blankly at the page. The ink smudges together, twisting into meaningless symbols. I shift in my chair, adjusting my posture, willing myself to concentrate, but it does nothing to clear the fog in my mind.

  Alistair is watching me.

  He always watches, his sharp, intelligent eyes barely visible beneath the thick curls of fur that hang over his face. His floppy ears twitch slightly, betraying his irritation. The faint scratching of his claws against the wood of the desk fills the silence, his fingers tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm. His muzzle tightens, and I can see the small shift in his expression that means he is holding back a sigh.

  He is waiting for the moment I slip, waiting to see if my mind is elsewhere.

  It is.

  “Focus, young lord,” he says, irritation sharpening his tone, his deep voice carrying a subtle growl.

  I inhale sharply through my nose, forcing myself to sit straighter. I try—truly try—to force my mind back to the lesson, to ground myself in the present, but my thoughts are tangled, pulled in too many directions at once. My chest feels tight, a slow, pressing weight coiling inside me like a knot wound too tight.

  “Again.” Alistair’s voice is clipped, demanding. “Summarize the last passage.”

  I stare at the open book, at the words that refuse to settle into meaning. I know I should speak. I should pull together something, anything, to appease him. But I don’t.

  I remain silent.

  Alistair exhales through his nose, slow and measured, his ears flicking slightly, but I sense the edge beneath it, the fraying patience.

  With a swift motion, he snaps the book shut, the sound cracking through the room like a whip.

  “Enough,” Alistair snaps, his voice carrying the weight of command. His large hands rest on the desk, claws tapping against the wood as he studies me, his head tilting slightly. His gaze, though mostly hidden beneath the thick fur over his eyes, is piercing as if he can pull the answer from my silence alone. “Go.”

  I blink, caught off guard.

  “Go,” he repeats, gesturing toward the door with a flick of his clawed fingers. “Whatever is gnawing at you will not loosen its grip until you face it. You will learn nothing here until you do.”

  For a heartbeat, I hesitate. The rational part of me tells me to stay, to control myself, to suppress the gnawing anxiety clawing at my insides. But the burning in my chest, the raw frustration, the unknown—

  I do not need to be told twice.

  I push back my chair, rising swiftly. My footsteps are controlled, measured—but I am already moving before I’ve fully registered the action.

  I bolt from the room.

  Isla is waiting outside.

  She is not dressed as a maid anymore. Gone is the crisp uniform, the carefully maintained image of quiet servitude. Instead, she wears dark, fitted clothing—soft, seamless fabric designed for movement. The outfit is tight where it needs to be, loose where it allows flexibility, reinforced with subtle padding in key areas. The difference is stark, not just in appearance but in presence. The deference she once carried in her posture is gone, replaced by something sharper, more dangerous.

  She moves differently now.

  Before, she was graceful, every movement measured, deliberate, efficient. Now, she is liquid, a shadow given form. Her steps make no sound against the polished floors. When she pivots slightly to glance down the hall, it is not with the cautious awareness of a maid but with the sweeping, calculated precision of a predator surveying its territory.

  I do not slow.

  “Report,” I command.

  She falls into step beside me without hesitation, her movements fluid, effortless, as if she is weightless. "Lena was attacked last night on her way home."

  The words slice through me like a blade. I force myself to keep walking.

  “The attackers were after Clara,” she continues, her voice level, smooth as silk. “Lena shielded her, took the blows meant for the child.”

  My jaw tightens. My hands curl into fists. I keep my breathing steady, controlled, but inside, a storm brews.

  “The city guard arrived, but the assailants fled before they could be captured. Lena and Clara are alive. They are being treated in the estate infirmary.”

  A pause. I stop in the middle of the hall for a moment, my pulse thundering in my ears.

  I breathe in slowly through my nose. Exhale. I cannot afford to lose control. Not yet.

  “Take me to them.”

  Isla does not hesitate. She pivots with a smooth, dancer-like motion, leading the way. She glides more than walks, ghosting through the halls, weaving between servants with an elegance that borders on unnatural.

  No hesitation. No wasted movement.

  And not a single person questions it.

  The halls feel suffocating as I move through them, each step measured, my mind racing ahead to what I will find. My breath is steady, controlled, but inside, something dark and furious simmers just beneath the surface. I hear footsteps behind me—two guards falling into place without a word. They know. They understand.

  As we near the infirmary, a figure steps in front of me.

  Captain Valcroft.

  His armor gleams under the hallway’s dim lighting, polished and pristine, a stark contrast to the weight in my chest. His stance is solid, immovable, like a wall designed to stop an advancing force. His dark eyes flicker with something—concern? Uncertainty? It is gone in an instant, replaced by duty. His voice is firm, the voice of a man accustomed to being obeyed.

  “Young master, you should return to your chambers. This is a matter for the adults.”

  I stop.

  The air shifts.

  The guards behind me tense, waiting. Even Isla halts beside me, a living shadow, watching with unreadable eyes.

  Valcroft’s gaze flickers past me, landing on Isla. I don’t need to see his reaction to know what he’s thinking. Isla, dressed in dark clothing built for speed and precision, looks nothing like the quiet, obedient maid she was before. She stands at ease, but there is tension in her body, the kind only a trained killer holds before striking. His lips press together, his instincts warring with his reason.

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  He realizes he has missed something.

  I step forward, tilting my chin slightly as I meet Valcroft’s gaze head-on. “Who are you loyal to, Captain?”

  The question lands like a hammer. Valcroft blinks, his brows knitting together. “To House Larkin. To the Archduke.” His words are steady, but I hear the slight shift in his tone, the faint trace of unease. He is trying to assert control over the situation, to remind me of my place.

  It is a mistake.

  I take another step forward, letting my voice drop into something quieter, sharper. “And who am I?”

  Valcroft’s breath catches. His lips part, but no words come.

  I do not give him time to think. “Where is the Archduke? Where is the Archduchess?”

  I watch realization dawn in his eyes, creeping slow, reluctant. My parents are away at the capital. The estate is managed by Havish and Marla. The guards are commanded by Valcroft. But in my father’s absence, as the named heir of House Larkin—my word is absolute.

  Valcroft swallows, shifting his weight. He knows this truth. He does not want to acknowledge it.

  I do not blink. I do not look away. Instead, I let the weight of my past lives settle into my voice, threading authority into every syllable, shaping them like a blade. I have spoken as a general commanding armies, as an emperor sealing a subject’s fate, as a warlord carving dominion over broken lands.

  “Step aside.”

  I let the words resonate, infusing them with something deeper, something older than this life. My voice is not loud, not angry, but it carries. It burrows into the mind, filling the space between logic and instinct, pressing down like an unseen hand.

  Valcroft hesitates.

  A flicker of doubt flashes in his eyes, his breath catching for just a moment. He sways, as if some deep instinct urges him to kneel, to submit.

  But he does not. Instead, he exhales, straightening his shoulders, his pride warring with the command woven into my voice. He tries to push against it, but I see the moment it becomes too much. His body betrays him.

  He steps aside.

  The motion is stiff, reluctant, but undeniable.

  I do not acknowledge it. I do not thank him. I walk past him without a glance, Isla trailing behind me, silent and knowing.

  The scent of antiseptic and blood clings to the air as I step into the infirmary. The heavy, sterile tang does nothing to mask the metallic bite of fresh wounds, nor the sickly, cloying scent of sweat and pain.

  Lena lies on the bed, her body wrapped in bandages already saturated with blood. Her skin is far too pale, lips nearly colorless, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Deep gashes mar her arms and legs, some still oozing sluggishly where the bandages can no longer keep up. Her left arm is grotesquely twisted, bent at a sickening angle, the limb swollen and bruised. Her right hand, the one not broken, is limp on the sheets, fingers curled slightly, as if reaching for something she can no longer hold.

  She does not stir.

  Clara is awake.

  She clings to her mother’s unresponsive form, tiny fingers gripping Lena’s bloodied sleeve as if letting go would make everything worse. Her body shakes with every uneven breath, her little face blotchy from crying, tears still streaking down her cheeks. She is hiccupping, sucking in desperate gasps of air, unable to catch her breath between sobs.

  "Mama," she whimpers, her voice hoarse and broken. "Wake up, Mama."

  The sound of it claws at something deep in my chest. I take in the scene, absorbing every detail, every weakness, every failing.

  I do not hesitate.

  I pivot to Valcroft, my finger cutting through the air as I point directly at him. “You. Coordinate with the city guard. Find out who did this and why.”

  Valcroft straightens, mouth opening as if to respond, but I do not wait for an answer. I am already moving.

  I turn sharply, locking eyes with one of the guards that had been following me. “You. Wake a runner. Send them to the temple. Fetch their best healer. They are to be here immediately.”

  The guard blinks, startled by the speed of my command, but he nods and bolts from the room.

  The doors to the infirmary burst open again, Havish bustling in, Marla on his heels. Both of them are breathing harder than usual, clearly having rushed here the moment they heard where I had gone. Their eyes sweep over me, then over Clara’s trembling form, then to Lena’s broken body. Their expressions tighten, but neither speaks first.

  I turn to Havish, my voice sharp as a blade. “Fetch an emergency contact scroll. Use it. Inform my father at once. Go.”

  Havish hesitates for only the briefest moment, then bows his head. “At once, young master.” He pivots on his heel and strides from the room, his urgency barely restrained.

  I do not stop. I turn to the last of the guards. “No one enters the estate unless I approve it. Any outsiders currently on the grounds are to be confined to their rooms or escorted out immediately. Inform the rest at once.”

  The room moves.

  Clara has not moved from Lena’s bedside. Her small hands grip her mother’s limp fingers, her shoulders shaking as she hiccups through uneven sobs. Her breath comes in little gasps, her tiny fingers curled tightly in Lena’s bandages as if holding on will somehow keep her mother from slipping away.

  I kneel beside her, lowering myself slowly. “Clara.”

  She does not react, does not look at me. Her world is reduced to the stillness of her mother, the bruises and bandages, the quiet words of the healers murmuring over Lena’s body.

  I reach out, placing my hand gently over hers. “Come here, Clara.”

  Her grip tightens. A sharp inhale, a stuttered sob. “Mama won’t wake up.”

  There is nothing I can say to that. Not yet.

  I peel her fingers from Lena’s arm with care, feeling how tightly she has wound herself into her mother’s presence. “Come here,” I repeat, softer this time.

  Slowly, hesitantly, she lets go. I lift her into my arms. She is light, but her weight presses against me like the full burden of grief itself. She clings to me, small arms wrapping around my neck, her body still trembling.

  Marla steps forward then, her face pale. “Young master! You shouldn’t—”

  She stops.

  The estate is listening to me. The staff. The guards. All of them. They have already obeyed my commands, moved according to my word.

  Marla had watched it happen. Yet still, she sees me as the boy she has helped raise, the boy she dressed, the child she watched over. She is looking at me now as if she expects me to be that same boy.

  I turn my gaze to her, measured, firm. She hesitates.

  “Marla.” My voice is softer now, gentler, but no less resolute. “Bring warm milk with honey for Clara. A little fruit. Some soft bread. And calming tea.”

  Marla stiffens slightly. For a moment, she looks ready to protest again, to take back some measure of control, to remind me that I am still a child.

  Then she exhales. A slow, careful breath. Something shifts in her eyes.

  She bows her head. “At once, young master.”

  To everyone’s shock, I carry Clara from the room.

  She is three. I am five. We are nearly the same size.

  But I carry her anyway.

  No one dares stop me.

  Not the guards.

  Not Marla.

  Not even the healers.

  Isla follows, silent as a shadow.

  Clara sleeps now, nestled in Marla’s lap in my chambers. The quiet does nothing to settle the storm within me.

  It had taken time to soothe her. Marla, despite her usual strict nature, had softened, gently running her fingers through Clara’s tangled hair, humming a quiet lullaby under her breath. I had held Clara’s tiny hand, murmuring reassurances, letting my voice remain steady even as fury churned beneath my skin. The warm milk with honey had done its work, the sweet fruit coaxing her into little bites between sniffles. Each moment had been carefully measured, each action deliberate, guiding her down from her fear, from the gut-wrenching sobs into exhaustion.

  Marla, for all her discipline, had let herself care tonight. I had seen it in the way her arms curled around Clara just a little tighter, how she rocked her gently when the little girl stirred, whispering soft comforts she never would have spoken to an adult. She had abandoned the strict posture of a head maid, for a time letting herself be nothing more than a woman holding a child in need.

  Now, Clara is still, her breathing slow and even, her little hands curled into Marla’s apron.

  Marla meets my eyes, her expression hesitant, as if unsure of what to say, unsure of how to place me in this moment. She had spent years overseeing my care, watching me grow, dressing me, correcting my posture, my manners. And now, she had seen the entire household obey me without question. I am no longer just the boy she fussed over—I am something else now.

  She looks at me for a long moment, then nods. She does not bow. Not this time. But the understanding passes between us, wordless and unshakable.

  I rise from my seat beside them, the warmth of Clara’s small fingers lingering against my palm as I gently let go.

  I step into the hallway. The air is colder here, the distant hum of the estate muffled by the weight of what I am about to do.

  Isla is waiting.

  She stands just beyond the doorframe, arms crossed, expression unreadable in the dim light. There is no expectation in her gaze, no question of hesitation. She knows what comes next.

  I take a breath, steadying myself. I roll my shoulders, feeling the tension settle into something sharp, something clear. The path before me is set. I cannot turn from it now.

  I meet her eyes.

  “Find them. End them.”

  Isla stiffens, but only for a heartbeat. Then, for the first time, she kneels.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  She rises, turning to leave, already vanishing into the quiet of the corridors.

  I speak again.

  “And Isla?”

  She pauses, glancing back over her shoulder.

  I let the words fall like iron. “Make it slow.”

  A slow smile spreads across her lips before she disappears into the night.