1 Year and 3 Days Until the Fall of House Romulus

  A burst of fire came roaring toward Valentin. Without hesitation, he flicked to a page in his grimoire, an instinct, practiced and sharp. His palm struck the ground. A wall erupted in front of him, thick stone reinforced with a glowing red seal. The fire slammed into it, scattering embers to the sides.

  But Mikhael was already there. He came low from the flank, blade in hand, driving for Valentin's throat. Valentin turned in time, parried the strike, pivoted on his heel, and spun with momentum, slamming his shoulder into Mikhael and launching him backward. Mikhael hit the wall hard, the impact cracking stone.

  Valentin did not wait. His blade arced back, aimed to pierce.

  Mikhael vanished. A flicker. Then gone.

  Valentin froze, eyes scanning left, right, behind. Then he looked up.

  A single page floated above him. For half a heartbeat, it hovered there. Then it vanished.

  Mikhael took its place. He dropped from the air, sword overhead, crashing down like a guillotine. Valentin raised his weapon and blocked, but Mikhael's force was brutal, knocking Valentin's arms wide.

  Mikhael landed hard. Already moving. He grabbed the front of Valentin's armor, twisted, and hurled him into the wall. The impact shattered it. Valentin flew through, crashing into the dusted courtyard beyond. He slid, coughing, but was on his feet within seconds.

  Mikhael was already coming, blade raised. Valentin caught the strike at an awkward angle, steel grinding on steel, and instead of parrying cleanly, he stepped in, slamming his shoulder into Mikhael's chest. The blow knocked the wind from Mikhael's lungs, and both of them collapsed onto the ground, weapons tumbling aside.

  They rolled, punching, grappling, grabbing. A knee to the ribs. An elbow to the mouth. Mikhael tasted blood. Valentin got his arm around Mikhael's throat, but Mikhael twisted, broke the grip, and slammed him into the frozen ground. They both breathed hard, too winded for magic, too stubborn to stop. Dust kicked up around them as they rolled, neither bothering with seals anymore.

  From his seat nearby, Romulus let out a slow sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. Not again.

  Valentina rose from her chair, brushing nonexistent dust from her sleeve.

  "That is enough," she said coolly.

  The boys kept rolling.

  Her voice snapped sharper. "I said, that is enough!"

  They froze instantly, like dogs caught misbehaving. Both scrambled upright. Mikhael bowed at once, while Valentin stood straight, silently awaiting orders.

  Valentina's voice turned crisp. "You need to get ready. Your uncle William will be arriving soon, and there are many things that must be done before the ball."

  "But Mother," Valentin began, breath still heavy, "we were just starting—"

  He met her eyes. Stopped. Understood there was no point.

  "Fine," he muttered.

  Valentina turned with a flick of her thin cloak. Mikhael, still grinning, gave Valentin a light punch in the arm, a clear, smug I got the last hit. Valentin turned, about to retaliate, until Valentina glanced back over her shoulder. He froze, glared, and said nothing.

  She smoothed her gloves. "Change into something clean. We're going to town to get you some proper attire."

  "Take them both," came Romulus's voice. Calm. Unbothered. Final.

  Valentina turned sharply. "Both?" she repeated, as if the word were something foul.

  "Yes. Both of them. He represents us now. He cannot keep wearing the same clothes he arrived in. He has not changed a thing in the past six months."

  Valentina stared at Romulus, searching his expression for weakness. There was none. So, she turned, exhaled sharply through her nose, and said, like swallowing poison,

  "Get ready." Then, after a beat: "Both of you."

  A small carriage waited for them at the gates of the manor, one meant for town. Mikhael was stunned as he saw the gates open. It had been six months since he came here. He had come as a slave. No. Less than a slave, someone meant to be butchered, harvested.

  Now he would ride in an expensive carriage, with people who, for his kind, were seen as closer to divinity, to the Messenger himself.

  Valentina stepped in with the help of a guard, and Valentin followed. Mikhael went after them, but the guard stepped in front of him, barring his path.

  "What are you doing? Let him pass," Valentin said.

  "No. He will ride with the driver," Valentina added.

  Valentin seemed like he wanted to protest for a brief second, but that flame was easily extinguished by his mother's stern look of disapproval. So, as usual, he said nothing.

  Mikhael did not mind sitting with the driver. He did not expect anything less from the rotten woman. Nor from Valentin, truth be told. Valentin had accepted Mikhael, but he was still like them. If the time came for him to inherit his father's position, he would do the same. The cogs would keep spinning.

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  But Mikhael would not let the time come. He would stop it.

  For the time being, he sat next to the driver, and they were off to the city.

  The city walls rose ahead, veined with creeping moss and draped in faded red banners marked with the Duke's crest. Mikhael sat straighter. As they passed beneath the arch, the air changed. He could feel it. The sound, the smell, the weight of it. Alive. Pressing in.

  Inside, the streets tightened. Stalls buzzed with merchants and commoners, and smoke drifted from roasting pits and blacksmith chimneys, sharp with coal, metal, and spiced fat. Awnings hung low across the road, colors faded by sun, flapping gently in the breeze. Children darted between legs. Dogs barked. Coins clinked. The kind of noise that could swallow silence whole.

  Mikhael drew only occasional glances. He sat beside the driver, dressed better than the guards but far from noble. People did not notice him. They noticed the crest. Some bowed to it as the carriage passed, not out of fear, but habit, reverence, hope. As if praying to a saint, hoping that by honoring its mark, their wishes might reach the gods.

  "We should from now on circle the city. I can never quite breathe properly until we reach the stonework," Valentina said, speaking mostly to herself.

  The carriage rolled deeper into the city. The buildings grew taller, more polished. Guards stood at the invisible line, not allowing peasants and beggars to wander where they should not. Stone gave way to marble and glass, and the muddy street smell faded beneath perfume and incense. This was the heart of the city, the part only nobles ever touched.

  They turned a final corner, and the carriage came to a halt in front of a shop with carved doors and golden inlay. A polished lion hung above the entrance, silent, watching. The tailor.

  The door was opened before they fully stopped, as if the shopkeeper had been waiting. A servant in fine grey stepped forward and bowed low.

  Valentina descended first, now ignoring the offered hand. Valentin followed, brushing a fleck of dust from his cuff as he landed. Mikhael slid down from the driver's bench, landing without ceremony. He stood still for a moment, adjusting to the silence of the district. Here, the city was quieter, refined, observed. Noise only existed where it was allowed to.

  Cool air and the scent of pressed silk and cedar greeted them. Inside, the lights were dim, but every surface gleamed: polished mirrors, pale wood, rows of fabric folded with near religious precision.

  The tailor stepped forward immediately, bowing low, lower than any servant Mikhael had seen. He stayed there a breath longer than necessary, hands clasped, head bowed.

  "May thy presence, through the Messenger, bless this lowly tailor shop," he said solemnly.

  Valentina gave no reply. She simply walked past him, eyes sliding across the fabric on display like a falcon.

  Valentin offered the man a nod, barely more than a tilt of the chin. Mikhael entered last. The tailor rose only halfway, glancing at him with visible uncertainty.

  "My lady, I was not aware another young lord would be joining us," the tailor said gently, glancing toward Mikhael with a mix of curiosity and respect.

  Valentina did not bother to look at Mikhael. "He is no lord," she said, half chuckling to herself, half disgusted by even the thought of it. "He is of the house. Dress him accordingly."

  "Of course, my lady," the tailor replied with a polite nod. He motioned for them to follow, leading them toward the rear of the shop where a platform stood encircled by tall mirrors. Valentin stepped up without needing instruction, already loosening his coat and selecting fabrics with idle familiarity. The tailor turned to Mikhael, measuring him with a more thoughtful eye.

  "May I?" he asked, hands poised but not yet reaching.

  Mikhael gave a small nod.

  The man moved with care, professional, practiced, but still a touch hesitant, as if unsure how far to presume.

  "Strong frame," he murmured, adjusting Mikhael's shoulder. "We will need firmer cuts. High collar. Simplicity with weight. Understated strength always carries better."

  Valentina's voice cut gently from the side. "Darker tones. Modest, but presentable. He is not here to outshine."

  The tailor gave a small bow of acknowledgment. "Naturally, my lady."

  An assistant appeared with a tray of folded cloth, and the fitting continued in silence, save for murmured measurements and the rustle of fine fabric.

  "The garments will be delivered to your manor by morning, my lady," the tailor said, bowing low. "If I must work through the night, so be it."

  "Good," Valentina said, and nodded to one of the guards.

  The guard handed the tailor a pouch of coins, and the tailor bowed as low as he could.

  "Thank you, my lady. I will pray for you to the Messenger, that he blesses you with a long and healthy life."

  She said nothing, as expected, and stepped out first, flanked by two guards. Valentin and Mikhael followed behind her, with the third guard at their back.

  Then, suddenly, a hiss in the air. The guard to Valentina's right collapsed, an arrow in his throat.

  Valentina's eyes widened. Her grimoire was already in her hand. Mikhael had not even seen when she took it.

  "Shield me," she said to the guard behind her. Her voice was low and calm, but it pierced straight through the noise. Cold. Undeniable. There was no question in it. It was not a plea or a command. It was law.

  Her words moved him faster than instinct ever could.

  The guard was in front of her in an instant.

  More arrows found him. One to the shoulder, one to the chest, another to the thigh. He staggered, began to fall toward her, but Valentina raised her arm and caught him by the back, holding him upright like a shield, her hand flat against his armor, steady, strong.

  The third guard hesitated. His eyes darted from the fallen man at her side to the one she held. He met her gaze.

  "Attack," she hissed. The word cracked the moment.

  The seals on his armor flared red, glowing with power. He surged forward. More arrows flew toward him, but he moved like a storm, slicing them from the air mid-flight.

  The attacker, shrouded in white cloth like the desert-dwellers beyond the Empire, turned to flee.

  Too slow.

  The guard rushed him, blade drawn, and drove it into the man's back with all his weight. The strike went clean through. The attacker fell, crumpling to the stone. Still.

  Something moved above, fast, too fast. Mikhael looked up just in time to see a figure drop from the rooftop, landing hard on the roof of the carriage with a heavy thud. The horses neighed in panic. The weight of the attacker crushed the decorative frame, and in the same breath, he pushed off and leapt toward Valentin, blade raised, eyes locked.

  Valentina moved.

  The man lunged with his blade, sharp and direct, a killing strike meant for Valentin's chest. But Valentina had already prepared. A pulse of red light surged from the seal in her grimoire, expanding in a smooth shimmer around them. The blade struck the invisible barrier with a crack, metal grinding against the force field before sliding off. The attacker stumbled back in surprise.

  "Witch," he spat. The word was guttural and broken, thick with a desert accent, as if it were filth in his mouth.

  Mikhael's legs trembled, but he stood frozen. Fear? No. He refused that. When action came, he would not allow himself to be still.

  "Should I do something? Save her? Isn't her dying good for me? But who knows what might happen then…"

  He grabbed the sheathed sword from the fallen guard. No seal. No power. Just human strength and impulse. The attacker was too focused on Valentina, still hacking uselessly at her barrier as if brute force would shatter it.

  Mikhael lunged.

  The sword sank deep into the man's gut. The white cloth turned red. Blood soaked through in a spreading bloom. The attacker looked at Mikhael, not in rage, but with sadness. And then, a faint smile.

  "God will punish you… devils," he murmured.

  Mikhael let go of the hilt. The man collapsed backward, the blade still in his stomach, still muttering in his native tongue as he bled out.

  He had just killed a man.

  He stared at the body. His hands trembled.

  "For her? For that woman? She would not blink if I died right here. And yet…"

  He had done it. Not for her. Not even for Valentin. For the war in his mind, for the world he wanted, not the one he lived in. If the rot was to end, it would require blood. His. Theirs. Anyone's.