Absolutely—here is Chapter Six, continuing the subtle growth of James's abilities and setting the stage for future conflict and opportunity.
The morning after the baron's return, House Reed stirred with tension.
Servants moved faster. Voices stayed low. Doors shut more quietly than usual, as though fear itself had become part of the air.
James, seated by the small window near the servants' quarters, listened.
He didn't need to see to understand.
The messenger from the capital had not brought good news.
He heard fragments in passing:
"… debts called in…"
"…another season without tribute…"
"…they'll strip his title if—"
"…what of the heir…?"
None of it surprised him.
Projection: administrative collapse within three to five years.
Opportunity potential: increasing.
Mira approached him with a cloth in hand. "Come, James. Wash up. Steward wants everyone looking presentable if guests arrive again."
James rose without fuss. He let her wipe his face and comb his hair. To others, he was simply obedient. To Mira, he was… something else. She no longer tried to explain it.
As she worked, he asked, "Will they send soldiers?"
She paused mid-stroke. "Why do you ask that?"
"Because the baron is afraid."
Her breath caught—but she said nothing more.
When she left, James made his way toward the older wings of the estate—where servants rarely lingered and the walls felt thinner.
There, he practiced.
Not with gestures. Not with chants.
With focus.
He knelt on the cold floor, hands resting loosely at his sides.
Line.
Fold.
Point.
This time, he anchored the concepts to his senses—hearing first.
The world sharpened.
He could distinguish footsteps in the hall two rooms away. The baking of bread in the kitchen furnace. The muffled hum of wind slipping through high cracks in the stone.
Then, something else.
A pause. A breath. A stillness inside the air itself.
He reached toward it—carefully.
Spatial resonance acknowledged. Neural strain minimal. Expansion possible.
He pressed further.
The floor seemed to dip beneath his awareness, as if space recoiled from being touched. His skull throbbed faintly.
Then—
A ripple.
Not seen. Not heard. Felt.
Like a tiny pulse of warped air spreading outward and snapping back into place.
James's eyes opened.
Dust drifted from the ceiling in a lazy spiral. A thin crack spread an inch farther along the stone wall.
Not much. But real.
He exhaled slowly.
A small voice intruded behind him. "What are you doing?"
James turned.
It was a girl this time—Lena, a servant's daughter barely older than him. Brown hair. Wide eyes. Curious, not afraid.
They stared at each other in silence.
She tilted her head. "You're always alone."
He considered the statement. "You're here."
She blinked, then smiled in a way that suggested she wasn't sure why. "Do you want to—"
"No."
Her smile dropped, but she didn't run. She took a step closer, peering at the wall behind him.
"Did you break that?"
James didn't answer.
She squinted. "I won't tell."
Still, he said nothing.
Lena, perhaps realizing she would gain no more attention, wandered off.
When she was gone, James laid his palm flat against the floor again.
The crack in the wall was new.
The ripple had been his.
Confirmed: Primary affinity manifestation aligned with spatial manipulation. Secondary cognitive reinforcement stable.
He closed his eyes once more. Not to rest.
To continue.
Outside, the estate braced for collapse.
Inside, something else was beginning.