Part I — Echoes of Marble
Summary: Three years have passed. The boy who once practiced silence has become a youth of quiet authority. Within the marble halls of House Veyne, even stillness has begun to listen.
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Morning found its way through the high windows of the east gallery in a long, divided beam. Dust drifted through it like snow held in memory. The light touched the busts of forgotten emperors and made them briefly living—bronze lips glossed in gold, eyes limned with a warmth they never earned.
Saviik crossed the gallery barefoot, a book balanced on one palm. The marble was cool; he liked the way it reminded him of the north. With every step, the air trembled faintly—the sound not of echo, but of marble remembering that feet had passed this way before.
He paused beneath a statue of Saint Alesia. Her raised hand caught the sun. The reflected glow pooled across his wrist, thin as milk. He turned the page of his book without looking down; the motion was practiced now, unconscious. Learning had become part of the way he moved.
From the cloister below came the muted cadence of tutors and servants beginning their day. Water was being drawn from the well, buckets clinking softly together; the smell of hearth smoke and wet clay rose like a morning prayer. Somewhere deeper in the house, Lady Ylva's voice carried through an open door—low, deliberate, counting syllables as she rehearsed a speech for the council.
He listened to the rhythm, not the words. He could tell her mood by cadence alone. Today she was sharpening her consonants—meaning the meeting ahead would not be kind.
A bell chimed from the city beyond the gardens. The sound reached the estate as a shimmer rather than a note. The city was close enough that its pulse bled through the marble; sometimes, at night, Saviik could feel the tremor of wagon wheels traveling the outer road.
He closed the book and set it on the sill, running a thumb along its edge. The parchment smelled of ink and pressed lavender—the Veynes' way of keeping mildew from the pages. His reflection in the window was older than he expected: the roundness gone from his cheeks, jaw tracing the promise of manhood, eyes calm to the point of unease. He looked like he'd been carved there, another figure among the saints.
A rustle behind him.
"You're already awake," Xala said.
Her voice hadn't changed much, only deepened around the edges. She was in her riding tunic, hair unbraided, a scroll-case dangling from one hand. She leaned against the doorframe, watching him with the patient amusement of someone who had been watching him most of her life.
"I never slept," he said.
"You never do when Ylva has speeches to make."
He gave a small nod. "She breathes like a general before battle. It keeps me awake."
Xala smiled; the gesture was sunlight on still water. "And what war are you planning this morning?"
"Only against the dust." He brushed a finger through the beam of light, scattering the motes. "It always wins, but I like the conversation."
She crossed the floor toward him. The heel of her boot clicked once, then softened into silence. "Rorik says the council has requested your attendance this week. He thinks Ylva's been bragging."
Saviik tilted his head. "About me?"
"About her student," she corrected. "Which is you, but less dangerous to admit."
He allowed himself a breath of laughter. "She's making me learn politics before breakfast again, isn't she?"
"She says it builds immunity."
"Against?"
"Belief."
He closed the book and handed it to her. "Then let's be late on purpose."
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The council chamber occupied the western wing: a circle of stone with tall windows that spilled morning across the floor in precise geometries. The air always smelled faintly of parchment, oil, and the sharp metallic whisper of quills. Here, even speech felt rehearsed.
Lady Ylva stood at the center table, parchment unfurled, each line underlined twice in red wax. When she spoke, her tone carried the weight of ten winters and the precision of a blade balanced on its point.
"Every word," she said, "is a door. Choose which ones you open."
Saviik and Xala took their places on the benches at the perimeter. Rorik was present too, cloaked despite the warmth, his hands resting on the pommel of a walking stick that was not quite a sword.
Ylva's eyes found Saviik. "Tell me, ward of my house, what happens when the Emperor's advisors disagree before his throne?"
"They agree afterwards," he said, "so that disagreement looks like strategy."
Her lips almost curved. "Good. Then you understand why truth is too valuable to be spoken plainly."
The room fell into its measured work. Quills scratched, messengers entered and left, scrolls were tied and sealed. The sunlight shifted by inches. Saviik sat still, absorbing the rhythm of bureaucracy—the slow heartbeat of Empire.
When at last they adjourned, Ylva gathered her scrolls. "You learn quickly," she said. "Faster than is safe."
Rorik chuckled behind her. "Safe? That's not what we're raising him for."
"No," Ylva said, turning to the boy. "We're raising him to be precise." She fixed him with her gaze. "Precision frightens people. Remember that."
He inclined his head. "I'll try to be imprecise when possible."
She almost smiled. "Do. It will make you friends."
---
After the council dispersed, he found Xala waiting by the open colonnade that led to the garden. Sunlight fell in long bars across her face, each a stripe of pale gold. She handed him a small parcel wrapped in cloth.
"What's this?"
"Breakfast," she said. "You forgot it again."
He unwrapped it: bread, honey, and a thin slice of apple. The scent was enough to remind him of simpler mornings. He took a bite, the crust crisp against his teeth. "You're early," he said.
"I was curious if you'd start glowing from all that wisdom."
He smiled without looking at her. "Not yet."
They walked along the edge of the garden where the roses were still wet. The bees made a low, constant hum; above them the sky had that washed clarity that comes after night rain. The city below was waking—banners on the towers catching the first draft of wind, merchants calling for water to wash the dust from their stalls.
"What do you think you'll do," she asked quietly, "once there's nothing left here to learn?"
He looked toward the horizon, where the lake met the distant walls of the Imperial City. "Then I'll have to find what can't be taught."
"And if that's back in the north?"
He didn't answer right away. A cloud crossed the sun; for a moment all the colors flattened to silver. "Then I'll go," he said. "But not yet."
They walked until the path ended at the marble balustrade that overlooked the water. Below them, Lake Rumare stretched wide and still, holding the pale image of the sky. Saviik placed his hand on the stone rail; it was warm now from the light.
Xala leaned beside him. "It's strange," she said, "how it reflects everything, but keeps nothing."
"Maybe that's what patience looks like," he said.
"Or loneliness."
He turned toward her, the breeze lifting a strand of her red hair against his sleeve. "Do you know the difference?"
She thought for a moment. "Not when I'm with you."
He smiled, and in that small pause the whole world seemed to listen—the bees, the breeze, the water—all waiting for the next breath.