1 Year Until the Fall of House Romulus

  Mikhael hadn't planned to enter the ballroom. He had only followed the noise.

  Voices carried down the corridor, orders, mutters, furniture being dragged, then dragged again. Servants moved like veins through stone: fast, invisible, essential. One boy passed with a basin in his arms, the silver trembling with every step.

  Mikhael stepped inside.

  The ballroom had been transformed. Dozens of red lights hovered beneath the high ceiling, unmoving, their glow soft and even. Mikhael didn't know exactly how they floated, but the design felt familiar. He had seen something like it etched in the margins of Johan's grimoire, loops of sealed pressure bound by control glyphs. The kind of magic nobles called elegance.

  He scanned the rafters for anchors, for crystals or amulets. Nothing. Which meant there was a conduit somewhere. Light never floated for free. It was always lifted by something.

  Or someone.

  He found a chair near the wall and sat, partly to rest, mostly to stop being noticed. Across the room, Valentina commanded the space like a conductor. Her voice was not loud, but it moved through the air with authority.

  "That one's crooked."

  "Too much space between the fourth and fifth chairs."

  "I said lavender, not violet."

  She did not raise her voice. She did not need to.

  Then the doors creaked open.

  "I see you're honoring an old southeastern tradition," came William Minerva's voice, warm and full of laughter. "When someone is working, you let them be. But when someone is resting," his eyes found Mikhael, "you join them. "

  He approached the table with open arms, as if stepping onto a stage built for him.

  "And I shall do the latter."

  William took the seat beside Mikhael like it belonged to him. He glanced around, then leaned in slightly.

  "She's been at it since dawn, hasn't she?" he murmured. "God forbid a single chair fall out of place. "

  Mikhael said nothing, but allowed himself a thin breath through his nose.

  Valentina's heels cracked across the floor moments later. Her smile bloomed when she saw William. It died the second her eyes landed on Mikhael.

  "Brother," she said. "I didn't expect you so early."

  "And yet I've arrived with perfect timing," William said, rising half an inch to kiss her hand with overperformed grace. "I wouldn't want to miss the sacred rites of table arrangement."

  Her gaze turned sharp.

  "You're not needed here," she said to Mikhael.

  He stood without argument, nodded once to William, and turned to leave. As he passed her, she did not look at him, but her voice followed smoothly.

  "Make sure you're dressed appropriately. I won't have you ruining my symmetry."

  Mikhael did not answer. He dipped his head and walked from the ballroom, leaving Valentina's voice behind him.

  The corridor outside felt colder. Quieter. He walked with purpose but not haste. Servants rushed past, polishing what was already clean, adjusting what was already perfect. None of them met his eye.

  In his room, the clothing waited, laid across the bed as if daring him to try. Black, finely tailored, with long silver-threaded flares that moved like liquid when disturbed. The jacket was high-collared, its buttons small and hidden, the seams sharp enough to cut. Gloves rested beside it, dark, thin, fitted. It looked like something meant for a ghost at court. Or a blade given legs.

  He stared at it a moment, then set to work. The fastenings were cleverer than they needed to be: hidden ties, layered closures, small buttons in cruel places. The collar brushed his jaw too high. The flares caught at his wrists until he found the proper fold. But he worked through it, slowly, deliberately, until at last it fit.

  He turned to the mirror.

  What stared back wasn't a boy, not fully. The face was his, blonde hair cut in layered precision, light blue eyes still sharp, still alive, but the shape around them was something else. A shadow of black and silver. A figure built to stand beside power, to hide in its light. A weapon dressed for display.

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  Mikhael breathed out once, slow and steady. There was nothing more to fix. He was ready, or as ready as he would ever be.

  He left his room with the grimoire hidden beneath his jacket. The ball, the music, the polished marble could wait. He needed something real. Something sharp.

  He found Johan where he expected him: at the edge of the manor grounds, seated on a low stone wall overlooking the empty fields. The workers had been cleared for the day on Romulus's orders. No sign of labor, no sound of iron or breath. Just pale land beneath a pale sky, waiting to be admired.

  Johan heard him coming. He turned at the sound of footsteps, saw who it was, then turned back to the fields.

  Mikhael closed the distance.

  "You see how clean it looks?" Johan said quietly. "Like the land tends itself. Like no one ever bled for it."

  Mikhael stopped beside him, voice measured, the mask in place.

  "They'd ruin the ball, of course."

  Johan exhaled, half sigh, half tired huff.

  "You'll need to work on that lie if you want it to sound convincing."

  Mikhael did not argue. There was no point.

  "You here to return what's mine?" Johan asked, gaze still on the horizon.

  "No."

  Johan tilted his head slightly, waiting.

  "I want to understand it," Mikhael said. "How to control my essence. How to hide it. How to release it when I choose."

  Johan was silent for a beat. Then he straightened, resting his forearms on his knees.

  "I've studied enough to see how its supposed to work. Enough to spot what no one talks about. But I'm no master."

  "I'm not looking for a master. Just someone who knows more than I do."

  Johan smirked, thin and weary.

  "I can tell you what I've pieced together. After the ball."

  Mikhael nodded once. For a while, they stayed as they were, watching the empty fields that even the sun was leaving behind, clearing the way for nobles. The wind stirred their coats. The manor behind them hummed softly: voices low, footsteps measured, music tuning up, as if the house itself was trying to remember its part.

  "Sit," Johan said. "You're making me feel anxious, looming there like that."

  Mikhael let out a quiet breath that might have been a smirk and sat, leaving space between them. The stone was cold through his coat.

  For a while, they did not speak. The wind filled the silence, carrying the faint scent of smoke and cooked meat from the kitchens.

  "My father said you came here with a brother," Johan said eventually. His tone was casual, but not careless.

  Mikhael's eyes stayed on the fields.

  "He did?"

  "He told me yesterday. After what happened."

  Mikhael kept his voice even.

  "They split us when we got here. My brother's at one of the farms now."

  "Hard place," Johan said. No judgment, just fact.

  "That's how it is," Mikhael replied.

  Johan tapped his thumb against the stone.

  "And you don't hate them for it?"

  Mikhael shrugged slowly, watching the horizon.

  "They gave me so much. How could I hate them?"

  Johan smirked at him, as if to say don't pretend with me, but Mikhael's face stayed quiet stone.

  "I'd hate them for it," Johan said. "Most people I know would. Even if it changed nothing."

  Mikhael glanced at him for the first time.

  "You don't seem like someone who enjoys this." His voice was light, like it didn't matter, but he was watching.

  "This?" Johan echoed, gaze back on the land.

  "The show. The food. The clothes. All of it."

  Johan was quiet a moment. Then:

  "I'm privileged. I know that. We're above you by decree. But you and me," he placed a hand on Mikhael's shoulder, and Mikhael twitched at the touch, "we're the same. My clothes have finer silk, sure. But underneath it? Same flesh. Same bones. And what's funny? Your essence is far greater than mine."

  Mikhael nodded, letting the quiet take over. He did not know how to answer that. Could it truly be that the Minervas wanted the same as him? He could not know why.

  "Your mother's not here," he said, turning away, changing the subject.

  Johan's small honest smile faded. His voice dropped.

  "She's gone."

  "I'm sorry."

  "She hated this stuff. The balls, the dinners. The masks. She'd have found an excuse to stay away if she could. I think that's what killed her faster."

  "What happened to her?" Mikhael asked, curiosity spilling over.

  "She was killed by—" Johan gritted his teeth so hard Mikhael could feel the fury off him, "the Holy Inquisition."

  "As a child I learned about them in the temples. They act out the will of the gods, under the Messenger himself," Mikhael said.

  Johan's face turned fully to him, anger burning in his eyes. Mikhael braced, half-expecting a blow, but Johan's words came instead.

  "I don't know what they are. Human they are not. Their strength rivals armies. They don't meddle in commoners's affairs. They're the nobles's fear. They wipe out houses with little effort and replace them with less. They're monsters."

  His voice rose, fiercer, louder.

  Mikhael had no real answer. He knew so little. He managed:

  "Why? Why kill her? Your father is a Duke."

  Johan's voice dropped again, but the hate stayed.

  "The gap between us and commoners is wide. You can attest to that. But between us and them? Insurmountable. To them we're the commoners. Lords, counts, Dukes, it matters nothing."

  Mikhael let the quiet stretch. The wind filled it.

  "I don't think you're like them," Mikhael said at last. "Maybe you're just better at hiding it."

  Johan gave him a look, not angry, not amused. Just real.

  "Maybe. Or maybe I'm not sure what I am."

  Mikhael did not reply. He did not need to. He had gotten what he came for.

  They sat in silence, the kind that was not heavy, just full of things neither wanted to put into words.

  The sound of steps came, light and quick. A servant, breathless, bowing low.

  "The Duke requests your presence, sirs. The guests are arriving."

  Johan stood, smoothing his coat. His face shifted like someone pulling on a mask.

  "Well. Let's give them what they want."

  Mikhael rose beside him, quiet, and they turned from the fields as the last of the sun slipped behind the hills, casting long shadows that stretched the manor's walls. The day ended, and with it any honesty the night might swallow. The nobles would have their party. He would have his part to play.

  They entered the corridor. Cold stone surrounded them, the space silent but for the faint hum of the ball beyond. Mikhael walked beside Johan, their steps soft against the worn floor, each one measured. The weight of the grimoire at his side was slight, but tonight it felt heavier than iron.

  Johan stopped him with a hand on his arm, fingers firm, voice low and edged with warning.

  "Give me the grimoire."

  Mikhael's gaze flicked to him, surprise breaking through his calm. He had thought the book hidden beneath his coat.

  "No one will see it."

  "It isn't about eyes. Grimoires and seals aren't allowed at the ball. Only amulets. That's the rule." Johan reasoned.

  Mikhael hesitated, feeling the weight of the choice even though he knew there was none. After a breath, he unclipped the grimoire and handed it over without a word.

  Johan took it, slipping it beneath his own coat in one smooth motion. Without another word, he turned down a side passage and disappeared, leaving Mikhael alone near the entrance.

  Mikhael drew a slow breath and stepped forward, the hum of music growing clearer as he passed beneath the last archway. The weight at his side was gone, but the sense of burden remained, heavier than before.