The bruise had become more interesting overnight. Purple near the center. Red along one edge. A dull yellow patch that looked older than yesterday's mistake.
I lowered my sleeve before the attendant could offer another opinion.
"The coat will be ready this evening," he said.
"Good."
"A fresh wrap for the hand?"
I flexed my fingers. Slowly.
"After breakfast."
He left the cloth beside the basin and withdrew. I waited until the door closed before trying to raise my arm above shoulder height.
No. Not unless I wanted my entire face to explain the bruise.
That ruled out another thing I hadn't planned to do anyway. It was still irritating to lose the choice.
Tomorrow morning, Cassian would examine the core. I had spent enough time looking at the date that I could picture the shape of each number with my eyes closed.
I put the notice in a drawer. It wasn't going to arrive any faster because I watched it.
Breakfast came and went. I tasted almost none of it, but the bowl was empty when I finished. The bread took longer. I ate that too, then carried my notes to the practice room.
The attendant opened the door and looked at the fixtures.
"None today," I said.
He bowed and waited outside.
I set a chair at the far end of the first floor square. There was no reason to pretend the chair was frightening. It was simply somewhere to direct my eyes instead of watching my own hands.
Three paces. Stop. My left shoulder pulled beneath the coat. I shortened the last step so I didn't swing the arm as much.
That looked awkward.
I tried again with both hands resting loosely at my sides.
Better.
"The flow is cleaner," I said to the chair. "It doesn't last."
The chair declined to ask a follow-up question.
I asked one myself.
Why not?
I had three answers I wanted to give and no reason to believe any of them would satisfy my father.
Because the core was damaged. Because I had only been learning to use it for two weeks. Because the person he expected to meet wasn't here.
Only the first belonged in the room tomorrow.
"The path still catches under sustained pressure."
That sounded less helpless. It also described something I had actually felt.
I tried saying it without sounding as if I had practiced.
After the fourth attempt, every word felt borrowed. I stopped talking.
The useful part was the sequence, not a perfect sentence. If Cassian asked a different question, a rehearsed answer would become another thing I had to hide.
I stood on the mark and breathed.
In through the nose. Let the shoulders settle. Don't brace the ribs before drawing on the core.
No Aether moved. I followed the timing anyway, touching thumb to finger when the imaginary flow reached my wrist.
One short release. Stop before the heat.
Then let the hand fall instead of holding it out and giving everyone time to watch it shake.
I repeated the movements until I could do them without checking the page. After that, I sat on the bench and went through the parts I couldn't rehearse.
He could choose another target.
He could ask for more than one release.
He could decide the armsman's report already told him everything he needed to know.
None of those required him to read my mind. All he needed was a damaged heir, a private room, and the authority to make his own treatment sound necessary.
I remembered the game report about a bloodline correction.
No scene. No useful warning beyond the result.
I wished I had cared more about it when it was only a paragraph between events I wanted to reach.
Near midday, the attendant came to collect me for lunch. He found the equipment untouched and my notes folded on the bench.
"Has a time been set for tomorrow's room preparation?" I asked.
"His Grace's office has requested your acknowledgment this evening."
"In person?"
"At the outer study."
I nodded before he could notice how much I disliked the extra visit.
There was no reason to assume an acknowledgment meant a test today. There was also no reason to arrive looking as if I had spent the morning worrying about that possibility.
I returned to my room and spent the afternoon doing very little.
That was harder than practice.
The ledger of expenses sat beside the packing list. I read them to keep my eyes busy, checked a line about travel meals, and moved it to the list of things I still needed explained.
For a few minutes, I even forgot the study.
From the window, I could see a wagon waiting near the gatehouse. The driver sat with a paper held between two fingers while a guard checked the load.
The gate stood open behind them.
I watched the space beyond it.
Leave today.
The thought had been waiting for a quiet moment. No examination. No hand on a testing plate. Find a plain coat, take what money I could reach, and walk away before anyone decided to check my rooms.
For several breaths, I let the plan remain that simple.
Then the guard handed the driver's paper back and called another man over to examine something beneath the wagon's covering.
Even that load wasn't leaving because the road looked available.
I had Cedric's face, an injured hand, and no idea how far the next town lay. Every coin available to me belonged to an account someone recorded. Every person who could arrange a horse knew whose son wanted it.
Once outside, I would have to sleep somewhere. Eat. Find help without giving the name that currently paid for all three.
It wasn't impossible. That made it harder to dismiss, not easier to choose.
If the examination left me no other option, I might still run. Today, fleeing meant exchanging one danger I partly understood for a road full of costs I couldn't yet pay.
The wagon finally moved through the gate. I watched until it disappeared behind the wall, then returned to the packing list.
I kept the plainest coat among the clothes marked for travel.
Then someone dropped a tray in the corridor.
I was on my feet before the last rattle stopped.
Silence followed.
A woman's voice said something too low to hear. Another voice answered. No shouting. No summons.
I sat down again, annoyed by how quickly my body had decided the noise concerned me.
At sunset, I put on the prepared coat.
The attendant checked the shoulder seam and made a small adjustment so it didn't pull across the bruise. I could have asked whether the mark showed through the fabric. I didn't want him wondering why I was so interested.
"The sleeves?" I said.
"Loose enough, young master."
He stepped back.
Bare hands. No personal equipment. No folder full of reasons to think I had forgotten how my own body worked.
I left the notes in the desk.
The route to the study passed beyond the familiar rooms. Carpet gave way to a dark runner between polished boards. Fewer people worked here. The ones I saw moved quietly without anyone reminding them.
An older servant waited outside a side door with a tray of clean glasses.
As we approached, the stem of one glass touched another.
The sound was small. He stopped breathing for a moment anyway.
I looked toward the closed study door. Nothing happened.
The servant adjusted the cloth under the glasses with his thumb. A mark showed where he had pressed too hard against the tray's edge.
My attendant lowered his own voice.
"Young master, here."
He indicated a chair near the outer desk.
I sat because standing would make me look impatient, and because the walk had started to pull at my shoulder.
The steward was speaking with a junior clerk. I had seen the steward only at a distance before. He looked like a man who slept with tomorrow's problems arranged beside the bed.
He finished checking a sheet, sent the clerk away, and came toward me.
"Lord Cedric. His Grace has received your practice report."
"Both reports?"
"Yes."
So he knew about the strike.
I kept my hands loose on my knees.
The steward placed a short acknowledgment on the table. Same time tomorrow. Same room. No equipment from my quarters.
I read it before signing.
Behind the inner door, a chair moved.
The servant with the glasses straightened so suddenly one foot slipped on the board. He caught himself without spilling anything. The steward glanced toward him, then returned to the paper.
Nobody said a word about it.
I handed the pen back.
"Will the demonstration use the room's fixtures?" I asked.
"His Grace will provide the required target."
No more specific answer than that.
I rose, ready to leave before I asked something worse.
The inner door opened a little. The steward turned immediately.
I saw a section of the desk, the edge of a high-backed chair, and a hand resting beside a closed book.
"The order has changed," a man's voice said.
Low. Clear. No need to raise it with everyone already listening.
The steward inclined his head.
"Your Grace?"
"Pressure first. The demonstration afterward."
I kept looking at the steward because turning toward the voice too quickly would show how much the words mattered.
My entire plan began with a rested core and one clean release.
Tomorrow, my father intended to see what remained after he had pressed on the damage.
"Amend the acknowledgment," he said.
The steward reached for the paper I had just signed.