After another few minutes of discussion about scheduling and expectations, Alaric finally escaped Selene's study, the heavy tome tucked under his arm.

The hallways were quieter now, most of the servants having retreated to their quarters. His footsteps echoed against the marble as he made his way to his room.

The door clicked shut behind him. He set the book on the side table, it landed with a dull thud, and shrugged off his jacket, draping it over the back of the chair.

The room felt too warm. He moved to the window, pushed it open. Cool night air drifted in, carrying the distant sound of crickets and scent of jasmine from the gardens.

He then oved back and the chair creaked as he settled.

He stared at the book for a moment. 'History of Valterexia, Volume One.' The cover was worn leather, gold lettering faded but still pretentious.

Six months of this. Six hours a day.

A heavy sigh escaped him as he pulled it closer.

The spine cracked when he opened it, releasing the musty scent of old paper and dust.

The first page was dense with text, tiny print marching across yellowed paper in neat, suffocating rows.

Chapter One: The Founding of the Five Kingdoms

He leaned back, rubbed his face, then forced himself to focus on the first paragraph.

In the year 1247 of the Old Calendar, before the Great Convergence...

His eyes glazed over by the third paragraph. Something about warring tribes and ley lines. The candlelight flickered, casting dancing shadows that made the words blur together.

This was different from manipulating nobles or reading people's intentions.

This required pure memorization, dates, names, treaties he'd never heard of. Academic grinding instead of intuitive understanding.

He rubbed his temples. Outside, an owl called.

Three chapters by morning. He turned the page, the paper rough beneath his fingers.

It was going to be a long night.

The candle had burned down an inch by the time Alaric reached the third page.

The continent of Valterexia, as recorded by the Scholar-Kings of the Second Age, comprises five sovereign kingdoms bound by the Great Ley Lines that pulse beneath the earth like veins of liquid starlight...

He rubbed his eyes. Liquid starlight? Who wrote this?

A breeze drifted through the open window, making the curtains dance. The pages fluttered, and he pressed his palm flat to keep his place.

The Kingdom of Aethermoor, suspended above the clouds...

Floating cities. Beast-folk in mountains. Cursed wastelands. The world was larger and stranger than he'd realized, but right now it felt like an endless parade of proper nouns designed to torture students.

Alaric sat back, scratching his head. A floating kingdom?. He'd heard rumors, but seeing it written as fact...

His head nodded forward. He jerked upright, blinking hard.

The candle had burned down significantly. Still pages to go before he could even claim to have started the assignment properly.

His chin dropped again. This time he didn't catch himself.

The book stayed open, but his eyes had closed, breathing deepened, evened out.

The wind still played with the curtains, occasionally ruffling the pages. But Alaric had slumped sideways in the chair, one arm dangling, head tilted at what would be an uncomfortable angle.

Then...

Soft footsteps padded across the floor.

A silver haired young maid paused in the doorway, taking in the scene, heavy book still open, candle burning low, and Alaric sound asleep in his chair.

A small smile tugged at her lips. She moved quietly to the wardrobe, pulling out a thick blanket. The fabric whispered as she draped it carefully over his shoulders.

He stirred slightly but didn't woke up.

Her fingers moved to his hair, gently ruffling the black strands. They were softer than they looked.

"Good night," she whispered, barely above a breath.

She collected the candle, moving it safely away from the papers, then slipped back toward the door.

While, in the hallway, shadows shifted.

Selene stood against the far wall, perfectly still. She'd been there long enough to see Iris enter, long enough to count the minutes she'd stayed inside, seen the gentle way she'd touched his hair.

Iris emerged, carefully pulling the door almost-closed behind her. She didn't notice Selene at first, focused on walking quietly.

When she did spot her, she froze for just a moment, then offered a small curtsy before continuing down the hall.

Selene didn't move. Didn't speak.

She stayed there after Iris had disappeared around the corner, staring at Alaric's partially open door.

Her jaw worked, teeth grinding.

Then she pushed off the wall and walked in the opposite direction, her footsteps sharp against the floor, each one a little harder than necessary.

**********

Morning sunlight filtered through the gap in the curtains, falling across Alaric's face.

He groaned, pushing his head up from the table where he'd fallen asleep.

His neck protested, sharp pain shooting down his spine from the awkward angle.

The history book lay open beside him, pages slightly crumpled where his arm had rested.

He rubbed his eyes, trying to work feeling back into his face. Outside, birds were already singing, he'd slept later than intended.

Standing took effort. His back cracked as he stretched, arms reaching toward the ceiling. The blanket slipped from his shoulders.

He paused. Looked down at the wool blanket pooled at his feet. He didn't remember getting that.

Not that it matters.

He moved to the washbasin, muscles stiff from sleeping in the chair. Reached for the pitcher.

Empty.

He lifted it, confirming. No water at all, not even drops at the bottom.

Strange. Iris usually fill it the mornings.

He set the pitcher down with a soft clink.

Well, he'd have to make do.

He dressed mechanically, shirt, trousers, boots, fingers working buttons while his mind still felt foggy.

And then he turned and opened the door.

The hallway was cooler than his room. His footsteps echoed off the walls as he made his way toward the stairs.

A maid was working her way along the portraits, dusting each gilded frame with careful attention.

She heard him coming, turned and dropped into a curtsy. "Good morning, my lord."

"Morning." He stopped, recognizing her as Margaret, one of the senior staff. "Has Iris been through the east wing yet?"

Margaret straightened slowly.

"My lord, Iris won't be cleaning the east wing anymore. Lady Selene reassigned her yesterday. To the north wing."

"I see." He nodded. "Thank you."

She curtsied again and returned to her dusting, though he could feel her watching as he continued down the stairs.

The dining room was already bright with morning sun. Light streamed through the tall windows, catching dust motes that danced in the air.

Selene sat at her usual place, several letters spread before her, coffee cup steaming at her elbow.

She didn't look up when he entered.

Alaric pulled out his chair, which scraped against the floor and then sat down.

A plate appeared before him almost immediately, set by a servant he didn't recognize. Toast, eggs, the usual.

He reached for the butter, spreading it slowly while watching Selene read. She turned a page with precise movements, eyes scanning whatever was on there.

"Iris won't be handling my wing anymore?"

She looked up then, expression perfectly composed. "The north wing needed attention. We're expecting guests next month."

She folded the letter she'd been reading, creasing it exactly along its original lines.

"Lady Pemberton mentioned during her last visit that those quarters seemed neglected. I thought that girl's... thoroughness would be better applied there."

The pause before 'thoroughness' was almost imperceptible.

"Is there a problem with the new arrangement?" She lifted her coffee cup, taking a small sip while maintaining eye contact.

Alaric considered while buttering another piece of toast.

"No problem." He bit into the toast, chewed slowly. "Just unexpected."

"Margaret will take over your wing. She's been with the household for fifteen years. Very reliable."

"I'm sure she is."

Selene returned to her letters, but her coffee cup clicked against the saucer slightly harder than necessary when she set it down. Her shoulders were perfectly relaxed, posture impeccable, but she turned the next page too quickly, tearing the corner slightly.

She smoothed it down with one finger, expression unchanging.

Alaric watched for another moment, then smirked, Ah, jealous.

Then he pushed back from the table, chair legs scraping again.

"I'll be in the library. Three chapters to summarize, right?"

"Correct." She didn't look up.

He stood, stretched again, his back still hurt from the chair, and headed for the door. Paused at the threshold.

"Selene?"

"Mm?" Though she raised her brow at his new habit of dropping titles when they're alone.

"The north wing guests. Anyone I should know about?"

"No one important." She turned another page, this time more carefully. "Focus on your studies."

And with that, he left.

************

Meanwhile...

The training yard behind the Duskwood manor stretched empty in the early morning light. Wooden practice dummies stood like silent sentinels, their surfaces scarred from years of sword work.

Caleb stood at the edge, hands hanging loose at his sides. Blood still crusted his knuckle.

He walked to the weapons rack. His fingers closed around a practice sword's leather-wrapped hilt.

The blade felt heavier than usual.

Then he moved.

The first swing went wide, striking nothing but air. His balance was off. Footwork sloppy.

Again. The sword cut through empty air, missing the dummy's shoulder by inches.

"Pathetic."

The word escaped through gritted teeth. He reset his stance. Feet shoulder-width. Knees bent. The basics his tutors had drilled into him since childhood.

The next strike connected with the dummy's torso. The impact traveled up his arms but the dummy barely shuddered. No power behind it.

Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool air. His breathing came harder than it should after so little exertion.

Three swings and already breathing hard.

Weak.

Another attempt. This one landed clean, vibrations singing through the blade. Better. Not good, but better.

The sun climbed higher. Servants occasionally passed by the yard's edge.

His shirt clung to his back, damp with hot sweat.

Then he moved again and again.

Strike. Reset. Strike. Reset.

Each impact left fresh marks on the dummy's torso. Nothing fancy. Just basic forms repeated until his arms burned.

The sun had cleared the manor walls by the time he stopped. Chest heaving, shoulders on fire, legs trembling slightly.

Then...

Thud!

He dropped, passed out from overexertion.