The rain lingered long after the storm had passed. By the time the week reached its middle, the courtyards of House Valemont still carried the smell of wet stone and damp earth. Moss thrived in the cracks between the flagstones, and the air clung heavy in the lungs.
Caesar had grown used to it. His body adjusted quickly to the rhythm of the household, but his mind still lagged behind. The days blurred with their routines—fetching water from the pump, hauling firewood, scrubbing steps that would be tracked with mud again within the hour. It was the kind of work that made a person's back ache without ever giving them a sense of accomplishment.
But in a place like this, survival wasn't about pride. It was about being invisible when needed, and unshakably steady when eyes turned your way.
The bell had just rung for first meal when Caesar slipped into the kitchens. The heat struck him immediately, thick with the smell of roasting root vegetables and bread. The hearth was burning hot, a great iron pot bubbling at its center, and the floor was already slick from spilled water and grease.
"Move faster, or Alaric will starve waiting," Berla snapped, not unkindly, as she carried a tray of sliced fruit across the room. Her dark hair stuck to her forehead in damp strands.
"I'm moving," Caesar answered, reaching for the stack of wooden bowls near the wall. They were uneven, carved by hand—some older than others, their rims chipped smooth from years of use. He wiped each one with a damp cloth before setting them out on the side table.
The clatter of knives echoed as two junior boys chopped onions. Their eyes watered, and one muttered curses under his breath, earning a sharp swat from the cook's spoon.
"Keep your tongue still unless you want it served in the stew," the cook warned, though his tone was more weary than angry.
Caesar found himself smiling faintly, though he hid it. These ordinary moments—the complaints, the heat, the smell of bread—were strangely grounding. In his first life, or perhaps in what he could remember of it, he hadn't noticed them. He had only thought of getting through the days, not of the people standing beside him.
Now he found himself watching more closely.
The day wore on with its usual rhythm. Caesar carried buckets of water from the courtyard pump, his shoulders burning with the effort. He split kindling for the smaller stoves, the axe handle rough in his palms. The work was ordinary, but the details rooted him: the sound of water sloshing in the pail, the way woodchips stuck to his boots, the faint ache that crept into his back by midday.
He worked beside Nico at one point, polishing brass candlesticks for the dining hall. The boy was quicker, more nimble, but less thorough. Caesar found himself slowing to watch Nico's hands.
"You'll never get the tarnish out like that," Caesar murmured, rubbing a stubborn patch with steady circles.
Nico scowled but didn't argue. He copied Caesar's motion silently. A small victory, but one Caesar tucked away. Influence, here, was built grain by grain.
Later, when the trays were carried upstairs and the scullery began its endless rhythm of washing, Caesar slipped away to the quiet hallway near the library. He carried a rag and dusted the carved paneling slowly, though in truth the wood hardly needed it.
It wasn't laziness—it was caution.
Ethan passed through often, silent as a shadow. The crow-turned-butler seemed to appear in every corner at once, his black suit pressed to perfection, his pale eyes always watchful. Caesar never heard his footsteps until they were nearly beside him.
Today was no different.
"You have a habit of lingering," Ethan remarked, his voice smooth but edged.
"Dust clings," Caesar replied simply, running the rag over a groove.
Ethan studied him for a long moment. "Perhaps. Or perhaps you're hoping to hear more than dust."
Caesar kept his expression even, but his stomach tightened. The intercepted letter, the whispers of locked-away things, still haunted his thoughts. He hadn't dared ask questions, not yet. But Ethan's words made him feel as though the questions were stamped across his face.
"Best advice I'll give you," Ethan said finally, leaning closer, "is to pretend you never wonder. Curiosity in this house is not a kindness—it's a curse. One that eats men alive."
And then, just as smoothly as he'd arrived, Ethan was gone, leaving only the faint trace of ink and parchment that always seemed to cling to him.
By late afternoon, Caesar found himself in the laundry hall with Marith. She was folding linens with a practiced sharpness, snapping the fabric before setting it neatly in the basket. Her hair, always tied back too tightly, had come loose in strands that stuck to her neck.
"You're limping," she said flatly without looking up.
"Slipped on the courtyard steps," Caesar lied. The truth—that his ribs still ached from the Dreadvine servants' fists—wasn't worth speaking aloud.
Marith smirked faintly, though not with cruelty. "Steps don't usually swing at you first."
For a moment, the only sound was the crack of fabric being folded. Then, softer, she added, "If they corner you again, find me. Two against three is better odds than one against three."
It wasn't the first time she'd offered him her solidarity, but it still caught him off guard. He looked at her hands—quick, efficient, calloused from work no noblewoman would ever think of doing—and felt something tighten in his chest. Trust was rare in this house. Marith, for reasons he couldn't fully explain, was one of the few he believed he could lean on.
He returned the fold of a sheet, slower, less precise than hers. "I'll remember that," he said.
As evening came, the great hall filled with the sound of noble voices. Caesar wasn't permitted inside, but he moved along the outer corridors, carrying trays of wine and dishes. Servants were shadows in these gatherings, their presence noted only when a glass was empty or a plate left wanting.
Still, he listened.
"…the Demon King has begun searching for a new Demon Lord," one voice murmured, rich and disdainful. "As though soldiers win wars by ceremony alone."
Another laughed. "The Demon Lord commands the military, the King the people. Without one, the other falters. Or have you forgotten the last campaign?"
Their words washed over Caesar like distant thunder. In his fragmented memory, he recalled the shape of wars, the devastation that followed—but not the details. The title of Demon Lord stirred unease in him. He couldn't say why, only that it felt tied to the cataclysms he had once lived through.
"…House Kharun will push their candidate," one noble muttered. "A general with more scars than sense. Their name's Varion, I think."
"And Dreadvine? They'll oppose for the sake of opposing. Word is they want Lady Serath—half strategist, half viper."
"Valemont will have to choose carefully. Stand with Kharun, and Dreadvine turns enemy. Stand with Dreadvine, and the King grows suspicious. The balance will break."
Caesar's hands tightened slightly on the tray. Valemont. Alaric. The politics above him were like storms far away, yet he felt their winds shaping the air even here in the servant halls.
Later that night, Caesar was summoned to bring a fresh bottle of wine to Alaric's private salon. The room glowed with low lamplight, heavy curtains drawn against the night. Two noblemen sat with Alaric, their voices low but firm.
"…still in our possession?" one asked, deep and unfamiliar.
"Locked away," came Alaric's calm reply. "Until I decide otherwise."
Caesar kept his head down as he set the tray on the side table, but his ears burned. Locked away. It could have meant anything, but in his mind, the words hooked onto the image of the folded scrap of paper under the ledger.
When he left, he didn't look back, but the shape of the conversation stayed with him through the rest of the evening.
The next day, Alaric caught him in the corridor. No reason, no summons—just a sudden shadow that stretched across the hall.
"You've been quieter than usual," Alaric said, his voice calm, but layered. His golden eyes held Caesar with the weight of a hawk watching a rabbit.
"I've been working," Caesar replied.
"Working," Alaric repeated, almost amused. "And thinking. You carry too much of both in your eyes."
Caesar bowed his head slightly. He knew better than to deny it outright. "Thinking is dangerous, I've been told."
"By Ethan, no doubt." Alaric's smile was thin. "He's not wrong. But sometimes, Caesar, danger is precisely what reveals truth."
The words lingered even after Alaric moved on, leaving Caesar rooted to the spot. He felt stripped bare, as though Alaric had seen through more than just his surface.
That night, lying in his narrow cot, Caesar tried again to summon the memory of his mother. He could picture fragments—her thin hands, the sound of her coughing at night, the way she smelled faintly of herbs. She had died young, too young for him to remember much else.
Of his father, there was nothing. Only the occasional comment from others: You look more like him than her. A ghost of a man, a silhouette without features.
Was it the regression that stole his memories? Or had he truly been too young to carry them forward? The uncertainty gnawed at him.
If Alaric suspected something unnatural—possession, bloodline, whatever shadow he saw in Caesar's eyes—then perhaps there was truth buried there, truth Caesar himself could no longer reach.
He turned onto his side, listening to the faint drip of water in the hall, and whispered to himself:
"Ancestors keep me. If I am not myself, then who am I?"
The night gave no answer.