Markov Estate, Northern Wing
Two months.
That's how long it had been since Jay last stepped into a classroom.
Since the rooftop. Since his last real laugh. Since Amaya's almost-confession beneath the garden's falling leaves. Since Emma's eyes dared to ask something, she never voiced.
Two months.
He hadn't replied to any messages.
Not because he couldn't.
Because it was easier to vanish when no one expected an answer.
Jay adjusted his cufflinks in front of the grand mirror, the gold lining of his tailored jacket catching faint candlelight.
"Prince of nothing," he murmured to himself.
Behind him, two stewards stood quietly—neither making a sound unless spoken to.
In the estate, silence was obedience. Stillness was discipline. And smiles were armour.
His smile had gotten very good lately.
Too good.
Breakfast and Bargaining
Breakfast was formal. Always. The kind of silent ritual that stretched longer than most people's entire mornings.
His father, Reginald Markov, sat at the head of the long obsidian table, reading two newspapers simultaneously and occasionally circling names in the margins with a fountain pen that had once signed treaties.
Jay sipped his tea and pretended not to notice.
"Erina's family will arrive this evening," his father said, not looking up.
"I didn't ask," Jay replied.
The air shifted.
Not hostile.
Just colder.
"You'll attend the dinner. Look clean. Speak clearly."
"And smile?"
"No. You've done enough of that."
Erina Senner – The Elegant Blade
She arrived like someone who knew every eye was on her—and knew exactly what to do with that.
Erina Senner. Heiress to the Senner conglomerate. A family old enough to have once loaned money to kings.
Her handshake was polite. Her posture regal. Her words carefully curated for optics.
Jay watched her with the same blank expression he wore during war room simulations.
She noticed.
"You don't want this either, do you?" she said softly as the adults around them discussed stock merges.
"Not even slightly."
"Pity. We'd have made an excellent lie."
He smiled at that.
So did she.
They stood beneath the balcony archways after dinner, Erina swirling a wine glass of water, Jay fiddling with a cuff button.
"You're not what I expected," she said.
"People rarely are."
"I was told you're dangerous."
"I'm very good at making people think I'm not."
"And I'm very good at knowing when someone's about to run."
Jay paused.
She smiled without warmth.
"So, tell me, Jay Markov—when will you run?"
"After dessert, probably."
She laughed quietly. "Good. I hate boring heirs."
Trials of the Mask
The following week came the first round of internal family trials—economics, public response manipulation, elite etiquette combat, negotiation under timed pressure.
Jay passed each one.
Without effort. Without joy.
He handled million-dollar stock puzzles like he used to solve riddles in English class.
And each time he won?
Applause.
But it didn't feel like victory.
Just another moves on a board someone else had set up.
At 2:47 a.m., Jay sat in his training room, barefoot on the cold floor, sword beside him.
No one else was awake.
This was the only hour he didn't have to smile.
Didn't have to listen.
Didn't have to act.
He picked up the sword. Let the cold steel rest against his forehead.
And whispered into the dark:
"I don't want to wear this name."
But the silence had nothing to say.