6:00 AM – The Training Yard
The air bit sharper here.
Colder. Cleaner. Lined with silence and expectation.
I stood in the center of the estate's private training yard, wearing black gear and holding a wooden sword that felt both familiar and foreign.
Across from me, Mikhail—the estate's head trainer, ex-special forces, the kind of man whose stare made you stand straighter.
He didn't greet me.
Just pointed.
"Stance. Now."
My muscles moved before my thoughts did. Muscle memory was a funny thing—it remembered the boy I used to be. The one who trained here every morning for years.
And maybe resented it.
Mikhail struck fast. I barely blocked.
"Too slow. Again."
We traded blows. Harder, faster. My wrists ached. My lungs burned.
"You've gone soft."
"I've been in school."
"Then unlearn their weakness."
I exhaled. Readjusted.
Hit back.
7:30 AM – The Study
The estate's dining hall was long and cold, the kind of place where conversations echoed even when they were whispered.
I sat at the end of a long table, alone—because that's how it worked here.
Unless you were summoned closer, you stayed in your place.
Clara entered last, dressed in a navy-blue jacket, sipping from a crystal glass like it was a fashion show.
"Did the commoner school teach you anything useful, cousin?"
I smiled. "They taught me how to take a punch. You should try it sometime."
She gave me a measured glance. Then turned away.
Across the room, Reginald was in a private corner with Vincent, speaking low.
From this distance, I could only catch a few words: "leverage," "position," and "not yet."
Breakfast wasn't a meal here—it was a report.
Vincent Rahl stood behind my father's chair while I read through a stack of documents, each stamped with names I'd only heard whispered outside this place.
A scandal involving a foreign minister.
A tech conglomerate's silent acquisition—by us.
A briefing on student data analytics.
"Why am I reading these?" I asked.
Vincent didn't blink.
"Because Reginald wishes to see what you notice."
Of course.
So, I circled three inconsistencies. Highlighted one missing name.
Handed it back.
My father glanced at it, gave the faintest nod, then moved on to his meal.
"Acceptable."
That was praise.
From him, anyway.
9:00 AM – The Lesson in Power
Mid-Morning – The Council Debrief
I was escorted to the west wing—this time alone.
Vincent stood by the door to the strategy room, flipping through a dossier.
"Your brother handled foreign negotiations this morning. You'll handle domestic inquiries after lunch."
"…I'm still not back for good."
He didn't look up.
"You're here. That's all that matters."
He handed me a thick folder.
Inside: Names. Files. Departments.
One tab was labelled: Ministry of Education.
My school.
My name was circled.
"They're watching you now," Vincent said. "Your friends. Your teachers. Your choices. They want to know what the Markov heir is really made of."
I closed the file.
"I'm not their heir."
He gave me a very small smile. "Not yet."
The estate's central library wasn't for books.
It was for lectures.
Adelheid sat across from me, flipping through a ledger while I practiced counter-arguments for trade policy, arranged fake diplomatic seating orders, and guessed the motives behind simulated deals.
She barely looked up.
"You've learned to charm, Jay. But charm is for fools. You must command."
"I'd rather win with kindness."
"Then expect to lose everything."
She set down a folder.
Inside: a profile of Elias.
His achievements. His awards. His rankings.
My brother, the prototype.
"You're here because Reginald needs a second option," she said.
"Or a distraction," I muttered.
She smirked.
"Smart boy."
The Clara Clash
After lunch, I found Clara waiting in the courtyard.
Sunlight cut through her earrings. A glass of wine in hand.
"Careful. They'll work you too hard. You're still pretending to be 'moral,' right?"
"Just tired."
She tilted her head.
"From pretending to care about those school kids, or from seeing what kind of empire you were born into?"
I didn't answer.
She set her glass down.
"You're soft, Jay. The others don't see it. But I do. That's why you scare them."
"Oh?"
"Because soft people who still win? They're dangerous."
Then she walked off—heels clicking against stone like gunshots.
Evening Notes – Letters Never Sent
I sat at my desk; hair still wet from a long shower.
No one was around.
My inbox was full.
Not from my friends
But internal family mail. Status reports. Event invitations. Tracking summaries of my school interactions. Even the aquarium visit with Emma was logged.
I opened a notebook.
Started writing. Just thoughts. Not letters.
I miss the vending machine fights with Tyler.
I miss Amaya's cinnamon smell.
I miss being able to say whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.
I miss not being watched.
I miss not knowing what power really costs.
Then I tore out the page.
And threw it into the fire.