Thalric received no warning.
No steward. No page with a prepared sentence. Just the sound of knuckles against the study door—three knocks, slow and deliberate.
He opened it himself.
Albrecht stood alone. Robes neat. Hair combed into a narrow part. In his left hand, he held a small portfolio. No seal.
Thalric stepped aside without a word.
Albrecht entered.
They hadn't spoken privately in over three months. Their last real conversation had ended in polite disagreement and the kind of silence that court taught you to mistake for resolution.
Now Albrecht sat in the chair across from the fire, uninvited but not out of place, and rested the portfolio on his lap.
"I thought you might want to read these," he said.
Thalric didn't sit. He closed the door behind him and leaned against the frame.
"What is it?"
"Council summaries. Draft allocations for the autumn budget. Notes from House Relvin about succession protocol wording. You've been asking questions. I thought I'd answer them properly."
Thalric nodded slowly, not yet moving.
"And why," he asked, "would you offer this to me now?"
Albrecht didn't smile. "Because you're not a secret anymore."
"And you're adjusting."
"I'm calculating," Albrecht replied. "There's a difference."
Thalric crossed the room and picked up the portfolio. He didn't open it.
Albrecht leaned back, folding one leg over the other. "The estate sees you now. The court whispers when you enter a room. House Luel folded. Even the Queen's begun to reference you without qualifiers."
Thalric said nothing.
"So here's my worry," Albrecht continued. "Not that you'll rise too quickly. That you'll skip too many steps and break the scaffolding we all rely on."
"You think I'm reckless?"
"I think you're impatient," Albrecht said. "And very good at hiding it."
Thalric took the chair opposite him.
"What do you want?" he asked.
Albrecht reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of parchment—smaller, not part of the official files. He slid it across the desk.
Thalric read it.
A request. From one of the Queen's lesser advisors. To remove Rowan from ceremonial proxy duties due to "uncertainty regarding his alliance amidst shifting household dynamics."
Rowan. Neutral. Non-threatening. Until now.
"Cedric's doing?" Thalric asked.
Albrecht nodded. "He's trying to reduce your triangulation. Cut off your anchor."
"And you brought this to me."
"To warn you."
Thalric looked at him, expression unreadable. "You don't usually warn people before the trap."
"I prefer clean games."
"And if I push back?"
"Then I'll know where you stand."
Thalric folded the paper once. Then again. He didn't shred it. Just slid it into the fire.
"I'm not here for triangulation," he said.
"I know."
"I'm not even here to win."
Albrecht tilted his head. "Then what?"
"I'm here to see who still thinks winning is the only thing worth playing for."
That landed.
They sat in silence for nearly a minute.
Then Thalric asked, "Why haven't you made a move yet? Cedric strikes first. The Queen maneuvers. Even Rowan acts when pressed. But you—"
"I wait," Albrecht said, calm. "Because noise clears quickly. But memory doesn't."
He stood and adjusted his coat.
"Careful with Rowan," he added. "If Cedric isolates him, it gets harder for any of us to hold balance."
Thalric watched him walk to the door.
"Why bring this to me at all?"
Albrecht paused, hand on the handle.
"Because you listen when people say the quiet part out loud. And eventually, the rest of them will forget who first warned you not to look away."
Then he left.
Thalric sat alone with the portfolio in his lap, the fire snapping quietly beside him.
He didn't open it.
Not yet.
Instead, he reached for a separate sheet of paper and began drafting a request of his own—to reassign Rowan as keeper of the east wing archives, which by long-standing precedent, required presence at all formal assemblies.
No one would question it.
Not yet.
But Cedric would notice.
And that, finally, was the point.