The knock comes at a strange hour.

  A strange knock. Not a servant's rap. Not the timid tap of uncertainty.

  I blink awake, pulling in a breath thick with the last of the fire’s warmth. The light filtering through the curtains is barely silver, too early for breakfast, too late for night.

  The knock sounds again. Two short, one long. Familiar. Deliberate.

  Havish.

  I sit up too quickly and regret it instantly—my limbs tangle, my feet catch in the bedding. I still don’t move like I want to. No matter how many lives I’ve lived, a child's small, light, and awkward body remains unfamiliar. The proportions are always the hardest part.

  Every time I am reborn, it’s like reforging a favorite sword from new steel. The balance is wrong at first. The weight, the draw, the reach, it all needs adjusting. I train, I condition, I reinforce with magic where I can. But even with all of that, I am still just five.

  And five-year-old legs do not swing elegantly out of bed.

  I manage to stand without stumbling. Just barely.

  “Enter,” I call, voice still thick with sleep.

  The door opens smoothly, without creak or hesitation. Of course. Havish steps inside, immaculate in his tailored cloth, gloved hands clasped behind his back. His eyes sweep the room, not in suspicion, but in the way a man surveys a battlefield. His face remains unreadable, but his stance bears a weight that wasn’t there before.

  “Young master,” he says, voice perfectly level and a precise bow of his head. “The Archduke summons you to the council chamber. At once.”

  I blink again, slower this time.

  Not a request. A summons.

  That’s… new.

  That draws the last of the fog from my mind.

  “Understood. Did something happen?” I ask, already moving to the basin.

  Havish inclines his head but doesn’t elaborate. “You’ll be informed when appropriate.”

  That’s all he says.

  Havish lingers, which is unusual. Normally, a message would be delivered, and he would leave. But this time, he stands just inside the door, not watching me, waiting.

  That’s how I know this matters.

  I splash cold water on my face, letting the chill bite into my skin. It helps. Not enough, but it helps. The clarity settles in like a second breath.

  “Will I be expected to speak?” I ask, quietly.

  A pause. Then, just as quietly, he answers. “It would be wise to be ready.”

  I nod. That’s enough.

  Isla is already moving. I hadn’t noticed her slip in, but now she’s laying out my morning coat and brushing the fine fabric smooth with practiced ease, comb and boots at the ready. She’s still technically my maid, though no one truly believes that’s all she is anymore.

  I dry my face and step toward her.

  “How early is it?” I ask.

  She glances at the window, then back at me. “Too early for tea. Just right for trouble.”

  “You didn’t draw a bath,” I say.

  “You won’t need one,” she replies. “Just your hair and boots.”

  There’s a twitch at the corner of my mouth, but I don’t let it turn into a smile. She steps behind me and begins combing my hair—quick, practiced strokes, neither rough nor tender. Her fingers are quick and efficient, not overly gentle, but not rough either.

  She finishes with the comb and pulls the coat over my shoulders. I tug at it, the fabric heavier than I remember. My fingers twitch to adjust it, but the buttons are small, stubborn. I once gripped the reins of empires, now I fumble with silk and thread. I manage, but the irritation lingers; child bodies, no matter how conditioned, never respond just right. The collar is slightly too stiff; I try to adjust it, but it still doesn’t sit right. Everything feels a little too big and too small at the same time.

  “Sharp,” she murmurs, giving the crease tug and bend, causing the fabric to relax just enough. “But not stiff.”

  “Thank you.”

  She finishes adjusting my sleeve, then crouches to help with my boots. “It’s expected,” she whispers without looking up. “We all play our parts.”

  “Yes,” I murmur back. “But we can still shape our roles.”

  I see her eyes flick up then. Just for a moment. Something passes behind them. Then its gone.

  “Besides,” I return my tone to normal levels. "It is still polite to thank someone, even if it was an expected thing they did."

  She nods once, then steps back brushing off her skirt as I pull my boots the rest of the way on and adjust my cuffs.

  Tightening the belt at my waist, I miss the press of a dagger I wore once under a tunic. That life I had felt under constant threat, and every life after I have kept some weapon on me. If Captain Valcroft can convince Father to allow my martial training to begin, perhaps I can start to carry in this life as well.

  I turn to Havish.

  “I’m ready.”

  He bows. “This way, young master.”

  We leave my chambers in silence, the stone floor cool beneath my boots. The estate feels half-asleep, the light outside still a soft silver, the windows painted in the color of almost-morning. A few servants move like whispers in the distance. Somewhere, a door clicks shut, followed by the clink of glass.

  Havish does not glance at me, but I feel him watching all the same. Calculating, as always. I wonder if he’s wondering whether I will rise to this moment—or if I already have.

  Isla walks behind me without a word, the soft fall of her boots barely audible on the polished stone. When we reach the doors to the council chamber, she steps into position without being told. Right side. Hands folded in front, eyes forward. Unmoving.

  The door is thick, oak and brass, muffling the voices within. But tension seeps through the crack. Words half-heard. The weight of waiting. Anticipation coils tight, even though none of it is meant for me. Not yet. But when Havish’s hand finds the latch, I brace myself anyway. I’ve stepped through doors like this before. The outcomes were never small.

  Havish opens the door.

  Warm lamplight spills out, along with the low murmur of voices. I can already make out the tone, measured, but sharp. Controlled tension. Anticipation.

  I draw a slow breath, straighten my coat, and step inside.

  The council chamber is warmer than I expect, the high windows half-fogged from the morning chill. Firelight warmth doesn't touch the corners. The lamps burn low, the morning sun casting slanting beams through the narrow windows high above. Dust motes swirl in the light, settling like faint embers. A long, polished table stretches the length of the room, the heartwood gleaming with oil and age.

  Sven sits at the head.

  His presence commands without effort. The Archduke of the Eastern Reach needs no grand gesture to hold a room. He is dressed in his house colors—deep charcoal with silver clasps—no formal cloak, just the steel-cut poise of a ruler at home in his own domain.

  To his right sits Captain Valcroft, the head of the estate guard. His uniform is severe, black with silver trim, the sword at his side polished to a mirror sheen. Beside him, a row of his lieutenants and aides watch with similar military bearing. They don’t speak, but they don’t need to. Their presence alone is a statement.

  On Sven’s left is the master of the city watch named Garin, a broad-shouldered man with a graying beard and the stern eyes of someone who has seen too many crimes and prevented too few. A few watch captains sit alongside him, their expressions wary, leather insignias gleaming. Further down, a city council member I don’t recognize watches with thinly veiled curiosity, his aide perched beside him, already noting something down. Civil authority and military strength rarely sit comfortably at the same table.

  And at the foot of it all — an empty chair.

  Mine.

  The murmur of conversation halts the moment I enter. Heads turn. Eyes sharpen. I feel the weight of their attention press against me, heavy and expectant. No one bows. There’s no deference here — not yet. Just observation. Measurement.

  I keep my steps even as I walk to the chair. I’m careful not to hurry. Rushing would betray nervousness. Moving too slowly would read as hesitation. Steady. Deliberate. That is what this demands.

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  The chair looms before me, unassuming but far too large. Crafted from heavy darkwood, its carved back rises high, easily three times my height. The seat is broad, meant for a grown man. Moving it would be impossible without revealing strength no five year old should have. I could ask Havish to lift me into it. No one would fault me for that. But I won’t. Not here. Not with so many eyes.

  Gripping the smooth arm of the chair, I plant one foot against the frame, and climb. The action is fluid, practiced. The carved edge of the back bites into my palms as I swing one leg over the arm, then the other. My shoes scuff against the wood. There is no elegance in it, but I make no attempt to mask what I am doing. I can’t pretend I am their equal in size, but I will not be diminished. I reach the seat and rise, standing carefully. Sitting would place me too low, my chin barely above the table’s edge. This way, I can meet their gazes without craning my neck.

  The room remains silent.

  I meet my father’s gaze, careful and steady. His eyes give away nothing. Not approval. Not doubt. Just the watchful patience of a man who has already set the board.

  I wait. Just a moment. Not long enough to be mistaken for uncertainty — only long enough to make them wonder. Then I incline my head, a small, deliberate bow.

  “I came as requested,” I say, my voice even.

  Sven does not respond right away.

  His gaze rests on me, steady and unreadable. Behind that calm facade, he is weighing something. I see the twitch at the corner of his mouth he tries to hide. Then, finally, he nods.

  “Thank you, Aurelius.” he says simply.

  He turns away, the moment passing as smoothly as it came. The Archduke clasps his hands on the table in front of him and leans forward before addressing the room.

  “The recent events have been a reminder,” Sven begins, his voice low and steady. Those seated about the table shift slightly, some leaning forward, others maintaining their stiff composure. The Archduke had signaled the start of official business and they all adjusted. “A reminder of the burdens we bear. We are not only the shield of this house, but the safeguard of the city and its people.”

  Valcroft dips his head in acknowledgment. The city watch captain remains still, though I catch the faint shift in his jaw — respect, though cautiously given.

  “I would like to commend the estate guard for their swift and decisive response,” Sven continues. “Captain Valcroft, your men acted without hesitation. Because of them, lives were saved, and justice was dealt without chaos spilling further into the streets.”

  A murmur of approval passes down the table. The lieutenants sit straighter. Valcroft accepts the praise without flourish, his only response a firm nod.

  “And to the city watch,” Sven says, shifting his focus, “I extend my gratitude. You did not merely react — you pursued. The capture and dismantling of the remaining cells of the trafficking ring is a victory for the people of this city. Your diligence in the days that followed has not gone unnoticed.”

  The council member clears his throat, his expression tinged with measured satisfaction. Watch Master Garin’s shoulders ease slightly, though he remains cautious — likely wondering what will follow such praise. A ripple moves through the watch captains. Satisfaction. Pride.

  Sven lets the approval settle. Then, after a pause, he speaks again.

  “But it is not enough to respond well. The safety of this city cannot rest solely on swift reaction. We must anticipate. Prepare. Ensure that when threats rise, we are not caught unready.”

  A ripple moves through the room, not yet protest, but the prelude to it. I can feel it. Tension coiling. Suspicion sharpening. They expect an accusation perhaps, a critique of what could have been done better.

  “Today,” my father continues, “House Larkin renews its commitment to the safety of this city, its people, and Dukedom of Larkin as a whole. As we look forward, we must also adapt.”

  The weight in his voice changes. I see a few blink, mentally readjusting. Anticipation coils through the chamber. I see the shift in Valcroft’s shoulders, the slight narrowing of Garin’s eyes.

  “That is why,” Sven continues, “I am establishing a new position within our command.”

  A murmur begins. Low. Curious.

  He leans forward, splaying his hands flat on the table. His words are deliberate, weighted.

  “A city defense and safety planner. One whose sole purpose will be to analyze weaknesses, prepare strategies, and coordinate efforts between estate and city.” I glance about, Valcroft and his men seem tense and unsure. Many of the estate guard come from military service, either in the Dukedom or the Imperial Army. Discipline is in their bones, and Valcroft will have it no other way. Watch Master Garin’s face is contorted as if tasting something bitter. City Watch personal may be professional and courteous during their work, but have a reputation for being rough company when out of uniform. A potential culture clash, depending on who is appointed, though I am most worried by the gleam in the city councilman’s eye. Power or profit, he obviously sees personal gain opportunities. I make a mental note to find out his name.

  “This is not a title for ceremony.” I chuckle just a hair under my breath as the councilman deflates just a bit. “It is a responsibility. And I have chosen who will bear it.”

  The air tightens.

  Even before the words leave his lips, they all sense it. The shift. The moment that changes everything.

  “I hereby appoint Aurelius Larkin to the position.”

  The room detonates. Voices clash. Indignation spills like a storm.

  A chorus of voices rises, protest layered over confusion. Valcroft’s brow furrows deeply, though he does not immediately speak. Garin is the first to object, his thick arms folding across his chest as he leans forward.

  “Your Grace, the boy is five.” His voice is rough. “You cannot be serious.”

  “This is not a ceremonial title?” Another voice. One of the watch captains, his eyes narrow.

  “A child cannot oversee defense strategies,” someone else adds. “There are years of experience required.”

  The council member at the far end raises a hand as if to speak, but the protests rise louder, overlapping, clashing. Some stand, others remain seated but agitated. Valcroft exchanges a sharp glance with Sven, but my father remains motionless, letting the dissent unfold.

  Sven doesn’t interrupt.

  He doesn’t slam his hand against the table or call for silence. No. He waits.

  And then I understand.

  He is not the one who will silence them.

  This is my appointment. My authority. I was not warned or prepared for this, as a test to see if my ability to command during the crisis was a fluke or if I am indeed ready.

  He’s waiting for me to claim it.

  My hands curl into fists at my sides. Not from fear. Not from anger. From certainty. Sven has given me a chance and I will not waste it.

  I lift my chin, meeting the eyes that glare and question.

  I breathe once, steadying the spark that hums beneath my skin.

  And then — without hesitation — I climb.

  The heel of my boot meets the edge of the table.

  One foot, then the other, until I stand not on the chair, but upon the polished wood itself. I stand tall, the room spread out beneath me.

  The protests falter.

  The voices dim.

  “Enough.”

  I don’t shout. I don’t need to. My voice is calm, clear, and certain. And when I speak again, no one dares to interrupt.

  “You question the choice my father has made,” I say, my voice steady. “But I am here. And I will answer.”

  The room is frozen, the council’s eyes fixed on me. The tension that had roiled through the chamber still clings to the air — thick, bristling. But I hold steady.

  I let the silence linger.

  A ruler once taught me the power of a pause. How a heartbeat held too long could crush dissent better than a thousand words. I wield that lesson now. Let them wait. Let their own uncertainty gnaw at them.

  Feeding some mana into the air, using a technique I learned many lives ago, I press on the senses of all in the room. The atmosphere thickens, the air growing heavier as an unnatural stillness spreads. I see it in the flicker of unease across the council member’s face, the brief stiffening of a lieutenant’s shoulders. Valcroft's eyes narrow, his jaw tightening, though he does not flinch. The sensation is subtle, but undeniable, a weight that demands their attention. Let them feel the weight of the silence. My hands remain at my sides, fingers loose, steady. I meet their gazes one by one, unmoving. Valcroft’s eyes are narrowed, his jaw set. The council member stiffens, fingers curled against the table’s edge. The city watch captain scowls, his disbelief barely masked.

  I see doubt. Suspicion. Even anger. But none of them speak. Not now.

  I draw a breath. Then I begin.

  “You call me a child,” I say, my voice even. “And you are right.”

  The admission pulls a ripple of discomfort through the room. Some shift in their seats. Others exchange uncertain glances.

  “I am five years old,” I continue, stepping forward down the length of the table. Each foot fall I infuse with a touch of energy, hardening the sole of my boots. The sharp click of each steps echo about the hall, and I see some postures tighten. The city council member’s aide visibly twitches at each sound. Good. “Too young, you say, to bear responsibility. Too small to be trusted with the safety of a city. You see the years I lack and measure my worth by them.”

  My gaze flicks toward Valcroft. He doesn’t flinch.

  “My father values wise council, and so will I. But I don’t hear wisdom now.” I sharpen the edge of my voice, let a hidden threat ride the sound of the words into their minds. “Either you think the Archduke is blind, or stupid.” Now they are mad, I can see. I can see the very subtle shift as Valcroft prepares to interrupt, and the even subtler shift of Sven lightly tapping the table with a finger. Just once, but Valcroft stills in his seat.

  “My father does not act on whim,” I say, lifting my chin. “Do you think he does not know my age? My abilities? My father knows me better than all of you combined.” I pivot in a half circle, having reached the center of the table. “He would not place the safety of this city in uncertain hands. You think he does this to indulge me? To give a child a title for vanity? No. He does this because the threats we face will not wait until I am older. The enemies that grow bolder with every step we delay — they are not concerned with my age.”

  I pause, letting my words settle.

  Valcroft’s eyes narrow, but he listens. So do the others. I see the councilman stiffen, uncertain. The watch captain’s scowl remains, though there is a flicker of thought behind it now. Calculation.

  “They will come. Whether I am five or fifty.”

  A murmur stirs at that. Some of the watch captains exchange uneasy glances. Even Valcroft’s hand tightens slightly on the table.

  Good.

  I press on.

  “You think this appointment reckless. But I have already acted. While others stood uncertain, I gave the order to lock down the estate. I ensured the safety of those within our walls. I ordered the pursuit of the fifth attacker. And when justice was required, I did not hesitate.”

  The words are careful. Measured. I do not speak of how I sent Isla. I do not name the decision that lingers like the echo of a blade. They don’t need to know more. Not yet.

  “My father has placed his trust in me. Not as a child. Not as a symbol. But as his heir. If you cannot accept his decision, you have no place in this house, or in this city.”

  I meet Sven’s gaze. He has not moved. Not a word. But the weight of his presence is there — watching, waiting. His expression betrays nothing.

  “Some of you will continue to question his choice,” I say, my voice lowering. “That is your right. But make no mistake. The safety of this city is no longer just your burden.”

  I let the words fall like stone.

  “It is mine.”

  The chamber is silent.

  The protests that once swelled with certainty are gone now. The council member has paled, his lips pressed thin. Valcroft remains unmoving, though his brow is furrowed. The watch captain leans back in his chair, arms crossed. He says nothing. But the sharpness in his eyes has dulled.

  I stay where I am. I do not bow. I do not lower my gaze.

  Let them see me. Let them remember this moment.

  The Archduke’s son does not cower. He stands.

  Finally, Sven speaks.

  “Well said.”

  His voice is calm. But beneath it, I hear something else. Satisfaction. Not because I’ve won them over, not yet. But because I have claimed what was offered. Because I did not wait for them to grant me authority. I took it.

  Sven stands. His hands rest on the table’s edge. He looks to the others, his voice carrying the weight of finality.

  “Aurelius Larkin will serve as city defense and safety planner,” he declares. “He will have my counsel, as well as yours. But his decisions will carry the authority of this house. Let there be no question.”

  There is none. Not now.

  “Captain Valcroft,” Sven continues, “you will liaise directly with him regarding estate security measures.”

  Valcroft nods, though his eyes flick to me one last time. He gives no further protest.

  “And Master Garin,” Sven addresses the city watch captain, “your reports will be reviewed jointly. Cooperation will not be requested. It will be expected.”

  The captain’s jaw tightens. But he bows his head.

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Sven steps back. “This council is adjourned.”

  The scrape of chairs follows. Some stand quickly, eager to escape the heavy air. Others linger, conversations held in low voices. But I do not move.

  I remain standing on the table as they go.