The heavy tread of boots echoes down the corridor, measured and deliberate. The sound alone is enough to shift the atmosphere in the nursery. The quiet murmurs of the guards still, the tension in the room condensing like a storm about to break.

  Then the door swings open, and Sven enters.

  The Archduke does not rush, nor does he pause unnecessarily. His presence alone commands the space, and the moment he crosses the threshold, it is as if the air itself pulls taut. The guards stationed in the nursery stiffen instinctively, their posture snapping to rigid discipline as though compelled by an unspoken command. Even the household staff—those still lingering—subtly shift, their hands stilling over folded linens, their breathing careful.

  Mother stands close to my crib, protective but composed. Her hands are steady, but I can see the faint tightness in her jaw, the careful control of someone who must appear calm even as the unknown looms before her. Still, she wastes no time. The moment Sven halts, she speaks.

  "The maids reported that he did not wake at the expected time and was thrashing in his crib," she states, her voice crisp and controlled.

  Internally, I scoff. All of this—this tension, this urgency—over a bad dream and some tossing in my sleep? Even I find it absurd.

  I glance at the guards in the room, sensing the barely perceptible shift in their stance. A flicker of disappointment? Perhaps even disbelief? None of them speak out of turn, but I feel it—the restrained frustration of men who have been summoned to deal with an infant’s restless nap.

  I share their sentiment.

  Sven, however, does not immediately dismiss the concern. His gaze sweeps the room slowly, assessing something unseen. His posture does not relax, and neither do his men. Then, finally, he turns to my mother.

  "Marla knows better," he says simply.

  Mother gives a curt nod. "Isla made the report."

  That changes everything.

  Sven straightens just slightly, and so do the two guards who flanked him—men who, judging by their insignia, seem to be officers. I don’t understand.

  Mother has shown a preference for having Isla near me, but now I see it—her word carries more weight with the Archduke than even Marla’s, the head maid who has served this household since before my mother was born.

  Why? Who is Isla to command such trust?

  Sven does not question it. Instead, he turns to his men. "Sweep the room, then station outside the windows and doors."

  He looks to Havish next. "Send word to Captain Valcroft to lock down the estate. No one leaves or enters the grounds."

  The room bursts into movement, guards shifting into action as orders are carried out. The stillness from before is gone, replaced by efficiency honed through years of discipline. The air thrums with a newfound sense of control.

  One of the officers remains at Sven’s side, while Mother stays over my cradle, her watchful gaze unmoving.

  And I cannot help but wonder—who exactly is Isla, and why does her word send even seasoned warriors into motion?

  The silence that follows the sudden flurry of activity is heavy, weighted with expectation. The guards who had been stationed inside the nursery now move to their new posts, sealing the space from outside threats. The only ones left are Sven, my mother, Isla, the remaining officer, and myself.

  Sven finally turns his full attention to Isla. "What did you sense?" His voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it, something deeper lurking beneath the words. He is not asking out of idle curiosity.

  Isla, to her credit, does not waver. "There was a shift," she says, measured and precise. "Not external. It was within the room, within the young lord’s space. The wards reacted. The air was disturbed, though nothing breached the perimeter."

  Sven’s brow furrows. "The wards?"

  "Yes, Your Grace." Isla’s hands remain clasped before her, her posture unwavering. Isla’s brow furrows slightly. “It was not an attack,” she says, but there’s a flicker of hesitation before she continues. “Not forced intrusion. But there was… movement.”

  A deep silence follows. I remain motionless, watching. She is right, though she does not know the full extent of what she felt. It was my doing. The mana I had been pulling, the enhancements I had been layering onto myself—it must have created ripples in the estate’s protections, disturbing them without triggering an outright alarm. I had underestimated the sensitivity of these wards.

  I bite back my frustration. I had been careful, meticulous even, but it seems that even subtle shifts in mana do not go unnoticed in this house. If I am to continue my training, I will need to be even more discreet.

  Sven looks toward my mother, their exchange brief but meaningful. Then he turns to the officer at his side. "Get the wardmasters to reexamine the estate’s protections. I want a full report."

  The officer bows and strides out without another word.

  "Isla," Sven’s gaze sharpens on her. "Bring my son." He nods to Catharine, then turns for the door.

  Mother exhales quietly, her fingers brushing over the edge of my cradle before she steps back. "If the wards reacted, then something was set in motion."

  Isla steps to the edge of my cradle, and hesitates for the briefest of moments before lifting me and following Catharine as she trails after Sven.

  The hallway outside the nursery is a flurry of movement. Servants rush to secure shutters, bolt doors, and pull heavy drapes over windows. Guards move in tight formations, their polished armor reflecting the flickering torchlight lining the corridor. Their boots thud heavily against the stone floors, a constant rhythm of controlled urgency. Every threshold is being fortified, every passageway accounted for. The estate is adapting, shifting into a state of controlled lockdown.

  I sense it in the air—the rigid discipline of trained men, the sharp efficiency of a household prepared for war.

  Sven walks at a steady pace, his stride unwavering despite the heightened activity around him. Catharine follows just a step behind, her usual grace barely concealing the tension radiating from her frame. Isla keeps pace, her grip on me firm but not constricting, her own expression as unreadable as ever.

  The guards flanking us move in a protective formation, ensuring that no one strays too close. The further we progress through the halls, the fewer civilians we see. Those who remain—stewards, ranking attendants—keep their heads lowered, their movements brisk.

  We reach a grand double door, Sven’s personal study, flanked by two guards in dark-plate, insignias marking them as high-ranking officers. They snap to attention as Sven approaches. Without a word, they push open the heavy doors, revealing the study beyond.

  The room is spacious, dominated by a massive desk of dark polished wood, shelves filled with thick tomes, and a grand fireplace that casts flickering shadows against the stone walls. Heavy curtains are already drawn over the windows, and additional guards stand stationed inside. The moment we step through, Sven motions to the officers outside. They nod, stepping back into position as the doors swing shut behind us with a solid thud—followed by the distinct sound of the lock clicking into place.

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  Sven turns, his sharp gaze sweeping over both Catharine and Isla. "Sit," he commands, directing Isla toward one of the leather chairs positioned near the fireplace.

  Isla hesitates for only a fraction of a second before lowering herself into the chair, adjusting me slightly in her arms. I can feel the tension in her muscles, the restrained discipline of someone unaccustomed to sitting in a lord’s study rather than standing at attention. But she does not protest.

  Sven exhales slowly, leaning back against his desk, his arms crossing over his chest. Some of the rigid tension in his stance eases slightly, though his gaze remains sharp and unreadable. He seems on the verge of saying something, his mouth opening before he glances at my mother.

  Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he gestures for her to proceed instead.

  Catharine gives the barest of nods, her expression smoothing as she moves to sit in the chair beside Isla. Her hands fold gracefully in her lap, and when she speaks, her tone is softer, almost coaxing.

  "Tell me, Isla. We have always trusted you. My father trusted you. Your mother served this house before you ever picked up a blade. What is it, really?"

  Isla flinches at the mention of her mother. A muscle in her jaw tightens, but she does not look away. Isla’s grip around me shifts slightly, but she remains silent. She looks between my mother and father, her lips pressing together in a thin line, as if debating whether to speak at all. The hesitation is unusual for her—she is always so quick to report, so direct. Finally, after a long moment, she lets out a quiet breath and seems to ease, just a fraction.

  "Do you remember when I first came to you with a concern?" she asks, her voice carefully measured. "When I told you my title changed?"

  A shock runs through me—something cold and unsettling. Titles can change? The implications claw at the edges of my mind, unraveling everything I thought I understood.

  I had assumed that the magic binding a title was absolute, that it dictated a person’s fate in a fixed, unalterable way. But if titles can shift, that means the magic is not tied to the title itself but to something else, something malleable, something that can be influenced.

  My mind races, frustration building in the pit of my stomach. I have been working under a flawed assumption, basing my entire approach on incomplete knowledge. I thought I understood the nature of this world's magic, but I was wrong. And worse, I have been rushing, grasping at threads of understanding without taking the time to unravel them fully. That mistake is costing me, again and again.

  I force myself to remain still, to bury my growing irritation. This revelation changes everything.

  Catharine’s expression darkens slightly, though she does not seem surprised. "Yes, I remember."

  Sven’s gaze sharpens, unreadable, but when he speaks, there’s something deeper beneath his words, something more than just command.

  "Isla, you have lived your entire life in the shadows. You were trained as a blade, not a shield. I know the change has been hard, having to protect- “

  Isla shifts again, her fingers flexing briefly against the fabric of my blanket, before she burst out an interruption. "I believe it has happened again."

  Sven and Catharine exchange a look, something unspoken but heavy passing between them. The weight of the revelation settles over the room like a thick fog.

  Sven exhales sharply, rubbing his temple. “Your title was already an anomaly, Isla.”

  Catharine nods, her voice quiet but steady. "‘Daughter of the Blade’—that was what the ceremony named you. My father had never seen a title like it given to a maid’s child.”

  The words hit me harder than they should. What little I have learned of titles given in this world is that they shape lives, define futures. But Isla wasn’t born into a family of warriors. She wasn’t the daughter of some master swordsman. Her mother was just a maid.

  Isla flinches slightly, but does not interrupt.

  Sven continues, “You could have followed your mother, but you didn’t. Every change after that followed a natural course. From ‘Shadow Blade’ to ‘Hidden Knife’ to ‘Master Assassin’—all a reflection of the role you honed.” His fingers tap against the desk once, a sharp movement. “And then he was born.”

  A pause. A heavy one.

  "Small changes are expected," Sven finally says, his voice measured, as though carefully considering his words. "Titles may refine themselves slightly, adapting to a person’s growth and experiences, just as yours did. But a full change? That rarely happens once, let alone twice." Sven’s gaze sharpens. “You became his shield. 'Protector of House Larkin’s Heir.' The first time, it was shocking but explainable.”

  He exhales; the tension evident in the way his fingers tighten slightly where they rest on the desk. "If you truly believe it has happened again, then we should check immediately."

  His decision is made. He moves behind his desk, opening a drawer with deliberate precision. From within, he retrieves a small, ornate box and a letter knife with an elegantly curved blade.

  Catharine leans forward without hesitation and takes me from Isla’s arms, cradling me gently. “My father was proud to have yours as our families spymaster, Isla. And we accept you as well, whatever title fate has in store for you.”

  Isla hesitates only for a fraction of a second before nodding once. "Yes, Your Grace."

  She rises smoothly, rolling back her sleeve to expose her forearm. As the fabric pulls away, I see what has been concealed beneath—an arm wrap strapped tightly to her skin, securing several thin throwing knives in carefully arranged loops.

  Realization strikes me like a hammer blow.

  She was never a maid.

  It had been obvious before, in the way she carried herself, the way she observed everything with unwavering focus. But now the truth is undeniable. Isla is a hidden guard, a weapon carefully placed within my nursery, meant to defend against threats that slip past the outer layers of security.

  She holds her arm up, wrist turned upward toward the Archduke, her expression composed, waiting.

  Sven sets the box down and opens it, revealing a black, glass-like orb resting within its velvet-lined interior. He removes it carefully, setting it atop the desk, before turning his attention back to Isla. With careful precision, he takes the letter knife and makes a shallow, precise cut across her wrist.

  A single drop of blood falls onto the orb’s surface. For a brief moment, nothing happens.

  For a heartbeat, nothing happens. I exhale. Maybe it’s nothing, maybe—

  Then the ripple comes. A flicker, barely noticeable, then all at once, the blackness vanishes, swallowed by stark, blinding white. The air in the room seems to contract around us.

  I watch, transfixed, as the blood does not merely sink into the orb but spreads, twisting and coiling within the glass-like surface. The tendrils of crimson shift unnaturally, weaving into distinct patterns—into words.

  I can recognize part of it—my name. The rest remains beyond my current grasp, the written language of this world still only half-learned. But before I can puzzle out the symbols, Sven jerks the orb back, his movements swift and uncharacteristically unmeasured. A cloth appears in his hands, and he wipes the surface clean in a rush, his jaw tight with control.

  Isla gasps sharply, stumbling backward as though physically struck. Catharine’s arms tighten around me, her fingers clutching at me instinctively. The reaction is immediate, visceral.

  Sven’s shock is evident, but his years of command keep his expression guarded. He wastes no time in returning the orb to its box, sealing it away within his desk with smooth, practiced efficiency. The action is too fast, too controlled. He does not want the words lingering in anyone’s mind longer than necessary.

  Isla exhales shakily, her hands flexing at her sides. I see the tension in her shoulders, the way she swallows hard before speaking. But she doesn’t speak. She can’t. Her breath quickens, her fingers curl into fists, and still, she fights it—until she loses.

  She buries her face in her hands. The sound that escapes her isn’t just a sob—it’s something raw, something broken. Something I don’t know how to name.

  I watch carefully. The orb must have revealed whatever title she bears now. And whatever it said—whatever magic has bound to her—has shattered her composure completely.

  Catharine stands, shifting me to her side, freeing one hand to reach for Isla. She does not hesitate, does not second-guess. She simply pulls the distraught woman into her embrace.

  For the first time, I notice the truth—Isla is younger than I had thought. She has always moved with the discipline and quiet presence of someone older, someone seasoned beyond years. But now, shoulders shaking, face hidden against Catharine’s shoulder, she looks as she is—still young, still vulnerable.

  "I have always been faithful to House Larkin," Isla chokes out between sobs. "I have done all that was asked of me. Why is this happening to me?"

  Sven leans forward slightly, his gaze sharp. "Because it shouldn’t be possible." His tone isn’t unkind, but it is firm—searching. "Your path was set. 'Shadow Blade'—'House Larkin’s Hidden Knife'—'Master Assassin.' That is the course your life should have followed."

  He shakes his head, exhaling slowly. "A weapon does not become a shield overnight. And yet, when Aurelius was born, your title changed to ‘Protector.’ Now it’s changed again."

  Isla shakes her head violently, as if trying to physically reject what she knows is true. “No. It’s a mistake.”

  She presses her hands to her temples, breathing unevenly. "Titles change with growth. They refine. This—this isn’t refinement. This is…" She trails off, her voice breaking.

  Catharine watches her, quiet and unreadable. Then, softly, “You already knew, didn’t you?”

  Isla jerks as if struck. “I—”

  She swallows. Hard.

  Her hands shake. “I am—” She tries to say something else, anything else. But the words refuse to come.

  Her breath shudders, and finally, she forces out the truth.

  "I am his."