The morning bells rang not for correction but for feasting.
That was how the House announced it had chosen silence over truth.
Servants dragged long trestles into the inner court, spread cloths so white they looked unnatural, and laid trenchers still hot from ovens. Jugs of watered wine gleamed, fruit appeared from storerooms that had sworn themselves empty, and meat steamed where meat had not been seen in weeks.
Feasts meant rumor had teeth but would not be given a mouth.
---
Seren arrived with Elara, carrying the bucket as shield. She sat him at the low benches near the wall, where bastards and the unnoticed practiced invisibility. She ladled him barley stew, pressing the spoon into his hand as if it were an oath.
"Eat," she murmured. "They give food when they mean to salt it with something else. Better you choose the salt yourself."
He dipped bread, chewed slow. The taste was heavy, richer than his ration should be. He let it rest on his tongue and studied the court.
---
At the high table, the Patriarch presided, beard oiled and heavy, hands still steady despite his years. Behind him stood Zephyros, cloak trailing like shadow, eyes unmoving as carved obsidian.
To the Patriarch's right sat Aurelius, first-born, who ate like a soldier even in celebration—measured bites, no waste. To his left lounged Cassius, who poured wine into his cup until it spilled and laughed as the cloth stained. Lyra coiled her ribbon through her goblet, shaping the water into silver fish that swam in circles before dying when her attention flickered. Selene toyed with figs, peeling them as though unveiling secrets.
Other siblings filled the benches in order of age and favor. None mentioned the missing.
The steward's chair had been stripped. Its cushions gone, its ledger stacked neatly on a shelf. Merek's absence sat louder than a horn.
---
Eldrin leaned across from his place among the scribes, his beard damp with stew. "See who eats first," he murmured.
Seren watched. No hand moved until Aurelius lifted his spoon. Then all followed. Even Cassius, late and grinning, had obeyed.
"Order hides in the smallest acts," Eldrin said. "Remember."
Seren swallowed and nodded. He remembered.
---
The feast wore on. Meat fat dripped onto plates. Knives clinked. Guards laughed too loudly at nothing. Servants poured wine with faces too still.
Then silence rolled like a tide. The Patriarch had risen.
His voice cut through the court: slow, heavy, and final.
"The House corrects itself," he said.
No explanation. No names. Just verdict.
"A steward is gone. Two dogs will hang. A bastard stood." His eyes swept the benches. They stopped on Seren. Did not blink.
"That is the sum."
He paused, and the air felt nailed down.
"We do not starve our own. We do not waste. Train him. Use him. When he breaks, throw the pieces to the river. Until then, sharpen him like any other tool."
Then he sat.
The House exhaled together, as if rehearsed.
---
Later, in the hall of cisterns, Elara walked Seren out. She stopped beneath a torch that spat more smoke than light. Her hand closed on his wrist, tying a strip of linen there. Not to hide scars. To remind him they existed.
"You heard him," she said.
"Yes."
"What did you hear?"
"That I am a tool."
Her eyes glinted. "Good. Tools cut both ways."
---
That night, Seren found himself summoned again—not to court, but to the library.
Candles guttered low, throwing more shadow than light. Eldrin spread scrolls across the table: maps of rivers, diagrams of gates, scripts in hands older than the House itself.
"Knowledge remembers," Eldrin said, pushing one toward him. "And forgets. Read it until you know which is which."
Before Seren could answer, Aurelius entered. No announcement, no sound—just presence. He stood tall, blade strapped across his back, eyes dark from lack of sleep.
"Tomorrow," Aurelius said, voice flat. "The yard. Bare hands. No staff."
"Why?" Seren asked.
"Because a weapon is mercy," Aurelius replied, and left.
Eldrin sighed. "He is not wrong."
---
Elara arrived last. She placed the wedge on the table. Its point aimed at Seren.
"Breathe," she said.
He did. Four in. Two held. Eight out.
In the silence that followed, the House listened.
---
At dawn, servants discovered another absence: a cousin found stiff in the garden, throat cut clean. The guards called wolf. Seren saw the claw marks curve inward, not out. Knives wrote clearer letters than wolves.
Lyra stood nearby, veil lifted, eyes bright as if the corpse were a toy. Selene smiled faintly from shadow, as though the garden had told her a joke. Cassius whistled a tune soldiers used to march.
No one spoke to Seren. But every glance measured him against the silence.
---
That night, the mirror visited him again.
In his dream, the doors stood in a row of black glass. One had shattered already. Another cracked with a sound like ice breaking on a river. Five remained.
His reflection spoke with his voice and not his voice:
"Every death buys your life. Choose which currency to spend."
He woke with his heart steady, not racing. His hand rested on the cord hidden in his sleeve.
The House whispered around him like water in stone. He breathed. Four. Two. Eight.