The castle had many ways to kill without lifting a sword. Some were slow—poison slipped into wine, rope worn thin above a stair. Some were quick—a stone rolled from the battlements, a blade hidden in a sleeve. Seren had begun to see them all.
Since the Patriarch had named his blood aloud, the house carried itself differently. Servants avoided his eyes. Guards watched longer than courtesy allowed. Even siblings who once ignored him began to notice him too carefully.
The morning after the poisoning in the larder, Seren's porridge tasted thin, as if the cook had rinsed the grain twice. His bread was smaller. The water was tepid. Elara said nothing, only touched the rim of her bowl, her knuckles white.
"They measure how you swallow," she murmured later. "If you leave the bowl empty, they will think you beg. If you leave it half, they will think you mock. If you refuse, they will call you ungrateful."
Seren nodded. He ate exactly two-thirds and no more.
---
In the courtyard, the heirs trained. Aurelius called the cadence, his voice deep as drums. The clang of swords echoed like coins in a jar. Seren stood at the edge of the sand, a wooden staff in his hands, smaller than theirs.
"Circle," Aurelius commanded. "We fight as brothers."
The older heirs paired, blades flashing. Seren's name was not called. But when the exercises ended, a guard shoved him forward into the empty ring.
"Test him," Aurelius said.
Lyra stepped into the circle. Her ribbon of water swirled, lazy and shining. She smiled as if this were a game.
"Only a touch," she said sweetly.
The water lashed like a whip. Seren raised the staff. The blow struck not his body but the wood, splintering fibers, snapping the staff in two.
He did not flinch. He adjusted his stance, calm, breathing the count—four in, two held, eight out.
Lyra tilted her head. "So calm. Like glass."
She struck again. This time he turned with it, letting the blow pass close enough to raise welts but not to break him.
Aurelius lowered his hand. "Enough."
The guards dragged Seren from the circle, his back burning, his breath steady. The lesson was clear: he was not brother, not heir. He was target.
---
That night, the mirror called him again. He slipped through the south stair, hand brushing the seam. The chamber opened.
On the table lay another note, smaller than before.
Watch the cellars. Watch the steward. Poison is the language of cowards. The house teaches through hunger.
The mirror's surface shimmered faintly. For an instant, Seren saw not his reflection but a city of white towers half-sunk in sea, banners torn, windows dark. Then the image vanished.
---
Two days later, the sabotage grew bolder. His boots, left in the servants' rack, returned with the soles sliced thin. One misstep on wet stone and the leather peeled apart. Seren noticed at dawn, before training, when his heel found a softness it should not. He cut a strip of cloth and bound the boot until it held.
That same afternoon, a lamp in the library fell from a high shelf, oil spilling across the floor. Had he not been reading beneath another arch, the flame would have caught him. Eldrin appeared, face pale, broom in hand.
"Shelves fall," he muttered, repeating the same line. But his eyes searched the shadows.
"Not alone," Seren said.
The old man met his gaze and nodded once. "Good. You learn."
---
In the kitchens, whispers curled. Seren moved silently past, but his ears collected them:
"…Merek… not seen in the yard since the larder boy…"
"…brings gifts from the cellars… a daughter who serves above…"
"…strange powders, gray and bitter…"
The steward's name again. Merek, keeper of the keys, hands heavy with rings.
---
That night, Seren sat with Elara. He laid the strip of ruined leather on the table. She frowned, touched the cut with her thumb.
"Sabotage," she said.
He nodded. "Steward."
Her eyes sharpened. "If you speak it, they will use it. Keep it inside until it is iron."
Seren tied the strip into a knot and placed it beside the garrote cord. His tools were few: leather, leaf, cord, breath. But they were his.
The house wanted him broken. He would bend, but not snap.
---
As he lay on his cot, he breathed the count. Four in. Two held. Eight out.
In the silence, the coal under his ribs glowed brighter.
The house thought it was teaching him how to die.
But what he learned was how to live.