The day began ordinarily for Avra.

  The house had settled into its late-morning rhythm: sunlight slanting through the shutters, the low murmur of servants moving about their tasks, the faint scent of bread cooling somewhere out of sight.

  Avra sat near the window with her embroidery, her mind half on the pattern and half on nothing at all—ordinary thoughts, ordinary peace.

  The knock came soft and measured.

  Not the sharp rap of urgency, nor the casual knock of familiarity, but something in between—careful and deliberate.

  Avra looked up at once.

  She rose before the servant could answer, smoothing her hands against her skirt as she crossed the room. When she opened the door, she found her cousin standing just outside the threshold.

  Cassia looked unchanged at first glance: the same pale robes of temple service, their folds immaculate; the same composed posture, shoulders held just so, as if still aware of unseen eyes.

  But Avra had grown up with her. She knew the set of her mouth well enough to see what had tightened.

  Cassia smiled when she saw her. It did not reach her eyes.

  “Avra,” she said softly. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

  “Of course not,” Avra replied automatically, stepping aside. “You’re always welcome.”

  Cassia hesitated—just a fraction—before crossing the threshold. As she did, her gaze flicked briefly down the street, then back to Avra’s face, as if noting who might have seen her arrive.

  That was the first sign.

  Avra closed the door, the sound seeming louder than it should have been.

  They moved into the sitting room. Tea was offered and accepted. Polite words followed, exchanged with the practiced ease of people who had once been close and never entirely stopped being so.

  Cassia asked after Avra’s health. Avra asked after her work. Cassia spoke of temple affairs in the vaguest possible terms—administration, petitions, the weight of duty. Nothing that could be repeated. Nothing that could be questioned.

  That was the second sign.

  Only after the cups were filled and left to steam between them did the conversation shift—not abruptly, but carefully.

  “You’ve been well?” Cassia asked again, quieter this time.

  “Yes,” Avra said. “We all have.”

  A pause.

  “Your husband’s business,” Cassia continued, eyes fixed on the surface of her tea. “It’s stabilized, I hear.”

  “It has,” Avra said. “Slowly. But well enough.”

  Another pause, longer this time.

  “Stability,” Cassia said, almost to herself, “is becoming a valued trait.”

  The first chill settled beneath Avra’s ribs.

  “Things are… moving,” Cassia went on, her voice still mild. “Quickly, in some places.”

  Avra waited. She had learned long ago that interrupting Cassia now would only slow her further.

  “There’s been discussion,” Cassia said, “about clarifying obligations. Between institutions.”

  Avra’s fingers tightened around her cup.

  “Obligations?” she repeated softly.

  Cassia looked up then—really looked at her for the first time since arriving. There was apology there. And something else.

  Warning.

  “The temple will support the crown,” Cassia said. “Publicly.”

  Avra’s breath caught, just slightly.

  Support meant legitimacy. Legitimacy meant reach. And reach—

  “If a household is… uncooperative,” Cassia continued, choosing each word with surgical care, “there will be consequences. Not always immediate. But… instructive.”

  The room felt smaller.

  Avra set her cup down with deliberate calm. Her mind was already racing, assembling implications faster than fear could keep up.

  Formalized obligations. Temple support. Households contributing.

  Contributing what?

  Money could be seized. Goods could be requisitioned. But neither required this level of silence.

  Her gaze lifted slowly. “They’re not talking about coin,” she stated.

  Cassia did not answer. She did not need to.

  Avra’s thoughts slid, inexorably, to the only thing a household could be forced to give that would be both visible and instructive.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  People.

  And not the old. Not the indispensable.

  The young.

  Orestis!

  The realization settled into her chest like cold water, heavy and breath-stealing. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the table before she noticed she’d moved at all.

  “How long?” she asked.

  Cassia’s jaw tightened.

  “Soon enough that I would regret not coming,” she said. “And late enough that I cannot stay.”

  Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.

  “You shouldn’t have come,” Avra said quietly.

  “I know.”

  “Someone might notice.”

  “They will,” Cassia said. “Eventually.”

  Avra met her gaze. “Then why?”

  Cassia held it for a long moment.

  “Because,” she said just as quietly, “you deserve warning. And because after this… I won’t be able to give it.”

  Avra nodded once.

  Cassia did not offer advice, suggest paths, or provide loopholes. She did not say what Avra should do.

  She had done what she came to do.

  They finished their tea in near silence. When Cassia stood to leave, she did not linger. At the door, she paused only long enough to say—

  “Be careful,” she murmured. “All of you.”

  Then she was gone.

  Avra remained where she was for several long moments, staring at the closed door.

  The house resumed its quiet sounds around her.

  Ordinary.

  Peaceful.

  And, she now knew, already beginning to crack.

  After a deep, measuring breath, she went to look for her husband.

  ***

  Orestis was midway through annotating a margin when his mother called for him.

  Not raised or urgent, but deliberate.

  That alone was enough to make him close the book.

  He paused just long enough to mark his place—pure habit—and then stood, already resigned. Whatever this was, it would take longer than he wanted, and interrupt something he’d almost enjoyed.

  When he entered the sitting room, both of his parents were already there.

  His mother stood near the window, hands folded with too much care, as though she’d rehearsed where to put them and hadn’t liked any of the options. His father sat at the table, a ledger closed before him, fingers resting on its cover as though it were the only thing in the room that still obeyed rules.

  They had already spoken, and Orestis recognized the signs immediately.

  Looks like five years without trouble is the new benchmark.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Sit,” his father said.

  Of course; it was tradition to be seated for bad news. Orestis sat.

  His mother did not bother easing into it and simply declared: “You need to leave.”

  The words landed oddly—not as a shock, but as something misaligned, like a sentence that belonged to a different conversation entirely.

  “Leave,” Orestis repeated. “I just got comfortable again. Why?”

  His parents exchanged a glance—not uncertainty, but coordination. That was never a good sign.

  His mother spoke first.

  “My cousin came today,” she said. “Cassia.”

  Orestis resisted the urge to sigh.

  Not because of Cassia herself. She was competent, restrained, and generally tolerable. Her name, however, carried baggage—specifically, irritating memories involving Demerius, a temple, and several things that had gone wrong in the correct order.

  “She didn’t stay long,” his mother continued. “And she was careful in a way that had nothing to do with politeness.” She paused, visibly arranging her thoughts. “The temple is aligning itself with the crown. Publicly. There’s talk of formalizing obligations.”

  Orestis nodded slowly.

  That phrase again.

  “She didn’t say what those obligations were,” his mother went on. “But she warned me that households that appeared… uncooperative would face consequences. Not immediately. But visibly.”

  Orestis narrowed his eyes. A thought stirred at the back of his mind—familiar, unwelcome, just out of reach.

  His father took over without prompting.

  “On my side,” he said, tapping the ledger twice, “merchant exemptions are disappearing. Quietly. No substitutions anymore. No fees. No alternative contributions. The language is being standardized across contracts.”

  Orestis leaned back and closed his eyes.

  Of course it was.

  “They’re formalizing a levy,” he said. “One that can’t be bought off.”

  His parents said nothing; they didn’t need to.

  The last piece slid into place. He remembered leaving—or rather, why he had to leave.

  Not the version he’d told himself later—ambition, curiosity, the restless desire to see the world—but the pressure underneath it. The sense that staying had felt wrong in a way he hadn’t examined too closely at the time.

  He hadn’t forgotten because of trauma; he’d forgotten because it had been long enough that it stopped mattering.

  Until now.

  Back then, he’d dressed it up nicely. Adventure sounded better than fear. Leaving sounded better than waiting.

  The reality was simpler: he’d been running.

  And then he remembered what came after.

  Coming home.

  The house quieter than it should have been. Neighbours careful with their words, suddenly very interested in the weather.

  Learning—slowly, deliberately—that his parents had been taken. Not secretly or violently. But publicly, correctly, through the proper channels.

  Punished for noncompliance. Made an example of.

  He remembered what he had done next: fire, stone, noise; the temple burning; a palace wall collapsing; rage that had felt clean at the time. Simple. Purposeful.

  The memory drained the last trace of levity from the room.

  Orestis opened his eyes. He kept his face neutral, but something inside him settled with quiet certainty: he would not let that happen again.

  “I’m not leaving,” he said.

  His mother stiffened. “Orestis—”

  “I’m not staying either,” he continued calmly. “Not like that.”

  His father studied him for a long moment. “If you refuse outright, they’ll come for you.”

  “And if I leave once it becomes visible,” Orestis said, “they’ll come for you instead. Institutions punish attempts, not outcomes.”

  His father’s expression shifted as understanding clicked into place.

  “They don’t need certainty,” he said. “They need precedent.”

  His mother stepped forward. “That isn’t guaranteed. We have standing now. Resources.”

  “That reduces risk,” Orestis said. “It doesn’t remove it.”

  She exhaled slowly. “Then what do you propose?”

  Orestis leaned back and let his gaze drift to the ledger, the idea settling almost lazily into place: Orthessa.

  His father had mentioned it days ago—trade negotiations, Consortium-backed work, a reason to be abroad that would survive scrutiny. Travel by road took weeks. Which meant—

  “If I’m already in Orthessa when the announcement is made,” Orestis said, “they won’t be able to argue foreknowledge.”

  “That won’t work,” his father said immediately. “Even if you left today, it would still—”

  “Not if I can prove I was there now,” Orestis interrupted.

  “They’ll see through forged proof,” his mother said sharply.

  “The proof won’t be forged.”

  She looked at him. “Then what are you saying?”

  Orestis met their eyes. He had never told them how much he could do; it had never mattered before. Now it did.

  “I can cast teleportation magic,” he said. “I can be there today.”

  Silence.

  Not disbelief—just recalibration.

  His parents had learned, over time, that when Orestis stated something plainly, it was best treated as fact.

  His father recovered first. “That… changes the constraints.”

  “Yes,” Orestis agreed.

  “You’re certain it’s safe?” his mother asked.

  “Yes.”

  She studied his face for a long moment, then nodded once.

  “All right.”

  His father was already planning. “We’ll document your presence. Receipts. Witnesses. Dates.”

  “I’ll make sure there’s no ambiguity,” Orestis said.

  His father leaned back slowly. “That makes your absence coincidence, not evasion.”

  “And coincidence,” Orestis said, “is very hard to punish.”

  Silence settled again—this time not heavy, but deliberate—as the plan took shape between them.

  There was another conclusion he did not voice: anyone willing to turn their attention toward his parents would not be allowed to try twice.

  Distance and protection came first. What followed could wait.

  And this time, the fire would be lit from somewhere they could not reach.