I woke up early the next morning.

  The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and grass. There was no urgency pressing against my thoughts, no lingering tension from battle—just the quiet certainty that the day had begun. For a moment, I lay still, listening to the distant sounds of the territory waking up.

  I got up soon after and stepped outside with my sword.

  The ground was still slightly wet from the night, perfect for footing practice. I began with the basics—draw, slash, return. Slow at first, then faster. Quick draw flowed naturally now, the movement ingrained into muscle rather than thought. I added quick slash midway through, shortening the motion, tightening the arc. Each repetition shaved away excess movement.

  Practice was different from sparring. There was no opponent, no pressure to react—only correction. When my stance faltered, I adjusted it. When my timing felt off, I reset and started again. By the time my breathing grew heavier, the chill in the air had faded.

  I sheathed my sword and returned inside.

  After breakfast, I went to my mother’s study. She was already at work, documents spread neatly across the desk. Maps of the territory, reports from outposts, supply ledgers—familiar things. I took a seat without being asked and began sorting through the paperwork that didn’t require her direct attention.

  This had become routine.

  I didn’t need to be told what to do. Some letters needed summarizing, some figures double-checked, others simply archived. It wasn’t difficult work, but it was steady. I listened as my mother gave instructions to attendants, occasionally asking my opinion when something concerned logistics or timing.

  Helping like this felt natural.

  Between tasks, I carried documents to the clerks’ room, returned with updated reports, and relayed messages when needed. Time passed without notice.

  A few months passed.

  My brother arrived in the afternoon.

  There was no grand welcome. Just the sound of carriage wheels in the courtyard and familiar footsteps I hadn’t heard in months.

  He looked the same at first glance—taller than me, broader shoulders, the faint confidence of someone who had settled into a new environment. But there were small changes. His posture was straighter. His gaze sharper.

  The carriage hadn’t fully stopped before my mother stepped outside. She didn’t rush, but her pace was quicker than usual. I followed a step behind.

  “You’re early,” she said as he climbed down.

  “I had permission,” he replied easily. “I’d rather spend it here than stare at stone walls.”

  She studied him from head to toe, then nodded once. “You look well.”

  “That’s the academy’s fault,” he said. “They feed us properly.”

  My mother sighed, but there was relief in it. “Come inside. You can tell me everything you didn’t put in your letters.”

  As we walked, my brother glanced at me. “I heard you’ve been busy.”

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  “He has,” my mother said before I could answer. “More than I’d like.”

  “You’ve grown,” he said after looking me over. “Or maybe you finally stopped slouching.”

  “You’ve gotten noisier,” I replied.

  He laughed, the sound easy.

  Over the next few days, we spent time together without planning it. Meals, short walks through the territory, the occasional sparring session where he held back more than he needed to. He talked about the academy—classes, instructors, duels that never quite crossed the line into danger. Nothing unusual. Nothing that contradicted what I remembered.

  I listened carefully.

  When I asked questions, I kept them simple. Training schedules. Evaluation methods. How often students were allowed to leave the grounds. He answered without suspicion, assuming curiosity rather than calculation.

  On the third day, he watched me practice swordsmanship.

  “You’re faster,” he said. “Not strong yet, but… cleaner.”

  I didn’t deny it.

  He asked me about the dungeon.

  Not directly. Not at first.

  “I heard you went into a dungeon,” he said while we walked through the courtyard. “With Lyra.”

  I nodded.

  He slowed his steps slightly. “And?”

  “It was a C-grade dungeon,” I replied. “I overestimated myself.”

  He stopped this time and looked at me properly. “That’s not an answer.”

  I exhaled once. “There was an incident. I wasn’t injured badly. Lyra handled it.”

  His expression tightened. Not anger—concern. The kind he tried to hide behind composure.

  “You’re twelve,” he said quietly.

  “I know.”

  “Then why were you even there?”

  I thought about it for a moment before answering. “Because practice isn’t combat.”

  He didn’t argue. That worried me more than if he had.

  After a pause, he reached out and rested a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t rush things. The academy isn’t going anywhere.”

  I nodded.

  I didn’t tell him that some things would happen whether I was ready or not.

  We toured the territory together over the next few days.

  It wasn’t anything formal—no escorts, no announcements. Just the two of us walking familiar roads. He asked about crop yields and patrol routes the way someone would after living away for months, trying to fit old places into a newer frame of reference. I answered where I could, corrected him where things had changed.

  He noticed more than I expected. The repaired embankments near the eastern fields. The new watch rotation along the river. Small adjustments, but deliberate ones.

  “You’ve been busy,” he said at one point.

  “So have you,” I replied.

  On the fifth day, we went to the magic tower.

  The structure rose above the surrounding buildings, familiar and unchanged. Inside, the air carried the faint pressure of active arrays. My father was there, as expected—half-listening to a report while adjusting a formation circle with one hand.

  “You’re back,” he said, glancing up at my brother.

  “For a few days,” my brother replied. “I thought I’d check if you’d blown anything up in my absence.”

  My father snorted and waved him closer. They spoke about academy lessons and spell theory for a while, slipping easily into a rhythm I recognized. I stayed nearby, observing, answering when addressed.

  At one point, my brother looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been coming here often?”

  “When I’m free,” I said.

  That earned a quiet laugh from both of them.

  The visit ended without ceremony. No declarations, no parting words heavy with meaning. We left the tower as we had entered it.

  As we left the tower, my brother glanced at me sideways.

  “Have you attended any gatherings?”

  “What kind?” I asked, though I already knew.

  “Noble ones,” he said. “Banquets. Salons. Even the smaller evening receptions. Mother gets invitations.”

  I shook my head.

  He frowned slightly. “None at all?”

  “I was never sent,” I replied. “And I didn’t ask.”

  He let out a short breath. “They’re tedious,” he admitted. “But that’s where relationships are formed. Future allies, rivals, obligations. You don’t notice it at first, but by the academy, everyone already knows each other.”

  I considered that.

  I knew how those gatherings worked. Polite conversations layered with intent. Children paraded as heirs. Every word measured, every gesture noted. It wasn’t about enjoyment—it was positioning.

  “I’m twelve,” I said.

  “So was I when I attended my first,” he replied. “I hated it.”

  That almost made me smile.

  “I’ve been busy,” I said instead.

  He studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Just… don’t shut yourself away completely. Connections matter. Even if you don’t plan to use them yet.”

  I didn’t answer right away.

  He was right. I knew that.

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” I said.

  He left a few days later, it felt natural. Like a pause rather than a separation.

  He would return to the academy.

  And I would keep preparing.