The carriage rumbles forward, the movement smooth yet deliberate, cushioned by fine craftsmanship. Seated in my mother’s lap, I am positioned to see the world beyond the narrow window, and for the first time, the city of my birth stretches before me.

  We pass through the towering gates of the estate, flanked by armored guards in House Larkin’s deep navy and silver. As we emerge onto the grand boulevard beyond, the sheer scale of the city unfolds. Tall buildings of white stone and dark timber loom over the cobbled streets, their rooftops adorned with banners bearing the crest of the royal house and noble families alike. Ribbons of deep indigo and gold flutter in the breeze, marking today as a day of great significance.

  The people know it, too.

  The streets are thick with crowds, citizens gathered in great numbers, pressing forward to glimpse the carriage. Men and women dressed in the garb of merchants, artisans, and laborers stand alongside children perched on ledges, their eager faces turned toward us. They whisper, some hushed in reverence, others bold enough to call out words I cannot yet decipher. Hands reach toward us, not in desperation, but in tradition—hoping to touch the air that follows a noble procession, to feel a part of history.

  Lines of guards walk alongside the carriage, parting the crowds with measured steps, their polished halberds gleaming in the midday light. More guards are stationed above—watchmen in navy cloaks stand at key points along the rooftops, their crossbows idle but present, a reminder that even in celebration, vigilance remains.

  We pass through the merchant quarter, where the scents of spice, leather, and roasted meats mingle in the air. Market stalls display wares from across the known world—bolts of fabric dyed in deep reds and greens, jewelry inset with foreign gems, weapons of steel and bronze catching the sunlight. Hawkers paused their cries, watching us instead, their gazes filled with curiosity, ambition, or something quieter—hope, perhaps.

  Beyond the markets, the architecture grows grander, the buildings rising higher, their facades carved with figures of saints, kings, and warriors. Great stone bridges arch over the streets, connecting structures that bear the weight of centuries. Some bear gargoyles—symbols of protection against the unseen. Others display statues of past rulers, their eyes carved with unsettling precision, as if watching those who pass beneath them.

  Banners hang from every archway, draped across balconies, lining the roads. Some bear the royal crest—a golden sunburst over a field of black. Others display sigils of noble houses: the black stag of House Verdane, the twin gryphons of House Callis, and more I cannot yet name but will one day need to remember.

  And then, rising above the city, stands the cathedral.

  The spires pierce the sky like the lances of giants, their stained-glass windows reflecting fractured rainbows onto the streets below. The main dome, adorned in gold and inlaid with lapis, gleams under the sun’s full radiance. Its bells ring out, deep and resonant, marking the hour—marking my arrival.

  The square before the cathedral is vast, paved with smooth stone that has been polished by centuries of footfalls. Here, the noble families have gathered, their carriages arranged in meticulous lines along the edges of the square. Each bears the colors and sigils of their houses, their coats of arms emblazoned in gold and silver upon their doors. Liveried footmen stand beside them, awaiting their masters' return, their posture stiff with formality.

  At the heart of the square, a raised platform stands before the cathedral steps, a single altar draped in heavy indigo cloth embroidered with celestial symbols. The officiants wait there, robed in deep blue, their hands folded in solemnity.

  The carriage comes to a halt.

  A hush falls over the gathered crowd as the door is opened by one of the footmen. Sunlight streams inside, illuminating the interior in a golden glow. My mother adjusts my garments, smoothing the silk with precise fingers, before turning her gaze toward my father.

  It is time.

  Outside, beneath the cathedral’s watchful spires, the city holds its breath.

  A quiet so profound it feels unnatural, as though the entire world is holding its breath. The gathered nobles stand in reverent anticipation. The common folk, pressed along the edges of the square, hush even their murmurs. The cathedral looms behind the dais, its spires seeming to pierce the heavens themselves. And in the center of it all, my mother and father walk the grand path, their footfalls measured and unhurried as they approach the officiant waiting at the altar.

  I am held in my mother’s arms, and though I am an infant in their eyes, I watch. I listen.

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  Whispers, hushed but sharp, slither through the air from the noble contingent gathered to one side. Their faces remain composed, their expressions polite, but behind shaded eyes and passive gazes, I see the veiled smirks, the calculating glances exchanged between them.

  “Not of the bloodline,” someone murmurs, barely above a breath.

  “Larkin only by marriage,” another agrees.

  “Will her blood be strong enough to forge a true heir?”

  A well-dressed lord with silver-threaded hair does not speak, but his smirk says enough.

  I make note of their words, of their crests—each sigil embroidered in rich thread on their doublets, pinned in gold to their cloaks. House Verdane, the black stag. House Callis, the twin gryphons. Others, too, all watching, waiting, weighing my worth.

  My mother does not react to their whispers, but I feel the tension in her frame, the way she cradles me just a bit closer before reaching the dais. My father’s expression remains carved from stone, but I sense the steel beneath it, the restraint of a man who has heard these doubts before and let them roll off his back. Today, however, those whispers matter.

  Today is the day I am named.

  When we reach the base of the dais, my mother does something unexpected. Instead of placing me upon the altar-like platform where the officiant stands, she sets me down beside her, between herself and my father.

  A gasp ripples through the gathered nobles. A murmur follows, soft but unmistakable.

  I glance at the priest on the dais, an aged man draped in heavy indigo robes lined with silver filigree. The priest’s eyes are sharp despite his age, his expression unreadable beneath heavy brows. The deep blue of his robes pools around him like a shadow, and the weight of tradition clings to him as if he has stood in this very place a hundred times before. His weathered hands grip an ornate tome. His brow furrows, deep lines of surprise cutting across his face. I gather, from the faint shift in his stance and the flicker of confusion in his eyes, that I should be on the dais itself.

  My father does not move his head, but his sharp eyes shift downward to me. His voice is even, but beneath it lies something heavier, something measured.

  “Go on, son.”

  I do not know the rules of this game, nor do I know all the players, but I know it is a game. And if I do not know the rules, then I will make my own.

  I do not move.

  A heartbeat. Then another. The silence stretches, and I hear the first murmurs in the crowd. Uncertainty flickers across my mother’s otherwise unshakable composure. My father, still as stone, lets the barest thread of tension tighten across his shoulders.

  A child, no older than one, expected to perform something beyond the nature of any infant. The doubt begins to grow.

  Just before that doubt takes root, before the tension snaps into something more, I move.

  Small steps, careful, deliberate, I climb the dais. I do not stumble. I do not rush. When I reach the center, I stand tall, or as tall as a one-year-old can, facing the officiant.

  The murmurs shift, some voices falling into silence, others carrying the sharp edge of reassessment. The noble with silver-threaded hair tilts his head ever so slightly, his fingers tapping once against the pommel of a ceremonial sword. Another noblewoman exchanges a glance with the man beside her, their expressions unreadable.

  The tension eases. A slow breath escapes the priest, and his lips curl into a faint smile. He adjusts his grip on the great tome and begins his invocation, his voice low and reverent, intoning words I do not recognize. A language I have not yet heard in this life.

  But my name is spoken within it.

  To my arcane senses—honed across lifetimes in realms where magic thrived, where mana ebbed and flowed like a second heartbeat—I feel it.

  The mana moves.

  Not at my call, not at my will, but in response to the priest’s words. It shifts, reacting to his voice, to the tome in his hands. For the first time since my birth in this world, I feel it stir where before it had been inert.

  I try to reach for it, to touch it as I have done in past lives, but it remains distant. I cannot grasp it, only observe as it responds to the officiant’s intonation. At first, I worry the magic here is solely divine, a force dictated by the gods rather than the will of men. But then—

  No. Not divine. Something else.

  I shift my perception, calling upon techniques learned in a life where magic was not a gift, but a danger, a force inimical to life itself. I see the weave, the structure of the mana’s movement, the way it bends not to faith, but to something else.

  Artifact-based?

  My eyes flicker to the tome. The way the energy coils around it, bound to its pages, suggests a conduit, not a source. And more—

  From the corner of my vision, I catch something else. Certain nobles among the crowd pull at the mana’s edges, the faintest of threads winding toward them, through them. Some are connected to it. Others are not.

  Then, the priest reaches the culmination of his invocation. The mana swells, rushing upward in a single pulse before crashing down toward me.

  It does not burn. It does not harm.

  It takes form.

  Before me, suspended in the air, script coalesces in radiant light, shifting and forming words I do not yet know how to read. But I recognize patterns. I recognize structure. My name is among them. A sharp inhale from somewhere among the noble contingent. A fan snaps shut, too quickly. The silver-haired noble shifts, his gaze no longer idly amused but sharply intent. A woman in royal blue mutters something beneath her breath, her fingers tightening around the edge of her cloak.

  A breath behind me. My father’s.

  A shuddering sob quickly stifled. My mother.

  I turn to look, and I see bright smiles on their faces, tears in their eyes.

  My father, usually composed, exhales as though releasing something long held in check. My mother does not blink, her lips parted slightly, her fingers curling against the folds of her gown.

  I do not know what the words say.

  But I know this—whatever has been revealed, it is not small.

  Then, the priest inhales sharply.

  “Heir? Not house heir? Just heir?” his voice nearly lost beneath the collective exhale of the crowd. “Oh, the crown will not be happy.”