Part I: The Price of Life
The black crow circled high above Drakmoor citadel's iron spires, higher than crows usually flew. Its wings beat against air that tasted of iron and ash. Everyone knew what it meant when Death's messenger came to the palace.
In the eastern wing, candles flickered behind tall windows. The flames danced wild and desperate against the approaching darkness.
"Push, my lady, please!" The midwife's voice cracked.
The princess was slipping. The heat in her skin was vanishing despite the hearth fire. Blood clung to the midwife's hands like ink, and frost had begun to creep inward on the windowpanes.
No birth should be this cold, she thought. No child should come with omens in the sky.
She dared not speak it aloud—not with the crow still perched at the window.
Princess Aurora's sea-blue eyes—the mark of her bloodline—flickered like dying stars. Each breath came shallow and cold, misting despite the roaring hearth. This wasn't the clean pain of battle—this was something hungry, something that had come to collect what was owed.
Through the haze of pain, Aurora caught sight of the crow perched on her window ledge. Its black eyes held depths that seemed to swallow light. She stared at them—empty, as if carved out with a spoon—and suddenly, she was drowning in memory.
Three years ago. The graveyard of fallen knights beyond the castle walls.
She had been drawn there by whispers in her dreams, called by something that knew her desperation.
Among the weathered tombstones of the empire's greatest warriors, she had knelt before something that wore the shape of a man but spoke with the voice of winter itself.
The healers had called her barren, but when the entity summoned her to this place of honored dead, she knew her desperate need for an heir had led her to this moment.
"A child for a life, Princess."
She had agreed so quickly then. Too quickly. What choice did she have? The kingdom needed an heir, and she—she needed purpose beyond her own existence.
But now, feeling the shadows stretch toward her like grasping fingers, Aurora understood the true weight of her bargain. Even with the fire blazing, frost began forming on the windowpanes in patterns that looked almost like writing. The crow's patient stare felt like a judge's gavel, waiting to fall.
What had she done? What kind of mother trades her life before she can even hold her child?
The regret tasted bitter as copper in her mouth.
Then came the cry of new life—a sound so pure and fierce it seemed to crack the very air.
"A son, my lady." The midwife's voice was barely a whisper. "A prince."
Aurora's lips moved, forming words of love and apology that only she could hear. The head maid, cleaning blood from pale hands, caught the faintest whisper—but it was so quiet she couldn't be certain she'd heard anything at all.
Aurora reached toward her baby's cries with fingers already growing cold. Her sea-blue eyes held one last moment of fierce love, tinged now with the bitter knowledge of what she had sacrificed, before the darkness claimed her.
The moment Aurora's heart stopped, the crow spread its wings and launched itself into the storm.
Mother and child had shared the same air for mere moments, but had never touched.
Part II: The Name of Death
The grain tax debate droned on for the third hour. Emperor Aurelian August gripped the arms of his throne, forcing himself to nod at the appropriate moments while Lord Harren pontificated in Veythari, the clipped, ancient tongue reserved for declarations of state. Every word felt like sand in his ears.
Aurora's labor had begun at dawn—he could still hear her sharp intake of breath when the pains started. Now the sun hung low, and he was trapped here, listening to men argue over coin and sovereignty while his wife fought for her life three corridors away.
The great doors slammed open with a sound like thunder. Every head turned as a young messenger stumbled forward, his face streaked with tears he hadn't bothered to hide.
The room fell silent—Veythari cut mid-sentence, Lord Harren's mouth still forming the word for "grain tithe" when the weight of real consequence entered the chamber.
Aurelian's hands went numb. He knew.
Before the messenger spoke, before the man's trembling voice filled the chamber, he knew.
The messenger dropped to one knee, gasping. "Your Majesty... the Princess..."
Aurelian's world narrowed to that pause, that terrible hesitation.
"She's given you a son, my lord. A healthy son."
Relief flooded through him—then froze as he saw the messenger's face.
"But Your Majesty... Princess Aurora..." The young man's voice cracked. "She didn't survive the birth."
The words hit him like physical blows. Son. Aurora. Didn't survive. He bit back the scream rising in his throat, tasting blood.
The throne room had gone dead silent. Through his shock, he became aware of movement—Lord Falmee swaying as if he might faint, the other eastern nobles looking like men who'd just watched their reputations die with their princess.
Chair legs scraped stone. The northern lords were rising, their faces white with terror. They expected his rage. They were waiting for the violence that had to come.
Only the western lords remained seated, carved from stone. Duke Aldric's fingers drummed once against his chair—the only sound in the suffocating silence.
The servants along the walls pressed themselves against the stone, eyes wide with terror. They had seen what his father did to those who brought bad news. The court scribe's quill trembled in his hand, ink spattering across the parchment.
For a moment, the messenger's words seemed to echo from a great distance, as if spoken in a dream. A son. Aurora was... gone. Then the meaning crashed over him like a cold wave, and something inside him simply... stopped. He should have been at her side, not beneath a crown
Emotion didn't come. Only silence. No fury to unleash, no heads to claim. The fire they expected never came. Grief had hollowed it out before it could catch.
He couldn't find words. He didn't rage. Who could he blame? The child who cost him everything? The eastern doctors who proclaimed mastery yet failed? The servants who hadn't warned him Aurora was dying? Or his wife, who had chosen to bear a child knowing it would cost her life?
He blamed all of them yet none of them. He was stunned by her sudden death, yet he couldn't bring himself to rage knowing she had chosen a child over him.
His hands lay still on the throne's arms, steady despite the chaos in his mind. A wet nurse stepped forward, trembling, and laid the child in his arms before he could protest. The child was surprisingly warm, almost feverish, against his cold hands. Sea-blue eyes—Aurora's eyes—stared up at him with unsettling awareness.
"Your Majesty?" The court scribe's voice seemed to come from very far away. "What name shall I record for the prince?"
Aurelian stared down at the child. This child who bore her face and his ruin. Those eyes that would forever remind him of what he'd lost.
The silence stretched until breathing became audible. Even the baby had stopped crying, as if sensing the weight of the moment.
Aurelian said nothing, and that silence was louder than any decree. Lord Harren wanted to speak—to offer platitudes—but his tongue lay heavy and dry in his mouth. This prince, born in blood, might one day be their doom.
"Your Majesty?" the scribe whispered again.
The name fell from his lips like a stone into still water: "Nex."
The scribe's hand trembled as he inked the name onto the scroll—Nex. The word bled into parchment like a curse that could not be undone.
Everyone in the throne room knew what the name meant. Death. The baby's cries echoed through the chamber, but Aurelian felt no urge to comfort him.
He had three other children—born of duty and love, their veins carrying his blood, still innocent of dark bargains. This fourth child was something else entirely.
In the servant's quarters, the head maid pressed her hands to her mouth and said nothing. Whatever she thought she'd heard would remain locked in her heart.
Some secrets were too dangerous to tell.
Part III: The Masquerade
Six years later.
Prince Nex moved through Drakmoor citadel like a ghost—silent, watchful, existing in the spaces between other people's lives. Godmother Lucy had become his entire world.
The woman who had raised the emperor's other children poured all her warmth into the boy everyone else seemed determined to forget.
She remembered what Aurora had whispered—maybe. She told herself it was her imagination. But sometimes, when Nex was silent for too long, she caught herself holding her breath.
Each morning, she would find him already awake, those unsettling sea-blue eyes staring at nothing.
Sarah, the sword master, had become something between teacher and aunt. Even at six, Nex moved with an uncanny grace that made seasoned knights pause and stare.
The Annual Unity Festival arrived with its usual pageantry. Representatives from all three allied kingdoms descended on the citadel, their children in tow for the grand masquerade.
Lucy's fingers trembled as she helped Nex into his costume—black velvet trimmed with silver, and a mask carved like a crow's head with empty eye sockets that seemed to drink in light.
"You look like a mysterious prince from the old stories," she said gently. The prince didn't react. He knew his father had chosen the costume. Lucy's gentle words did nothing to soften it.
The great hall blazed with a thousand candles. Noble children from all three kingdoms darted between the adults like bright birds—golden lions and silver dolphins,
rainbow peacocks and emerald serpents. Nex stood in the shadows, his black costume making
him nearly invisible. He watched his half-siblings charm visiting nobles, watched games he had never been invited to join. The loneliness was a familiar weight in his chest,heavy as armor.
"You're the crow boy."
He turned to find another child watching him—a girl about his age, dressed in white silk
that seemed to glow. Her mask was carved like an owl.
"I'm Mallory. Duke Ravencrest's daughter, from the Western Kingdom." She stepped closer. "My father says I should stay away from you. But I've never been good at doing what I'm told."
Mallory's body shifted, fingers curling tightly around the edge of her sleeve. Her eyes flickered briefly to the crowd behind them, then back to Nex, steady but cautious. A faint crease tightened her brow—an unspoken war between the rules she was raised with and the risk she was taking.
Before he could respond, a group of older children approached.
"Look what crawled out of the dungeons," sneered a boy wearing a golden mask. "The crow and the owl, sitting together like a funeral procession."
"You're that cursed one, aren't you?" another chimed in. "The one whose mother died birthing him. They say you're marked by death itself."
A young man stood near the edge of the great hall, his eyes briefly catching on the peacock mask bobbing above the crowd. His younger brother—loud, spoiled, too quick to follow crueler boys—was among the group circling the boy in the crow mask.
Prince Nex.
Llouch stiffened, recognizing him instantly. The so-called Death Prince.
He wanted to call out, to pull his brother away, but a voice pulled him back to the present.
"I do not think that is a fair trade, young Llouch."
Duke Flamee's presence towered over him—broad-shouldered and regal, his dark skin and bald crown unmistakable, even without the crest he no longer needed to wear. His voice was measured, edged with kindness, but not indulgence.
Llouch straightened instinctively. His uniform bore the crest of House Britta on shoulder, chest, even the hem of his leggings—a silent scream of lineage. "Forgive me, Duke Flamee. I only meant to say... the wool from our farms is of the highest quality. I will hand-pick the fleece myself. And as for compensation—I ask not for a physician, only to send one of your doctors west to teach medicine in the schools of Lavat."
Flamee's eyes narrowed. "The textbooks are worth more than an army. Do I seem that stupid to you, Llouch?"
Llouch flushed. "Forgive me, Duke. I was only saying—if it's a bother to bring a doctor all the way to Lavat, perhaps there is another solution. I will send one of my brothers to your estate until he learns, and you shall have an endless supply of wool—thirty of every hundred bundles we make will go to you, if you wish it."
Llouch's jaw tightened, a shadow flickering across his face. Sending one of his brothers away wasn't a decision he made lightly—after their parents' deaths, each of them was a lifeline for the family.
Yet the hope that their wool might secure some favor pulled at him stronger than the weight of his fear.
Flamee's eyes darkened with a shadow of conflict. "You misunderstand, Llouch. The knowledge of Eastern medicine is not something I—or anyone outside the kingdom of Wu—may freely share. My family's access to these teachings is bound by an ancient debt owed by the old King of Wu to my ancestor, a debt sealed with an oath I swore never to break."
He looked away briefly, the weight of his responsibility evident in his voice. "To send a doctor west without the king's express permission would be to break that oath. I would risk more than just honor—I would risk the fragile trust between our houses and kingdoms."
Llouch swallowed, sensing the magnitude of what he was asking.
After a long pause, Flamee's gaze hardened with resolve. "Very well, young one. I will consider your proposal—but only if I receive permission directly from the King of Wu himself. Send me one of your brothers with the necessary documents. And let us hope it is not that one." His eyes flicked toward the peacock-masked child among the crowd surrounding Prince Nex.
A sharp chill settled between them.
Nex felt the familiar chill of exposure, but Mallory stepped forward.
"Back off," she said quietly. "Unless you want to tell my father on you."
"We're not monsters," she added, her voice carrying across the hall. "We're just different.
PART IV: The Crow and the Owl
"Come on." Mallory's hand found his, warm and steady. "Let's get some air."
They slipped through the crowd like shadows, two small figures in black and white
fleeing judgment. The balcony overlooked the citadel's courtyard, where torches flickered in the evening breeze. They pulled off their masks and sat on the stone ledge,legs dangling over the drop.
Mallory's fingers tightened around the edge of her dress, a flicker of hesitation crossing her eyes before she met Nex's gaze. Deep inside, her mother's voice whispered—an echo that made her shiver for a moment—but out here, beneath the open sky, she let that weight slip away, if only briefly.
His eyes fell on the carved owl now resting between them... ,He thought of what the owl meant to her people: a blessing, a guide through shadowed paths.
He tightened his cloak around him, the dark shape of the crow heavy against his chest—his father's choice, a symbol wrapped in silence and shadow.
They wore their legacies on their faces, but their meanings—hope and omen—were worlds apart.
"Thank you," Nex said quietly. "For what you said in there."
"Don't thank me yet. I might have made things worse for both of us."
He studied her face in the moonlight. She was pretty in a way that made people uncomfortable—all sharp angles and dark eyes, with black hair that seemed to swallow light.
A thin white scar cut through her right eyebrow like a lightning strike. He noticed it but didn't ask—he knew better than anyone how painful it was when people stared at your marks.
"I know who you really are, Prince Nex," she said, breaking the silence. "Everyone does.
They whisper that you bring death wherever you go."
"Maybe they're right." The words came out flat, matter-of-fact. "My mother died giving birth to me. My father can't stand the sight of me. Even the servants avoid me when I pass."
"And you believe them?"
He shrugged, the movement small and defeated. ""What else am I supposed to believe? I've seen what happens when people get too close to me—like my old butler. My father had him executed."
"They call me the prince of death," he said finally, his voice hollow with acceptance.
"And your name?" he asked suddenly. "Do you know what it means?"
She blinked, caught off guard. "Mallory? No. Why?"
He studied her face for a beat too long. "Nothing. Just wondered."
"They say I'm unlucky too—that I bring misfortune to anyone who gets close. "My own mother avoids me like I'm some bad omen." But you know what?
Every time someone whispers about my 'dark nature' or crosses the street to avoid me,
it just makes me more determined."
"Determined to what?"
"To prove that I'm more than their fears. That I can be something beyond their superstitions." She turned to face him fully. "They want me to be a harbinger of doom? Fine. But I'll be the kind that tears down the things that deserve to fall."
Nex stared at her, seeing a fire in her eyes that he'd never felt in himself. "You're not afraid of what they say?"
"I'm terrified," she admitted. "But I'm more afraid of letting them be right. Of becoming the monster they already think I am just because it's easier than fighting."
"What if we can't fight it? What if we really are what they say?"
"Then we choose what kind of destruction we bring." Her smile was sharp as a blade.
"I'd rather be a storm that clears the way for something better than a slow poison that just... exists."
He envied her certainty, her refusal to accept the weight of other people's expectations.
Part of him wanted to catch that fire, but it felt safer to accept what everyone already knew about him.
"And you think we can choose?"
"I think we have to try. Because if we don't, then everyone who ever called us monsters will be right." She paused, studying his face. "You've already given up, haven't you?"
The question hit him like a physical blow because it was true. "It's easier than fighting a war I can't win."
"Maybe. But I'd rather go down swinging than just... fade away." She stood, brushing dust from her white dress. "I won't let them decide what I am. And someday, when I'm strong enough, I'll make them regret ever thinking they could."
Nex stared at her, the fire in her eyes both unfamiliar and incomprehensible.
Her courage was something he couldn't quite grasp—not weakness, but a fierce defiance that made him feel both unsettled and oddly hopeful. He wondered if he would ever have that kind of strength, or if he was destined only to carry the weight of his silence.
"What if I'm not strong enough to be like you?" The question slipped out before he could stop it.
"Then stay as you are. But don't expect me to do the same." Her voice softened slightly.
"I can't save you from what you think you are, Nex. But I won't let you drag me down with you either."
For the first time in his life, someone was looking at him without pity or fear—but also without the desperate need for him to be something he wasn't. She saw his resignation and wasn't trying to change it.
As the night wore on, they talked about everything and nothing—loneliness, expectations, and the weight of other people's fears. They shared stories of the strange, even humorous lengths people went to avoid them.
"Will I see you again?" he asked as the party began to wind down.
"Of course. We're bound now, you and I. The crow and the owl, defying nature itself."
He didn't answer. Just watched a moth fling itself into a torch's flame again and again.
Then he smirked—small, bitter.
Not because she was wrong.
But because she might be right, and it wouldn't matter.
When her family's carriage finally rolled away into the darkness, Nex stood at the palace gates long after the lights had disappeared. Lucy found him there an hour later, still in his crow costume, still watching the empty road.
"Come inside, little prince. The night air is cold."
As they walked back toward the citadel, the same crow that had witnessed his mother's final breaths settled atop the highest tower, its eyes reflecting the dying torchlight. Some bargains took years to fulfill. Some debts were passed down through generations.
Natural enemies, brought together by shared loneliness and the stubborn hope that destiny could be defied.
In the servants' quarters, the head maid who had attended Aurora's final moments whispered a prayer.
The secret she might carry—if it truly was a secret and not just her imagination—would die with her. Some names were too precious to share.
The game was far from over.
.
"
PART V: The Empress's Demand
Nex woke to the sound of whispers just outside his chamber doors.
He coughed—loud enough to be heard, a quiet reminder that he was awake. The whispers stopped. When he opened the door, the hallway was empty.
Unbothered, he dressed and continued to his morning lessons.
First came poetry with Lucy: reading, writing, reciting. Then came spearmanship with Sarah. At Six years old, Nex already moved like someone far older—quick with the bow, sharp with a blade.
It seemed like any other day.
Until a message arrived.
A summons from Her Majesty the Empress, Alica Garrison—first wife of Emperor Aurelian, and a close friend of Lucy.
On the way to her chambers, Nex turned to the servant walking beside him.
"Do you know why the Empress wants to see me?"
The man scoffed and ignored him.
When they arrived, the servant pushed open the doors and announced, "Nex, son of Aurora."
Nex didn't flinch. He was used to the slight.
But the Empress wasn't.
She raised her voice before the servant could leave. "Kneel," she said, "and apologize to Prince Nex."
The servant gave a dry chuckle—until he saw her face.
"You dare disrespect royalty?" Her voice turned cold as winter stone. "You—who don't even know your father? Raised from the gutters, fed from our kitchens, clothed in imperial silk—do you now think yourself so elevated that you may strip a prince of his title?"
The servant collapsed to his knees. "Forgive me, Your Majesty! I only followed the Emperor's instruction—I meant no disrespect!"
The Empress's jaw clenched. She said nothing more, knowing full well that the Emperor cared less about Nex than he even cared about her.
"Go," she said finally. "And do not forget again."
She gestured for Nex to sit beside her. Offered him pastry, tea, even jokingly extended a cigarette. He declined each with polite distance.
"Thank you, Your Majesty."
"No need," she replied coolly. "I only did what an empress must do when royalty is disrespected by a servant."
Then, her tone shifted—quietly bitter.
"But none of this is your fault. It's his. The man who elevates gutter-born servants to stand beside nobles. Your father invites chaos into his house, then wonders why order crumbles."
Nex, cautious of traps, remained silent.
After a long pause, she spoke again. "I called you here for a reason."
He straightened. "Yes, Your Majesty?"
"I want you to skip the upcoming sparring match with Crown Prince Damon."
Nex blinked. "Why? I've been training for it. I want to show Father—"
"That's precisely the problem," she snapped, before softening. "This match isn't about you. It's about Damon."
She rose and walked toward the window, her voice lower now, shaded with urgency.
"Your father will be watching. So will the nobles. And right now, they're whispering that Damon should be passed over—that the twins are more suited to rule."
Nex looked up, stunned.
She continued: "They say Damon is too old to change. That his dissolute days, his indolence, his violent years can't be undone. That the Emperor abandoned him long ago. And he did."
She turned to face Nex fully now. "But recently... he's changed. And your father, for once, wants to believe in him again."
Her eyes narrowed. "If Damon falters in that match, the court will lose faith for good. If he bruises you—he looks like a brute. If he beats you easily—they'll say he proved nothing, just crushed a 'cursed' child."
Nex nodded slowly, bitterly. "So either way, he loses."
"Yes," she said. "But if you don't appear at all, if you're ill, the match becomes Damon versus the twins—worthy opponents, close in age. And if he defeats them, he'll rise in the eyes of the court. As he must."
Nex swallowed hard. "So you want him to win… so he can be Emperor."
Her jaw tightened. "Yes. Damon is my son. And the only child I have." She paused, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "I bore a prince, not a weapon. But in this palace, they don't know the difference."
She walked past him, voice laced with steel. "If he fails, I lose everything. My position, my future. My line dies out with me, replaced by those twins, glutted on power and cruelty. You've seen what they are."
She did not look at Nex after saying it. The words had tasted bitter—more cruel than she'd intended.
But kindness had no place here. If Damon failed, so would she.
And failure was something an Empress could never afford. Not even to protect a child who had done nothing to deserve this game.
The silence stretched between them like a blade's edge. Nex felt the weight of her desperation, the careful calculation behind her request. In this moment, he understood something fundamental about the palace—everyone was fighting for survival, even the Empress.
"I understand, Your Majesty," Nex said finally, barely above a whisper. "I will claim illness. Lucy and Sarah will vouch for me. Damon will fight the twins alone."
The Empress finally exhaled, and for the first time in their conversation, her shoulders relaxed slightly. "Good. I hope your chance comes soon, young prince."
"As do I," Nex murmured.
Back in his room, Nex shut the door gently—then collapsed onto the bed, face buried in his arms, tears soaking the sheets. He made no sound.
The weight of it all pressed down on him: another opportunity sacrificed, another moment where he couldn't prove himself. The careful politics, the maneuvering, the constant reminder that his place in this world was conditional, precarious.
A soft knock came minutes later.
"My prince?" Lucy's voice, warm and worried. "My lovely prince, are you there?"
He opened the door before her second knock landed. His eyes were rimmed red. Without a word, he clutched her dress like a lifeline.
"Oh, my dear," she whispered, folding him into her arms.
He buried his face in her lap. Her fingers wove through his hair, steady and slow.
"Why," he choked out, "why am I not allowed to fight? Why won't Father care for me?"
Lucy held his gaze with a tired, kind smile. "He does care," she whispered. "He just doesn't know how to show it. He appointed me to you, didn't he? That matters."
She held him like that for a long while, letting his breathing steady, letting the storm pass. In her arms, he felt something he rarely experienced in the palace—safety, unconditional acceptance.
From the window above them, a crow perched silently on the tallest tower, black wings folded like secrets.
The night was not yet done with them.
Hours passed.
Then came the clash of steel on steel, sharp and rhythmic—three blades, moving in sequence.
Nex sat upright. From his window, he watched the sparring courtyard below.
Damon vs. the twins.
He leaned closer, analyzing every motion: footwork, angles, timing. He didn't blink.
"Do you think you could beat them?"
The voice came from the shadows.
Sarah stepped into the candlelight—her long white hair spilling loose like feathers, glowing faintly in the dusk. Her honey-colored eyes, sharp and clever like a fox's, gleamed with a quiet intensity.
"I mean all three," she said. "Damon, Alexander, Abigail. One-on-one. Could you win?"
Nex didn't answer right away. Then he nodded, slowly.
Sarah raised an eyebrow. "Impossible. Not yet."
"I know," Nex said. "But you asked if I think I could. You never asked when."
Her smirk widened. "Clever. So—when? While they're sleeping?"
He chuckled, eyes still on the courtyard.
Down below, Damon twisted the twins' blades together, forcing them to hesitate. As the twins fumbled to separate their blades, Damon raised his sword—just high enough to strike Alexander's exposed shoulder.
But he paused.
Just for a second.
Long enough for the boy to flinch, bracing for pain.
And instead, Damon kicked him back—not hard, just enough to reset the stance. Then continued the match without a word.
Nex's eyes narrowed. Damon could have ended it right there—made a spectacle of it. But he didn't.
Damon had fought a hundred matches in that courtyard, most of them forgettable. But when he raised his sword, something shifted. He looked up—and saw him. The crow-child, the quiet prince, eyes sharp like glass. Watching.
Damon hesitated. He didn't know why. Maybe guilt. Maybe pride. Maybe something else entirely.
Perhaps he truly has changed.
Nex's gaze shifted to the balcony above—where Emperor Aurelian stood.
Others saw a stoic mask. Nex saw more.
When Alexander nearly struck Damon, the emperor's jaw tightened. When Damon stumbled, Aurelian's fists clenched—white-knuckled behind his back. And when Damon finally disarmed both twins with a final flourish, the emperor exhaled, shoulders relaxing.
Nex saw the ghost of a smile flicker—and vanish.
The realization hit him like a physical blow. His father did care. Not just about Damon, but about all of them. Except for him.
Where he showed worry about Damon and even happiness about the twins losing he showed no emotion at all towards Nex.
"Six years," Nex whispered.
Sarah turned to him. "What?"
"I'll beat them. All of them. In six years."
She studied him for a long moment. She had watched his siblings at his age. Damon had been cruel and careless. The twins—violent but undisciplined. None of them had possessed this quiet intensity, this methodical patience.
He might be right.
"What are you watching so intently?" she asked.
"Father," Nex replied, eyes locked on the balcony.
Sarah ruffled his hair. "You see too much for your own good."
She turned to leave as the courtyard erupted in applause. Damon stood victorious, breathing hard but triumphant.
Among the clapping nobles stood Alica, the Empress.
She looked up toward Nex's window—met his gaze. And for a moment, something in her expression shifted. Not gratitude, exactly. Something more complex. Recognition, perhaps. Or warning.
But when Damon turned for her attention, she looked away to smile at her son.
When she looked back, the window was empty.
Nex had already withdrawn, already sketching out Damon's and the twins' footwork from memory. In the quiet of his room, he moved in silence—recreating the fight, piece by piece.
The next battle had already begun.
Not with sword or blood.
But with memory.
And time.
And the patient cultivation of power that would one day be his to wield.