The morning after the beating, Caesar woke to a body that felt as if it had been forged from bruises. Every movement was a negotiation between pain and necessity. The thin mattress beneath him—already lumpy from years of use—felt like it had been woven from stones.
He lay still for a while, staring at the wooden beams above, letting the ache settle into something he could carry. In the past—his first life—this would have been just another humiliation to be swallowed and forgotten. But now, every slight, every kick, every whispered insult was a reminder: I cannot end up the same way again.
Marith was already up, bustling about the small servant dormitory they shared with two others who pretended to still be asleep. She didn't comment on the state of his face, though her eyes lingered for a moment too long on the purple swelling along his jaw.
"You'll be late," she said, tying her hair back with quick, efficient movements. Her voice was deliberately even.
"I know." Caesar pushed himself upright, biting down the hiss of pain that wanted to escape. His ribs protested. His shoulders felt stiff, raw.
Marith tossed a folded cloth toward him. "Wrap that around your ribs before you try to lift anything today. And keep your mouth shut about last night."
"I wasn't planning to talk about it." He took the cloth. Her advice was practical, almost clinical, but her hands trembled faintly as she tied her own apron. That small tell betrayed her mood far more than her tone.
The corridors of House Valemont's servant quarters smelled faintly of coal smoke and the morning's porridge. It was the same as any other day, but Caesar noticed the way conversations hushed when he passed. The sidelong glances. The flickers of poorly concealed amusement.
A tall kitchen boy named Renn leaned against the doorway to the pantry, arms crossed. "Looks like you tripped and fell down all the stairs," he drawled, smirking. "Twice."
Caesar didn't answer. Giving him the satisfaction of a reaction would be worse than the bruise itself. He brushed past without slowing, hearing the quiet snickers that followed.
By midmorning, he was in the salon, sweeping the marble floors and dusting the long bookshelves that lined one wall. The salon wasn't a place for guests in the usual sense—it was Alaric's personal space for receiving only those important enough to be worth the trouble. Plush chairs of deep green velvet, the faint scent of expensive incense, polished tables that reflected the golden light from the tall windows.
It was here that Caesar felt the balance of Alaric's world most acutely. A place where conversations could shift from idle gossip to veiled threats in the space of a single sentence.
Marith entered carrying a silver tray of tea, her steps careful on the marble. She set it down on the low table, glanced at Caesar, then at the door to ensure they were alone.
"You didn't deserve what happened last night," she murmured. "Not that anyone cares what we deserve."
He gave her a wry half-smile. "Deserve doesn't matter. Survival does."
For a heartbeat, she looked like she wanted to argue. Instead, she nodded once, a silent agreement.
The rest of the morning was consumed with polishing goblets and arranging the salon's shelves—tasks Caesar drew out longer than necessary, giving himself time to listen to the comings and goings of visitors.
He heard snippets from a pair of lesser nobles lingering in the hall:"House Dreadvine's wagons have been spotted heading north—loaded.""Refugees from the borderlands again. Even the lesser demons are scattering."
That much matched what he remembered from before—panic moving through the weaker houses first, the strong pretending it wasn't happening until it was too late. But the timing… the timing was wrong. In his memory, these rumors hadn't started until weeks later.
So things are shifting already, he thought. Maybe because of me. Maybe not. But I can use this.
The day's rhythm carried him through to late afternoon, when Ethan appeared in the salon doorway. The crow-turned-butler moved with a grace that made no sound at all on the marble, his dark eyes sharp.
"Caesar. With me."
The phrasing wasn't a request. Caesar followed him into a side hall lined with tall windows, the late sunlight throwing long bars of gold across the floor.
Ethan didn't speak until they reached the far end of the corridor, well away from any other ears. He rested one hand lightly on the window frame, as though they were simply pausing to admire the view.
"You're not a particularly good sneak," Ethan said mildly. "In case you were wondering."
"I wasn't sneaking," Caesar replied, too quickly.
Ethan's faint smile was entirely without warmth. "You've been looking where you shouldn't. Asking questions you shouldn't. And yet… you've been spared so far."
There was something in his tone—half amusement, half warning—that made Caesar's shoulders tense.
"Spared?" Caesar asked carefully.
"The letter you were so curious about?" Ethan's eyes flicked toward him. "It wasn't addressed to you, and you won't like the kind of attention it draws. Someone is trying to use you, Caesar. And if I can see it, so can Alaric."
Caesar's mouth went dry. "Use me for what?"
"That," Ethan said, turning back toward the window, "is the dangerous part. The more you know, the more you'll be worth killing."
For a long moment, the only sound was the distant clatter of a cart in the courtyard.
Ethan glanced at him again, a strange light in his gaze. "Be careful whose game you decide to play in. Some boards are rigged from the start."
Caesar returned to his duties with Ethan's words gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. Someone is trying to use you. In the past, he might have taken that as a paranoid flourish, just another layer of the household's political theater. But after the public beating, he had no illusions about how quickly he could be crushed in the crossfire.
By the time the sun dipped low and the great hall began to glow under lamplight, the worst of the day's work was done. The household shifted into its quieter rhythm—meals served, dishes washed, floors swept clean for the night. Even the nobles seemed to move more slowly after dusk, their sharp edges dulled by drink and food.
Caesar found himself in the scullery, hands deep in warm water, scrubbing at a brass goblet. The steam rising from the basin fogged his vision slightly, making the lamplight around him blur. Berla sat on a stool in the corner, repairing a torn hem from one of the kitchen maids' skirts, her fingers quick and practiced.
"You're quieter than usual," she said wihout looking up.
"I'm tired."
"That's not it." She set the skirt aside and leaned forward, studying him. "You've got the same look my brother used to get when he was deciding whether to run or fight."
Caesar allowed himself a faint smile. "And what happened to your brother?"
"He fought," Berla said, "and now he's bones in the dirt."
The words landed heavier than she seemed to intend, but she didn't retract them.
"Then maybe I'll run," Caesar said softly, placing the goblet on the drying rack.
Berla's eyes narrowed. "Running doesn't always mean fleeing. Sometimes it means moving before they know where you're going."
He tucked that away. Berla wasn't the sort to give advice lightly.
Later, in the servants' dining room, Marith slid into the seat across from him. The table was narrow, the bowls of stew between them sending up steam. Most of the others had already eaten and gone to their quarters, leaving the place quiet enough to hear the rain beginning to patter against the roof.
She watched him over the rim of her bowl. "You're thinking too much."
"You keep saying that," Caesar replied, breaking a piece of bread.
"That's because it's true. Thinking's dangerous in a place like this. Especially if you start thinking about the wrong things."
He didn't answer. It was almost comical—Marith and Berla had said nearly the same thing in different ways. He wasn't sure whether it was a warning or a test.
Marith leaned closer, lowering her voice. "I heard about that letter Ethan took. There's talk it wasn't meant for Alaric at all."
His eyes flicked to her sharply. "Then who—"
"I don't know," she cut in. "And I don't want to know. But if Ethan's involved, it means he's watching how you react. That's what worries me."
It fit too well with what Ethan had said earlier.
The more you know, the more you'll be worth killing.
When the lamps in the hallways burned low and the household began to settle into the deep quiet of night, Caesar lay awake in his narrow bed. Every creak of the old timbers above sounded louder. He replayed the beating in his mind—not to dwell on the humiliation, but to study it.
The rival house servants who'd done it hadn't been acting entirely on impulse. Someone had given them permission, maybe even encouragement. And he'd been left alive, bruised but intact. That meant he still had value.
If I'm going to survive this time, he thought, I need to become more than just a servant who takes orders.
It was a dangerous thought. But the seed had already taken rot.
The rain deepened in the night, drumming softly against the shutters. Caesar's eyes finally closed, but not before he made a silent promise to himself:
The next move would be his.