Morning in Inferna did not announce itself.

  There was no bell to mark the hour, no chorus of voices rising with the sun. Light slipped into the courtyard carefully, inch by inch, threading its way between stone walls and tiled roofs as though wary of being noticed. Shadows loosened their hold reluctantly, retreating from corners where the night had pressed them flat. The air carried the last trace of cold, thin and brittle, before warmth settled in its place.

  The courtyard was already awake.

  Anastasia stood at its center, feet planted wide against the stone, wooden sword lifted high above her head. Her grip was firm, knuckles pale with intent, arms locked as if the weapon were an extension of her will rather than a tool that required finesse. She did not test her footing. She did not wait for a signal.

  She charged.

  Her boots struck stone in sharp, eager steps, the sound crisp in the quiet morning. There was no hesitation in her movement, no pause to measure distance or timing. She closed the gap in a heartbeat, body leaning forward as if daring resistance to exist.

  Roland barely had time to react.

  The wooden sword came down in a committed arc—direct, unadorned, full of momentum. Roland lifted his own weapon on instinct, catching the blow with a solid block. The impact rang out across the courtyard, wood striking wood with a dry crack that echoed once before the walls swallowed it.

  The force drove him back.

  Not far. Just enough.

  Enough that his heel slid half an inch across the stone. Enough that his shoulders tensed, breath tightening before he noticed it had. Enough that his jaw clenched out of habit rather than pain.

  Anastasia didn’t slow.

  She surged forward again, sword already rising, enthusiasm carrying her through the opening she’d created. She didn’t look to see how he’d fared. She didn’t wait for acknowledgment.

  Roland steadied himself.

  Only then did his expression shift.

  The tightness in his face eased—not fully, not all at once—but enough to soften the line of his mouth. His teeth remained clenched, yet something lighter crept in around them. When he inhaled, it wasn’t sharp or shallow. His eyes stayed on Anastasia, alert but no longer strained.

  “Don’t you know it’s reckless to charge like that?” he said.

  His voice was even. Controlled. It didn’t carry accusation—only observation.

  Anastasia’s grin widened immediately.

  “Oh yeah?” she shot back. “Then stay right there!”

  She charged again.

  This time, Roland didn’t meet her head-on.

  He waited.

  Not long. Just long enough.

  The space between them stretched, thinned, then compressed as Anastasia closed the distance. Roland’s stance shifted almost imperceptibly. His weight settled. His grip adjusted. He didn’t rush to answer her force with his own.

  Anastasia gave him everything.

  She was fast—faster than most people her age had any right to be. Her swings were strong, fueled by momentum and confidence rather than restraint. But in her eagerness, small things gave her away. Her shoulders rose too high before each strike. Her weight leaned too heavily onto her lead foot. Her grip tightened a fraction too early.

  Things Roland hadn’t noticed before.

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  Things that only revealed themselves when he stopped reacting and started watching.

  She brought her sword down again, another decisive strike.

  Roland stepped to the right.

  The movement was simple. Clean. He pivoted just enough to slip past the arc of her blade, raising his own weapon in response. He didn’t aim to punish. He didn’t aim to dominate.

  He aimed to tap.

  Just enough to mark the opening.

  Just enough to make the point.

  But Anastasia moved.

  She pivoted with reckless speed, body twisting hard on instinct alone. Roland realized too late what was happening. His arm was already committed, swing too far along to stop. There was no space to pull back, no time to soften the blow.

  The wood struck the side of her head with a solid, unmistakable thud.

  Roland’s breath caught.

  At the same moment, Anastasia’s sword connected with his cheek. The impact snapped his head sideways, the force far heavier than he expected. His footing broke completely, balance vanishing as he stumbled backward and hit the stone hard.

  The world tilted.

  Sound dulled, then rushed back all at once.

  Roland lay on his back, staring up at the sky, blinking as he tried to gather himself. The light felt too bright. The stone beneath him was colder than he remembered.

  Anastasia loomed into view.

  She rested her sword casually on her shoulder, chest rising and falling with exhilaration rather than strain.

  “Ha!” she declared. “I win!”

  Roland groaned and pushed himself up onto his elbows. His cheek throbbed dully—not sharp pain, but something deeper, more disorienting. He stared at her, eyes narrowing slightly as he replayed the moment in his head.

  He was sure of what he’d felt.

  That should have hurt her.

  Anastasia extended her free hand toward him, fingers open, expression bright and utterly unbothered.

  “Come on,” she said. “One more round!”

  Roland hesitated, then took her hand. She hauled him upright with more strength than he’d expected, laughing as if nothing unusual had happened at all. He steadied himself, rubbing his cheek with the back of his knuckles.

  “How did you—ow—do that?” he asked.

  “Do what?” Anastasia tilted her head.

  “I hit you,” he said. “I hit you properly. Even if it was an accident… that should’ve hurt.”

  “Nope.” She raised her right palm and held it out toward him. “Here. Swing as hard as you can.”

  Roland stared at her.

  “Are you crazy?”

  She giggled. “Just do it.”

  He didn’t understand what she was trying to prove. But her confidence was unshakable, her expectation absolute. If she really believed she could take it—if she wanted proof—then he supposed he could oblige.

  He adjusted his grip and swung.

  Not as hard as he could.

  Still hard enough.

  He closed his eyes without realizing it, bracing for the sound of her cry, for the familiar weight that always followed hurting someone else.

  The crack of wood echoed across the courtyard.

  Roland waited.

  Seconds passed.

  Nothing.

  He opened his eyes.

  Anastasia was still standing there, palm outstretched, smiling as if the impact had barely registered.

  “…Sorry to burst your bubble,” she said, dragging out the pause deliberately, “but I was born with a Sigil. I’m super duper tough!”

  Roland stared at her.

  The words took a moment to settle.

  “What?” he said finally.

  “That’s not—”

  “Fair?” she finished cheerfully. “I know! I’m the only person in all of Arcadia who was born with one.”

  She puffed out her chest. “That means I’m special. I must have a great purpose!”

  Roland opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

  “Wh—what else can you do?” he asked.

  She paused, thinking.

  “…That’s it.”

  He blinked.

  “That’s it?”

  “Yup!” she said brightly. “I’m just super tough.”

  Silence stretched.

  Roland didn’t realize he’d spoken until the words were already out.

  “How can you say you’re special when you’re basically just a moving punching bag?”

  Anastasia gasped, scandalized.

  “You’re the punching bag!”

  Their argument collapsed into overlapping protests and shouted retorts, voices rising and falling in familiar, ridiculous rhythms.

  Across the courtyard, Soliana sat on a stone bench and watched.

  She didn’t follow their words. They blurred together, sound without shape. Her attention stayed on movement instead—how Roland recovered quickly, how he didn’t hesitate before stepping back into range, how he didn’t glance toward the walls or the ground between exchanges.

  He didn’t look like he was bracing.

  Beside her, Flora sat down quietly.

  “Why don’t you go talk to them?” she asked.

  Soliana startled. “D—do I need to?”

  Flora didn’t answer right away.

  She followed Soliana’s gaze to the courtyard, watching the two children argue, laugh, circle each other again without urgency. Something in her expression shifted—subtle, thoughtful.

  Then she turned back to Soliana and gently drew her closer, fingers brushing through her hair.

  “No,” she said softly. “No, you don’t have to.”

  Soliana leaned into the touch without thinking, eyes drifting back to the courtyard.

  Above them, at a high window overlooking the stone, Carmilla paused.

  She stood still, black hair falling straight down her back, formal attire immaculate. Her gaze rested on the scene below—on the laughter, the careless swings, the brief slice of morning that belonged entirely to those in the courtyard.

  She did not speak.

  Leon stepped beside her.

  “Is there something, Lady Carmilla?” he asked.

  She remained silent, watching.

  After a moment, Leon leaned closer, voice lowered.

  “Why don’t you,” he murmured, “and our guests go meet the Prince?”

  Carmilla considered.

  Her eyes lingered on the courtyard a heartbeat longer.

  Then she turned.

  “Well,” she said calmly, “that depends on what the guests think. Miss Elaine, would you like to meet my little brother?”