The silence stretches, unnatural and heavy, as though the entire world holds its breath in anticipation. The golden script lingers in the air, shimmering with ethereal brilliance, and for the briefest heartbeat, time itself seems to pause.

  Then, my father moves.

  With brisk confidence, he steps forward, breaking the moment’s fragile stillness. His hands wrap around me, lifting me high into the air as his voice, deep and commanding, resounds through the vast square.

  "I have an heir! House Larkin names Aurelius Larkin, son of Archduke Sven Larkin and Archduchess Catharine Larkin, true heir to the Duchy and House of Larkin."

  The declaration crashes over the gathering like a rolling wave, shattering the silence. The commoners at the edges of the square erupt in cheers, voices rising in celebration. Trumpets blare from the cathedral’s grand balcony, followed by a fanfare of horns and drums. The ceremony, solemn and uncertain just moments before, is now drowned in jubilation.

  The nobles, however, react differently.

  Their ranks break apart, splintering into clusters of whispered discussion. Veiled glances flicker toward my father and me, some contemplative, others sharp with calculation. They do not cheer, not like the commoners. Their silence speaks volumes, hidden behind cordial smiles and the polite clinking of glasses passed among them by silent-footed servants.

  Massive tables, already laden with food, are wheeled into the square by teams of servants guiding enormous lizard-like beasts of burden. The tables glide into place with a well-practiced ease, forming a grand banquet in the heart of the city. Then, at some unseen signal, the floodgates open.

  The commoners surge forward, streaming into the square, drawn by the promise of the feast. They claim seats at the long tables, laughter and conversation bubbling up like water from a long-dry spring. Meat, bread, fruit, and fine wines spill from gilded platters, an extravagant gift to the city in celebration of my naming.

  But my attention lingers elsewhere.

  Even as the city revels, the nobles remain insulated within small protective bubbles of security, guarded by their personal retinues. They move through the crowd with calculated ease, speaking to select figures—influential commoners, merchants, and military officers—their voices low but intent. Deals are being brokered, alliances whispered into existence beneath the guise of festivity. The ceremony may be over, but the real games have only begun.

  For a few moments, my father still holds me, letting the weight of the ceremony settle. The somberness of the ritual fades from most of the nobles’ faces, though the astute ones—those with the sharpest minds—still hold onto its implications, their expressions unreadable masks.

  Then, a presence moves beside us. The priest steps forward, his robes whispering against the stone as he draws close to my father’s elbow. His voice is barely audible over the din of celebration, but I hear it nonetheless.

  "The Church will not pick sides, Your Grace. We can support no one. But I am loath to see such a young one suffer. He will be welcome in my cathedral, should refuge be needed."

  A tense pause.

  My father does not turn. He does not glance at the priest. I feel the briefest tightening of his grip around me—so subtle it might have been imagined—before his muscles relax once more. When he speaks, his voice is so low, I almost do not hear it.

  "I thank you for the offer," he murmurs, "but if it comes to that, I fear for the whole of the city."

  The priest inclines his head slightly before stepping back into the shadows of the celebration, his face unreadable.

  The square dissolves into a festival of noise and movement. Music swells from street performers, tambourines and flutes weaving melodies through the air. The clatter of dishes and the hum of countless voices fill the space, and my body, young and fragile, begins to betray me.

  Fatigue drags at my limbs, frustration curling in my mind. There is still so much to see, so much to learn. Politics swirl unseen in the undercurrents of celebration, and I want to watch, to listen, to piece together this world’s unspoken rules. But my body—too young, too weak—can no longer fight the pull of exhaustion.

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  I blink slowly as I am passed from my father’s arms to my mother’s. She holds me close, her voice a gentle murmur of warmth and pride. I try to stay awake, to listen, but the words blur, fading into a soft hum against my ear. Then I am passed again—to Isla, the quiet, watchful maid who had traveled with us.

  She carries me away from the revelry, her steps steady, her presence calm. The muffled sounds of the festival fade as she steps into the waiting carriage, settling me carefully into the quiet embrace of its cushioned seats.

  The last thing I hear before sleep claims me is the distant sound of laughter—both joyous and knowing.

  I wake to the gentle sway of the carriage, wrapped in warmth, the scent of my mother’s perfume lingering around me. The muffled clip of hooves and the occasional creak of wood tell me we are approaching home. My mother’s arms cradle me, her hold steady yet relaxed. The celebration lingers in the air, faint echoes of distant revelry fading as we near the estate gates.

  Something is different.

  It’s not the shift in sound, nor the cooling of the evening air. It is something deeper, something woven into the very fabric of existence. The mana responds to me now.

  Before, it had been distant, unmoving, locked beyond my reach. Now, it shimmers at my mental touch, delicate strands twisting in unseen patterns. I can feel where to pull, where to shape, where to guide it. It bends, not with full submission, but enough to acknowledge me.

  I do not understand why.

  The priest’s tome had been a conduit, an artifact that allowed him to invoke the mana’s presence. I had assumed the magic of this world required such relics—yet here I am, feeling the weave move without one.

  There is still so much I do not know.

  I cannot ask, not yet. I have learned this lesson before, in lives long past.

  Once, in an early life, I had tested the boundaries too soon. I had spoken before my tongue should have formed words, grasped at knowledge before a child could possibly understand it. They had called me unnatural, a hellspawn. Locked me away, fearful of the creature that wore the skin of a babe.

  That life had been a hard one.

  I had been born in a land of superstition, where knowledge was power, and power not granted by the gods was feared. My family—if they could be called that—whispered of omens and demons when my first words, full and clear, slipped from my mouth at only a few months old. They had seen no joy in my precociousness, only terror. A babe was not meant to understand, was not meant to speak without stumbling, was not meant to stare back at them with the knowing gaze of a man who had lived before.

  The priest had come first, muttering prayers, pressing charms of warding against my skin. When those did nothing, they turned to the hedge-witches who lived in the swamp beyond the village, seeking someone to name my affliction. One, an old crone with cloudy eyes, had declared me cursed. Another, younger and with a cruel streak, had called me an unnatural thing.

  And so they had locked me away.

  A darkened room, barely large enough for a child to stand in, damp and cold with stone walls that never warmed. I had spent years in that place, left to rot, to waste away in solitude. I had listened through the thin walls to their whispers, their fear. They fed me, clothed me, but they never looked at me.

  But patience was not the only lesson I learned.

  I learned that power is not just about what you know—it is about what others think you know. Knowledge itself was dangerous, but the illusion of ignorance was a shield. A weapon.

  So I let them believe I had faded. I let them think I was broken, cowed by their cruelty. But in the silence of my prison, I gathered knowledge like a blade being sharpened. I listened to the whispers of the household, traced the footsteps of my captors, memorized their habits. I tested the rotting wood of my cell, noted the damp in the mortar, calculated the timing of my meager meals. I grew stronger in the dark, waiting.

  And then, one night, I made my move.

  The bindings they used to restrain me snapped beneath my fingers. The rusted lock they had believed secure crumbled with the precise application of pressure. I slipped through the corridors like a ghost, unseen, unheard.

  But I did not flee.

  They had locked me away in fear. They had sought to control me. They had given me nothing but pain.

  So I repaid them in kind.

  The ones who had bound me, who had whispered of curses and demons, who had tossed me into the dark to be forgotten—I ensured they would be forgotten first. Their blood painted the stone floors of that wretched place. I was no demon, but that night, I let them believe I was.

  And then I vanished.

  I disappeared into the dark at the edge of their knowledge, beyond their reach, beyond their understanding. Where I went, what I did next in that life—that is a memory for another time.

  Through repetition, I have learned. A gifted child is praised. A prodigy is admired. But a child who shows mastery too soon? That is an abomination.

  So I remain silent.

  Instead, I turn my thoughts toward the possibilities. If mana responds to me now, perhaps it works with spellforms I have learned before. If it follows structure, if I can observe how it behaves, I may find ways to extend my reach without revealing my knowledge.

  I can listen, further than before. If I am careful, I can gather information without ever leaving the nursery.

  A shift in my mother’s hold pulls me from my thoughts. We have arrived.

  She carries me inside, following my father’s measured steps. The air within the estate is warm, the flickering light of lanterns casting long shadows across the marble floors. The scent of ink and parchment thickens as we move through the halls.

  My father leads us not to the nursery, but to his study.

  Havish, fathers personal attendant, and Isla are dismissed without ceremony. The doors close behind them, leaving only the three of us.

  My father’s expression is unreadable, but the set of his jaw tells me one thing clearly.

  Things just got more complicated.