Chapter 60: The Grand Duke Reads a Name (1)

There are many unpleasant things in this world.

Cheap perfume.

Bad handwriting.

Nobles who thought speaking slowly made them sound intelligent.

Mages who could barely light a candle yet acted as if mana had personally birthed them from the heavens.

And, apparently, ancient mouths beneath the Capital that knew how to imitate my son’s voice.

I had been tolerant of many things since arriving in the Capital. Too tolerant, some might argue. I had endured a Jinn forcing himself into my family tree, a child being integrated into my bloodline through circumstances even fantasy novels might reject as absurd, scandal sheets treating my dignity like public entertainment, and a Crown Prince becoming interesting at the worst possible time.

Yet there were lines.

Thin ones, perhaps. Lines drawn with refined ink instead of crude charcoal. But lines nonetheless.

Using Spiro’s voice had crossed one of them.

The carriage rolled back toward the Elysian Estate while I sat in silence, the folded note from William resting between my fingers.

Among them is one recorded in the Crown Prince’s childhood rite.

I had read the line several times already. It did not improve with repetition. Some sentences were like poorly cooked vegetables. Chewing them longer did not make them better.

The shadow seated opposite me kept his eyes lowered.

Perrin had been sent to one of our safe houses under guard and seal. He was alive, barely useful, and too frightened to lie properly. That made him valuable for now.

I had ordered the containment case holding the bone shard to be transported separately, wrapped in three layers of warded cloth and sealed inside an aura box.

If it whispered during transport, the shadows were instructed to ignore it.

The Capital outside looked painfully ordinary. Sunlight fell over tiled roofs. Carriages passed and vendors called out prices. A woman scolded her son for dropping a basket of apples. Somewhere, a noble probably complained about being served tea at an unacceptable temperature.

Life continued on as normal without regard for my mood.

How audacious.

This world had a terrible habit of continuing after one discovered horrifying things under its floorboards.

"Your Excellency," the shadow said quietly.

I lifted my gaze.

"We have arrived."

The carriage stopped before the Elysian Estate gates. They opened at once, and the familiar calm of the Konstantin residence greeted me.

For once, I did not immediately feel relieved.

That annoyed me.

This estate was mine. The Capital residence of House Konstantin. A place of quiet order, wealth, and superior taste. It should never feel like a place that needed defending from invisible hands beneath the city.

And yet, as the carriage entered the grounds, I noticed the changes immediately.

Two knights near the east garden, positioned as decorative patrol.

A maid by the side entrance who was not a maid at all but one of our information handlers.

The curtains of the upper west window slightly drawn, revealing a glint of violet light.

Abi.

That’s good.

He had listened. How shocking.

The carriage stopped near the main entrance. William was already waiting on the steps.

Of course he was.

At this point, I suspected that if the estate burned down, William would be standing in front of the ashes with tea, a report, and a suggestion regarding improved fire prevention.

"Welcome back, Your Excellency," he said, bowing.

I stepped down and handed him the folded note. "Where is Spiro?"

"In the small library with Bernard. Lord Abinatha placed a barrier around the room."

"Did he ask permission before rearranging the estate’s spatial stability?"

William paused. That answered my question.

I sighed. "Naturally, he didnt. I surmised as much."

"He insisted it was merely a precaution."

"That sounds like him trying to sound responsible."

"It was unsettling, Your Excellency."

"I can imagine."

Abi being responsible was like seeing a peacock carry military correspondence.

Possible, perhaps, but emotionally disorienting.

William’s gaze shifted toward the carriage.

"And Perrin?"

"Safe house three. He’s alive but terrified. He knows enough to be useful and not enough to be impressive."

"And the aqueduct?"

"Still active. One anchor was broken. But there are deeper passages. Something below responded to the title wish-bearer."

William’s face tightened.

Not much. But enough.

He knew me too well to waste time asking whether I had been harmed. If I was standing before him with my clothes intact and my expression pleasant, I was either fine or in the mood to pretend I was fine until I could be alone with tea and murder plans.

Today, it was both.

"Lord Abinatha reacted while you were away," William said.

"I know."

His eyes lifted. "You know?"

"He sent power through the soul vow."

William’s silence became heavy.

"Yes," I said. "I am also displeased by how useful it was."

"Should we consider the possibility that Lord Abinatha was aware this might occur?"

"Do not ask that question in front of him unless you want a theatrical speech about brotherly bonds."

"I shall refrain from doing so."

"Good. I lack the patience to deal with such things right now."

We walked inside.

The halls of the estate were quiet, but not empty. Servants bowed as we passed. None of them looked panicked. Excellent. If there was one thing I could praise about Konstantin servants, it was their ability to remain functional while standing beside problems that would make ordinary households flee into the countryside.

I handed my coat to a waiting footman and went directly toward the small library.

The closer we came, the stronger the faint violet pressure became.

Abi’s barrier was invisible to the eye, but my aura brushed against it like fabric over a blade. It was smooth. Layered. And annoyingly elegant.

I hated how good he was at things.

The library door opened before I touched it.

Abi stood inside, arms crossed, wearing an expression far too solemn for his usual face.

That alone put me in a worse mood.

"Brother," he greeted.

"Abi."

"You look displeased."

"I went into an underground chamber, fought a masked basin creature, broke a bone shard that smelled of bad breath and rotten teeth cavities, had something imitate my son’s voice, and returned to find you wrapped my library in Jinn power without my permission. My displeasure is moderate under the circumstances."

His lips twitched. "Moderate?"

"I am a man of restraint."

"Is that what we call it?"

"It is what polite society calls it."

"Polite society has such a forgiving vocabulary."

I ignored him and looked past his shoulder.

Spiro sat at a round table with Bernard. Before him were several sheets of paper covered in careful, uneven handwriting. He held a pencil in one hand, his small fingers wrapped too tightly around it.

The moment he saw me, he stood.

"Father."

His voice was his.

His real voice.

Small. Worried. And alive.

The tightness in my chest eased by a fraction.

How irritating.

My body had started responding to fatherhood without consulting me.

"Sit," I said, softer than intended.

He obeyed immediately, then seemed to realize he had obeyed too quickly and straightened his posture.

This child.

I approached and looked at the papers before him. Names filled the first page. Some were written clearly. Others had been crossed out and rewritten. A few were only partial sounds.

Toma. Elis. Neria.

Bell. Savio. Luro.

Mika. Ansel.

There.

My gaze stopped.

Ansel.

William had marked the name with a small dot in the margin.

I picked up the sheet.

Spiro watched me anxiously. "Did I write it wrong?"

"No. Your handwriting is improving."

His eyes widened slightly, surprised by the praise.

Bernard coughed once into his fist. Abi smiled faintly. I chose to ignore both of them.

"Spiro," I said. "Tell me about Ansel."

The boy’s hands folded together on the table. His fingers pressed hard enough for the knuckles to pale.

"He was older," he said. "Maybe twelve. Or thirteen. I don’t know. But he knew letters."

"What was he to you?"

Spiro hesitated.

Then, quietly, "He taught me how to count properly. The dean did not like teaching children who were going to be sent away."

The room cooled. Not from magic.

From the collective restraint of several people imagining the same dean’s future discomfort.

I smiled pleasantly.

One must never frighten children with the full face of one’s murderous intent.

"What else?"

"He was kind," Spiro continued. "Not always. Sometimes he was angry. But not at little ones. He gave his food to the younger children when they cried. He said crying made the caretakers come, and caretakers made everything worse."

His voice grew smaller at the end.

I sat in the chair across from him rather than towering over him.

"Did Ansel disappear?"

Spiro nodded. "He was sponsored."

"What did that mean?"

The boy looked down. "The dean said important people chose children with potential. They would be given better lives if they behaved."

"And Ansel returned?"

"Yes. After many days. Maybe more. I don’t know. He came back sick."

"What kind of sickness?"

Spiro’s brow furrowed as he tried to remember.

I waited patiently.

The habit of waiting was one few nobles possessed. They were too fond of filling silence with self-importance. But memory, especially a wounded child’s memory, was not a servant to be summoned with a bell.

It had to be coaxed.

"He was cold," Spiro whispered. "Even when the room was warm. His lips were pale. He kept touching his chest and said something was scratching inside."

Abi’s eyes narrowed.

I did not look at him.

"Did he say anything else?"

"He said the singing followed him."

The pencil rolled from Spiro’s fingers.

Bernard quietly stopped it before it fell from the table.

Good reflexes.

"He said if someone called from the walls, we should pretend to sleep." Spiro’s voice trembled now, but he forced the words out.

"He said if we answered, they would know our names better."