The rain had thinned by dusk, but the fog had thickened.
It laced the manor's outer corridors in damp threads, curling into the mortar, wrapping around lanterns until their flames seemed to hover, flickering, with no source at all. Thalric made his way toward the east solar—slowly, deliberately, every step tracing the ache of a body still too soft to obey.
He hadn't planned to meet Rowan again. Not this soon.
But the younger prince had sent no summons. Just a folded card, unsigned and delivered by a mute boy from the kitchens. It simply read:
"You knew the tutor's name before I spoke it."
So he came.
The east solar was narrow, high-ceilinged, and windowless. Once, it may have been a music room, or a study, or some other noble indulgence. Now, it served only one purpose.
Mirrors.
Dozens of them. Tall. Oval. Cracked. Rimmed in silver, iron, polished wood, and in one case, antlers. Arranged in no clear pattern—scattered like thoughts too sharp to fold.
Rowan stood in the center.
He did not turn when Thalric entered. Just stared into the warped reflection before him—his own face stretched into something older, sadder, regal by accident.
"You used to hate this room," Rowan said.
Thalric said nothing.
Rowan's voice was lower than his brothers'. Less certain. As though every word was tested against silence before release.
"You said it made your arms look swollen and your legs like tree stumps. You said no one deserved to see themselves at all angles."
Still, Thalric did not speak.
Rowan turned.
His posture was stiff, military. But his eyes were not hostile.
They were searching.
"I've been watching you," he said.
"You're not the only one," Thalric murmured.
Rowan didn't smile. "Albrecht says you're bluffing. Cedric thinks it's brain fever. But I've read the old histories. The ones kept in binding cloth. The ones that mention—briefly—souls that cross."
Now Thalric looked up, curious.
Rowan caught it.
"You quoted a dead philosopher last week. Verathus the Gray. The tutor didn't even recognize the name. But I did. Because I translated his texts for fun when I was fifteen. You called his final treatise 'politically naive.'"
"It was," Thalric said.
Rowan stepped closer.
"You shouldn't know that."
He waited. Let the silence spread like ink.
Thalric's gaze returned to the mirror. His own reflection stared back, blurred slightly in one of the antique curves. The face was still Percival's. Pale. Soft-lined. Disarming. But the eyes...
They no longer blinked like prey.
"I didn't come back to impress you," Thalric said at last. "And I have no interest in old brotherly reconciliation. You suspect. Good. Use that."
Rowan didn't flinch. But something in him settled.
"I don't want reconciliation," he replied. "I want answers."
"Then ask better questions."
A beat passed.
Then Rowan stepped past him, reached into the pocket of his longcoat, and pulled out a square of cloth—folded, yellowed, faintly scented with ash.
He handed it over.
Thalric unfolded it carefully.
It was a sketch. Charcoal on linen. A creature drawn with hesitant but deliberate strokes: long wings, feathered but scorched. Four eyes. Human hands curled at the ends of its talons. And behind it, a spiral—not painted, but burned in.
Thalric traced the edge.
"This… isn't from here."
"No," Rowan said quietly. "It was buried in the stone behind the chapel hearth. Found it two years ago. I thought it nonsense."
"You were wrong."
"I usually am."
Another beat.
"What is it?"
Thalric folded the cloth and handed it back.
"A warning," he said. "Or a memory. Sometimes they're the same."
Rowan stared at him for a long time. Then, slowly, nodded.
"I'll find more," he said. "I want to understand. What's coming. What you are."
Thalric's mouth twitched, almost a smile.
"You already do," he said. "You're just afraid to say it aloud."
He turned to leave, but paused in the doorway.
"Next time you summon me," he said, "do it yourself."
Then he was gone, cane tapping slowly back down the hall, the fog curling behind him like a gate swinging shut.
Rowan stood among the mirrors, alone again.
And this time, he didn't look away from the face staring back.