The study was warm, the scent of ink and parchment thick in the air. Candlelight flickered in the dim space, reflecting off polished mahogany and the gilded spines of countless tomes lining the walls. Heavy drapes muted the outside world, sealing the room in an intimate hush. For the first time since my naming, there were no spectators, no watchful nobles or murmuring priests—only my parents and me.

  The door shut with a firm click as Havish and Isla were dismissed. My mother exhaled softly, a barely perceptible shift in her demeanor as she moved further into the room. Her free hand rose to her hair, carefully pulling free the decorative pins that held it in its formal arrangement. The strands cascaded down, a quiet gesture, a sign that she was shedding the weight of her station. My father, ever composed, leaned back against the desk, his fingers tapping absently on its polished surface. The rigid posture he had carried throughout the ceremony eased, if only slightly.

  For the first time, they were not the Duke and Duchess of Larkin. They were simply Sven and Catharine.

  “I don’t know what this means for him,” my mother said softly. “Sven, what do we do?”

  My father’s gaze lingered on the far wall, where an intricate map of the kingdom stretched across a canvas of parchment. His fingers stilled, his jaw tightening. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “And that terrifies me.”

  It was the first unguarded admission I had ever heard from him.

  Neither of them were addressing me, though I was right there, nestled in my mother’s arms, silent and watchful. They spoke over me, past me, their words stripped of courtly formality. It was a conversation meant to be private, the kind only shared between those who trusted each other with their deepest fears.

  Catharine stepped closer, resting a hand on his arm. “We knew the title would be important, but—‘Heir’?”

  Sven shook his head, exhaling sharply. “Not House Heir. Not Crown Heir. Just ‘Heir.’”

  The word hung between them, weighted with unspoken meaning.

  “I hoped and prepared for House Heir,” my mother said, shaking her head. “For the court to turn their eyes toward him, to watch and scheme, yes. But this—this is too broad, too undefined. They won’t just watch him, Sven. They’ll fear him.”

  “They already do,” my father murmured. “They just don’t realize it yet.”

  Catharine’s fingers tightened where they rested against his sleeve. “What was written?” she asked, voice hushed. “What else?”

  Sven’s eyes darkened. “It wasn’t just the title. It was... more. I couldn’t read all of it, but I saw enough.” He hesitated. “It wasn’t a prophecy. Not exactly. It was a possibility.”

  My mother went still. “A possibility.”

  “A shaping of what could be,” he clarified. “That’s what terrifies me, Catharine. It doesn’t tell a future. It sets the path toward one.”

  I listened, absorbing everything.

  The title was more than just an honorific. It was a binding.

  Marla’s words whispered through my mind. The ceremony was a spell, not just a declaration. The title granted was not merely recognition but something deeper. It became part of the bearer, embedding into the very fabric of their existence. A baker did not just carry a name—his title subtly shaped the world around him, bending chance in his favor, making his hands more skilled, his senses more attuned to his craft. It stretched beyond mere luck or talent; it was certainty, influence woven into reality itself.

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  Sven ran a hand over his face, fingers trailing across his temples as if rubbing away an unseen weight. “Titles shape reality. A baker can influence not just the yeast but the crop yield itself, ensuring a better harvest to support his trade.”

  I felt a chill settle in my bones. The broader the title, the more areas a person could affect. The more weight it carried. A soldier could enhance his reflexes, sense battle before it arrived. A diplomat could turn the tides of a conversation before a single word was spoken.

  And mine was unmoored from any constraints.

  I was not simply a successor to a lineage, not a ruler tied to a singular house. My title had no defined inheritance, no limitations. Heir—a word with no boundaries, no direct ties to one thing. What could I inherit? What was I bound to?

  A slow breath escaped my father. “This will not go unnoticed.”

  “No,” my mother murmured, glancing down at me, her expression unreadable. “The monarchy will see him as a threat.”

  Sven’s lips pressed into a thin line. “And they will move accordingly.”

  Catharine let out a slow breath, brushing her thumb absently over my sleeve. “We need to prepare him. We need to be careful.”

  “We need to survive,” my father corrected. “He may have been named Heir today, but we are already on borrowed time.”

  A chill coiled at the base of my spine.

  They weren’t just considering what this meant for our house, for our family. They were considering what this meant for my survival.

  I had thought my presence in this study was a mystery, but now I understood. This conversation was not just for them. It was for me.

  My father exhaled, then reached forward, his movements slow and deliberate. Without another word, he took me from my mother’s arms, cradling me for a moment before settling me on his knee.

  For the first time, he looked at me—not as an infant, not as an unknowing child, but as something more. Something inevitable.

  And then, he began to speak.

  “Aurelius, whether you ever hear these words as I say them now, or only when you are older, know this—our family is not safe. Larkin blood has always been at the center of power, but we are not the ruling house. We are the weight that keeps the crown from floating too high, the chain that tethers ambition before it spirals beyond control.”

  He paused, his fingers pressing lightly against my back as though to ground himself. “The monarchy fears what it cannot control. Nobility fears what it does not understand. And you—” His voice dropped lower. “You are both. An Heir with no boundary, no clear inheritance, only possibility.”

  I thought, for a moment, that he had realized I could understand him. That my silence had not deceived him. But then—I saw it.

  The mana in the room shifted, responding to his words, curling in slow, deliberate patterns around us. He was weaving something into the air, into the very space between us. A message, not for now, but for later.

  Realization crashed down on me like cold water. He does not expect to see me grow up.

  Sven continued, his voice even, composed, but I could feel the weight behind it. “Larkin’s strength is not in power alone. It is in knowing when to wield it. We have survived because we do not overreach. We do not challenge the crown, we do not antagonize Parliament. But you, Aurelius… your very existence upsets that balance.”

  His fingers curled slightly at his side. “I do not know what fate awaits you, but you must be careful. You must be wise. And when the time comes, you must decide what it truly means to be Heir.”

  He leaned forward, pressing a kiss against my temple, his breath warm against my skin. “Remember.”

  And the mana carried his words into the unseen, waiting for the day I would hear them again.

  Catharine moved as well, sliding close, wrapping her arms around Sven’s side as she leaned into him. Her embrace was not for comfort alone—it was an anchor, a final defiance against the tide she knew was coming.

  Tears welled in her eyes, spilling quietly down her cheeks, mirrored by the unshed grief in Sven’s own. They gazed down at me, their son, barely turned one, now both the hope and the horror of their lives.

  Catharine’s voice was softer than my father’s, filled with quiet sorrow. “My little one,” she murmured, fingers tracing the soft curve of my cheek. “We had so many hopes for you. I wanted you to be safe. To be loved.”

  Sven’s grip on me tightened ever so slightly. “We don’t know what’s coming,” he said, his voice thick. “But we will do everything in our power to give you a chance.”

  I saw the raw emotion in them, the undeniable love. A memory stirred, rising like a whisper—a face framed by silver leaves, luminous eyes looking up at me. But I shoved it down. That life was sacred. I could not allow myself to dwell on it now.

  For the briefest moment, I considered it—considered revealing that I could hear them, that I knew. But the moment passed.

  A sharp knock at the door shattered the fragile quiet. Havish’s voice carried through the heavy wood. “Your Grace.”

  My parents straightened instantly, masks of nobility sliding back into place. Catharine wiped her tears with practiced ease. Sven exhaled, setting me gently back against my mother’s chest.

  The moment was gone, but I would remember.