Late February- Markov's estate
The estate always woke before the sun.
The first bell rang low through the eastern wing, humming along the marble corridors like an old ghost reminding its occupants they belonged to a higher order. Jay was already up. He hadn't needed an alarm in weeks. Or maybe it was months. Time here didn't move. It marched.
His feet touched the polished floor like instinct, not thought. By the time the second bell rang, he was at the sink, splashing cold water onto his face. The mirror reflected back someone he barely recognized—still Sixteen in age, but not in spirit. His skin held tension where it used to hold boyish smirks. His eyes? They didn't dance anymore. They calculated.
He pushed his damp hair back, ignoring the bruise on his temple from yesterday's sparring.
"Smile," he whispered to himself. "They hate it when you look tired."
The smile didn't come.
He dressed in silence; every button fastened with practiced precision. The blazer felt tighter than it should—not in size, but in meaning. He adjusted the cufflinks—black with silver edges, marked with the Markov insignia. Even the smallest parts of his uniform reminded him he wasn't a student anymore. He was property. A son forged into steel.
Breakfast was served exactly thirteen minutes later.
The Markov dining hall was three times larger than it needed to be. The long-polished table seated thirty, but only two chairs were occupied. Jay sat at the far left—his designated seat. Reginald Markov sat at the head.
Their eyes didn't meet.
A butler moved like smoke between them, setting down silver cutlery with surgical precision. Tea first, then a folded newspaper. Jay waited for his own plate, then unfolded his napkin just like he'd been taught. Elbows in. Back straight. No unnecessary noise.
Reginald tapped his cup once, not looking up from the document in his hand.
"You were late to yesterday's policy briefing."
Jay blinked. "I wasn't invited."
Reginald turned the page. "Irrelevant."
Jay said nothing. He could've argued—should've, maybe—but he'd learned quickly that logic didn't work here. Only obedience did. Or precision. He didn't know which one Reginald preferred, but he'd learned to offer both.
He lifted his tea and took a careful sip. Too bitter.
He remembered sharing strawberry milk cartons with Tyler. Somehow, that always tasted better than this luxury.
"You were observed leaving the archive wing last night," Reginald continued, still not raising his eyes. "Unscheduled."
Jay hesitated. "I was reviewing trade records."
Reginald finally looked at him. His stare was sharp as a blade. "Why?"
Jay looked back. "Because one day, I might need to know what kind of empire I'm inheriting."
A long pause. Then a quiet sip of tea. Reginald's lips didn't move, but Jay swore he saw the faintest twitch—a smirk, maybe, or just the ghost of one.
That was the end of their conversation.
The estate's private yard had been redesigned recently—gravel paths lined with white stones and discipline. Mikhail stood in the center, arms folded, already disappointed.
"You're slower this week," he said, tossing Jay a practice blade.
Jay caught it. "Maybe you're getting faster."
"Unlikely."
They sparred for forty-five minutes. Jay fell six times. By the seventh, the inside of his mouth tasted like copper and salt.
"Again," Mikhail ordered.
Jay didn't argue. He pushed himself up and lunged again. Block. Step. Pivot.
Too slow.
Mikhail swept his legs and drove him into the dirt.
He lay there for a second longer than necessary, watching the sky above him blur and breathe.
Vincent appeared on the edge of the field, holding a cup of something steaming.
"You're thinking too much," he said mildly.
"I was thinking about not thinking."
"Clearly."
Jay groaned and rolled to his side.
Mikhail walked off without a word. Training was over. For now.
He dragged his feet through the garden afterward, sweat sticking to the back of his neck. His shoulder ached. His ribs throbbed. The silence of the estate settled over him again, like a glove too tight to remove.
Theo appeared around the corner, running in with all the subtlety of a brass band.
"Jay!" he shouted, holding a tray that was dangerously tilted. "I brought—uh—stuff."
Jay squinted. "You're going to drop that."
Theo almost did. But he caught it, barely, and grinned like a proud golden retriever.
"Victory."
Jay raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"
"Cold packs. Towel. Lemon cake." Theo wiggled his eyebrows. "From Marin. But you didn't hear that from me."
Jay took the towel and patted his face. "You stole it."
"I strategically relocated it for your recovery."
Jay bit into the cake and closed his eyes. "You're the only reason I haven't burned this place down."
Theo beamed. "I knew it. I'm essential."
Jay didn't reply, but he didn't need to.
Later, Jay returned to his wing of the estate. It was quiet. Too quiet. He passed under high arches, polished portraits of ancestors looking down like judges. His footsteps echoed back at him, hollow and lonely.
Marin met him outside his room, carrying folded sheets.
"You're bleeding again," she said, not looking up.
"Training was... thorough."
She nodded once. "Don't be like him, Jay."
"Who?"
"You know who."
She walked away without waiting for a response.
He stood there a moment longer, watching her disappear down the hall. Her words stayed longer than she did.
Back inside, Jay sat at his desk, flipping open his sketchbook. The pages were mostly blank—just the edges held pencil smudges. Shapes that never turned into faces. Moments frozen in hesitation.
He opened a drawer.
A single envelope lay there.
The handwriting was loopy. Stubborn. Familiar.
Emma.
He didn't open it.
Instead, he placed it on the desk and stared at it for several long seconds.
Then, slowly, he returned it to the drawer. Not yet.
Outside, dusk was bleeding into the horizon. Orange light poured through the glass, coloring the room in honey-gold.
Jay stepped out onto the balcony. The breeze smelled faintly of old roses.
The stars were starting to peek through.
He wondered if his seat was still there on the school rooftop. If anyone ever looked up at the sky and thought of him.
He wondered how many had stopped waiting.
He placed both hands on the railing, fingers curled tight.
He wasn't afraid of becoming his father.
He was afraid that he already had.