ESPERSIA, YEAR 1889
Raamiz was suspicious. Or maybe paranoid was the better word. Was that the right word? Maybe it was... whatever. It didn't matter what the precise term was to describe how he felt. All Raamiz knew was that something was off.
This wasn't unusual for Raamiz. He always felt like something was off. About his family. About the region they ruled. About himself. It wasn't an easy way to live, constantly questioning everything, but for Raamiz, it was just the way things were.
There was one exception, though. One thing in his life that didn't set off those alarm bells: Zeliot. His brother acted with complete ignorance of his surroundings, as if he had no understanding of the reality he lived in. He was almost like a golden retriever—too innocent and too wide-eyed, for the court they inhabited. It was no secret how smothering their mother was, and jokes about it rippled through the halls whenever Zeliot passed by.
Zeliot seemed oblivious to it all, which only heightened how different he was from Raamiz. Where Raamiz watched every detail with suspicion, Zeliot wandered through life unbothered, unaware of the unspoken games surrounding them. Raamiz thrived on trying to understand and anticipate the worst in people—while Zeliot appeared to live in a world where those worsts didn't even exist.
And yet, despite all of this—despite Zeliot being Raamiz's opposite in every way—he always felt like Zeliot was his only real friend. Why?
That question lingered in Raamiz's mind, one he never had an answer for. Maybe it was because Zeliot, unlike everyone else, never felt like he wanted anything from him. Or maybe it was because, even in the twisted, suffocating world of there positions, Zeliot somehow managed to make Raamiz feel... normal.
And then something happened.
Three months ago, Zeliot had an "accident." Or at least, that's what the official report claimed. Raamiz knew better. No way in hell was that the case.
The whole thing smelled wrong from the start.
Zeliot, found bruised and unconscious near the edge of the forest—his horse suddenly panicking, throwing him, nearly stomping him to death?
Not likely.
Accidents happen in the Valorian household. But rarely with stakes this high, and circumstances this conveniently aligned.
Raamiz had come to a different conclusion.
Still, the story was wrapped up neatly—just enough truth to keep the questions quiet.
But Raamiz wasn't buying it.
Every day, he followed the same routine. He'd arrive just after the morning rounds, nod once to the healers, then take the same chair near the window.
He never said much. Sometimes nothing at all.
He just sat and waited—hoping Zeliot would pull through.
And pull through he did.
Raamiz had been overjoyed to see his brother come alive again. The color returning to Zeliot's face, the first few words out of his mouth—it was all more than Raamiz had let himself expect.
And for the most part, all Raamiz felt was relief. His brother had survived—and with that, a small sliver of peace of mind.
But upon his resurrection, another familiar feeling came back to Raamiz. One he had hoped never to feel toward his brother.
As soon as he saw Zeliot's eyes, something felt… off.
He could not explain it outright, not even to himself.
Zeliot looked the same—same face, same build, same tousled hair that was still a little too long around the ears.
But there was something in his eyes. It wasn't physical, but it was there.
You couldn't even call it a flicker. Something more like a delay between seeing and reacting.
But still....
Zeliot was... different.
It wasn't big, in-your-face changes.
It was the day-to-day stuff. The kind of things Raamiz would notice.
There was a new level of confidence threaded into his older brother—one that, considering the circumstances, largely made no sense.
After all, Zeliot had just survived off the brink of death, and not long after that, he found out there was likely a plot to have him assassinated.
Raamiz could hardly have blamed him if he'd become more withdrawn, and spent the rest of his days hidden in his room like a man who stepped in his own grave.
And yet, every day, he seemed ready.
Maybe even excited to meet the challenge.
Raamiz couldn't explain it—but it was there.
Like watching a stranger wear his brother's face.
He told himself it was probably nothing. Zeliot had been through a lot.
Trauma could change people. Make them act differently.
That was normal... wasn't it?
But still, despite how much he tried to reassure himself, he couldn't shake this old feeling.
And yet, in many ways, he didn't mind the change. In fact, he liked this new Zeliot.
He was more helpful, far more intuitive—a far cry from the aimless, naïve boy he used to be. Especially with everything they were currently dealing with, Zeliot's newfound sharpness felt like a blessing.
Conversations had taken on a more dynamic, engaging flow. Raamiz probably even enjoyed talking to him more than he had before. In short, Zeliot was still a friend — a confidant
But it just felt... weird.
Stranger still, no one else seemed to notice—or care.
Zeliot's own mother hadn't batted an eye. The household staff still treated Zeliot the same, whispering behind his back like nothing had changed.
The only one who might've noticed was Luca. But if he had, he wasn't saying anything.
Raamiz couldn't decide which was worse: that no one noticed, or that no one gave a damn.
Raamiz's thoughts were interrupted by a sudden tap on his shoulder. He turned slightly, already annoyed before he even saw who it was.
It was Zeliot, leaning toward him with that same eager, bright eyed expression. Around them, the tutor—a stern older woman with sharp eyes—was droning on about the philosophical principles of something or the other.
"Hey, Raamiz," Zeliot whispered. "Remember that... 'thing' you said you were going to involve me in? Any update on that?"
Raamiz exhaled sharply and turned to him, keeping his voice low. "Zeliot, I've told you a dozen times—I'll let you know when you need to know."
"Yeah, but—"
"Zeliot!" snapped the tutor, her voice sharp enough to cut through the room. She turned, fixing him with a glare. "Please pay attention. You're missing valuable information."
Raamiz smirked as he glanced back down at his notes. That should shut him up, he thought.
But then Zeliot did something unexpected.
"I am paying attention, ma'am," he said evenly. And before anyone could interrupt, he began to recite her words, near verbatim:
"You were saying that limiting access to magic can be seen as a moral imperative—because it prevents individuals from abusing it for selfish or destructive ends. That it's a necessary safeguard to protect the wellbeing of society as a whole."
The tutor blinked, clearly caught off guard.
Zeliot wasn't done. "But," he continued, his tone calm and measured, "if you consider Dalien's work on free will and magical governance, he argues the opposite. That restricting magical access denies individuals their autonomy and stifles progress. According to him, the ethical approach would be to teach responsibility alongside access, not enforce limitation as a blanket rule."
The room went still. Alba raised his eyebrows—likely equal parts impressed and surprised. Idris shot a glare, rolling his eyes in annoyance. Even Raamiz, who'd been half-ignoring the lesson, turned fully toward Zeliot, eyes narrowing. That... wasn't the kind of response his brother would've given before.
The tutor pursed her lips, visibly scrambling to recover her composure. "Well," she said at last, "Dalian's work are often considered controversial. His ideas often lack the nuance necessary for real-world application. "
She paused, then added, "But I commend your memory, Zeliot. If you applied that focus more consistently, you might be less of a distraction."
Zeliot simply nodded, leaning forward in his chair with a focused brow.
Raamiz stared at him, his mind collecting yet another surprising moment.
Zeliot caught his gaze and shot him a quick grin. "What?" he whispered, as though nothing unusual had happened.
Which, Raamiz guessed, was true — for him.
Raamiz shook his head, turning away. "Nothing," he muttered. The off feeling was certainly not going away.
The lesson finally ended, the tutor dismissing them with a clipped tone, clearly still unsettled by Zeliot's unexpected outburst. Raamiz didn't linger. He was already halfway down the corridor when he heard hurried footsteps behind him.
"Raamiz!"
He groaned, not bothering to hide his irritation, and turned to see Zeliot jogging to catch up.
"What do you want, Zeliot?" he asked, rubbing his temple.
Zeliot grinned, a little sheepishly. "What, is it that obvious?"
"Yes," Raamiz replied dryly.
Zeliot matched his pace. "Look, its been three months! Can you just give me a little information. Whatever this thing is, you said it could help keep me safe, right? Why not just tell me?"
Raamiz stopped walking and turned to face him fully, letting out a long sigh. "I told you, I'll tell you when there's something worth saying. For now, you're just going to have to trust me."
Zeliot's grin faded slightly, replaced by a hint of disappointment. He nodded reluctantly. "Alright... I trust you."
Raamiz's tone softened as he started walking again. "Besides, isn't Luca practically glued to your side these days? He's basically your guardian angel."
Zeliot chuckled faintly. "Yeah. I guess."
"Just stick to what you're doing," Raamiz said. "I'll let you know when the time is right."
Zeliot didn't reply, his steps slowing as Raamiz pulled ahead.
Raamiz noticed Zeliot slowing behind him and turned, his voice softening. "Look... I'm sorry, Zeliot. I'm not trying to hide things from you—it's just that I have to be careful, you know?"
Zeliot looked up, his expression guarded at first, before giving a small nod. "Yeah, I get it. Don't worry." He paused, then added, "I just remembered—I promised to meet with my mother after class."
Raamiz smirked faintly. "Ah, that should be fun."
Zeliot let out a long sigh. "Yeah... sure." He adjusted the strap of his satchel and gave a weak smile. "Anyway, I'll probably see you later, right? Gotta make plans for when we visit Mahindra this weekend."
"Yep," Raamiz replied. "See you later. You know the spot."
Zeliot nodded and turned down a different corridor, his footsteps echoing as he disappeared around the corner.
Raamiz stood there for a moment, watching him leave, before continuing down his own path. He wasn't lying to Zeliot—it wasn't about wanting to keep secrets. It was about having to.
There was too much at stake, too much to lose. And it wasn't just his safety on the line—it was someone else's. Someone whose survival depended on Raamiz playing things exactly right.
Truth be told, Raamiz had expected this whole mess to be sorted out weeks ago. He'd been meant to meet with his contact a month ago, but nothing had gone to plan. Every day the delay dragged on, the risk grew higher.
He clenched his fists, pushing the thought aside for now.
Raamiz rounded the corner, his mind already racing with thoughts of the capital trip — or rather, the Prose Summit, as the nobles would insist on calling it. He and Idris had a different name for it. "The Lickspittle Roundtable." Said with full teeth and zero shame. It had stuck, more or less, for the past three years. Alba hated it — said it was crude, undignified, unbecoming. Which, to Raamiz, made it funnier.
It happened annually, and was perhaps the most important political day of the calendar. Nobles, aristocrats, anyone with any sort of influence, gathered at the capital — Mahindra — and, to be perfectly blunt, politicized.
Of course, as the ruling family of Indra, the Valoria family was the main star of the show. And that's not purely metaphorical — in many ways, the entire event was one big performance. Or a sham, if you asked Raamiz. Yes, of course, large councils would meet and voting for things would happen, and other ceremonious obligations that people pretended were meaningful. That was the visible layer. Beneath it — the real dealings. That was what made the trip worth it to Raamiz. He always hated consorting to the rubric. But at least the lies were honest.
But that was a thought for later.
He barely had time to register the figure ahead of him before her voice cut through the air.
"Raamiz."
He stopped in his tracks, his posture stiffening as he turned to face Duchess Gaius. She stood tall, her dark hair intricately braided, and her sharp, snake-like eyes seemed to dissect him where he stood. Idris lingered beside her, his arms crossed in his usual pose of smug indifference, though the corner of his mouth curled in a faint smirk, one of the few traits that the twins shared.
"Mother," Raamiz greeted her, his tone carefully neutral. He nodded to his brother. "Idris."
Gaius's gaze swept over him, assessing, as though searching for cracks. "You're restless," she said flatly, her tone neither harsh nor kind. "It's written all over you."
Raamiz tensed but forced a casual shrug. "Just preoccupied."
Idris let out a soft laugh. "Preoccupied, hmm? What could you possibly have to think about? The logistics of sulking, perhaps?"
Raamiz shot him a glare but kept his voice calm. "You should know, Idris. You've been perfecting the art for years."
"Enough," Gaius said sharply, her gaze snapping to both of them. The single word carried enough weight to silence them. "I don't have time for childish bickering." She turned her attention back to Raamiz. "I assume your preparations for the summit are complete."
Raamiz nodded once. "Of course."
"Good," Gaius replied, though her expression didn't soften. "You'll be expected to carry yourself appropriately. The Capital is no place for mistakes. Your father will have enough to manage without cleaning up after you."
Raamiz's jaw tightened slightly at the mention of the Duke, but he nodded again. "Understood."
Gaius studied him for a moment longer, her expression as always a mirage. "You're sharp, Raamiz. Use that sharpness wisely."
Idris gave an exaggerated sigh. "Really, Mother? I think you're being a little optimistic."
Gaius's gaze flicked to Idris, silencing him with a look before returning to Raamiz. "You are a Valorian. Act like it."
With that, she turned and swept past him, her gown trailing behind her like a shadow. Idris lingered for a moment, his smirk returning as he leaned in slightly.
"Careful, brother," he said, his tone mockingly light. "Mother might be disappointed if she finds out what's really on your mind."
Raamiz didn't respond, his expression stony as Idris followed Gaius down the corridor.
As soon as they disappeared around the corner, Raamiz exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly. The tension of the encounter lingered, but he pushed it aside. He had bigger things to worry about.
"This weekend," he muttered to himself, continuing down the hall. "This weekend, I'll make it happen."
The Valorian estate was quiet as the sun dipped below the horizon, its orange glow fading into the deep blue of evening. The faint hum of activity from the day was replaced with the occasional echo of footsteps in the halls. Raamiz sat in the library, a map of Mahindra spread across the table before him. Candles flickered, their warm light dancing over his sharp features as he traced his fingers along various routes and landmarks.
The door opened with a low creak. Raamiz didn't look up.
"There's no real plan. Not in the way you're probably hoping."
Zeliot raised an eyebrow. "Then what's this?" He gestured at the map.
"Layout of Mahindra," Raamiz said. "Access points, guard patrols, when the inner gates change watch. That sort of thing."
"For what?"
Raamiz leaned back slightly. "For a multitude of things."
Zeliot didn't answer right away. He scanned the page again. "You're expecting something."
"Always."
Zeliot pointed to one of the larger markings—an oval outline near the center of the Sovereign Ring.
"The House of Prosos?"
Raamiz nodded. "That's where most of it will happen."
"Most of what?"
Raamiz tapped the desk. "The public sessions, draft presentations, the feigned disagreements. Everything they want recorded. And below that, the private discussions—on the Quiet Floor. No scribes. No archive."
Zeliot narrowed his eyes slightly. "And we're involved in any of that?"
Raamiz shook his head. "Not directly. Not unless we find a way in."
A beat.
"And have we?"
"Currently? No."
Zeliot looked at Raamiz for a moment and frowned.
He leaned forward. "You said this trip mattered. So far, you've basically just told me to watch buildings."
Raamiz didn't flinch. "Because right now, that's what we're allowed to do. Like I said, I haven't had the time to figure out a specific method of entry. I've been… busy."
Zeliot raised an eyebrow. "Busy with what?"
"That's none of your business."
Zeliot's mouth opened slightly in protest, then closed. He clearly had more he wanted to ask, but seemed to realize the conversation had been closed. Raamiz was glad he didn't need to say it again.
He continued.
"Regardless, the policy is already decided. What's happening now is people testing how firm each other's positions are."
Zeliot frowned. "I assume you're talking about our potential alliance with Penusia. You think it might not go through?"
"I think it will. But not cleanly."
He adjusted one of the small weights holding down the map. "Legon wants concessions. We want control. Our family wants to come out looking like we planned it all. And in the middle of that, there's you."
Zeliot didn't look surprised. "Still think I'm the target?"
Raamiz nodded once. "If someone wanted to kill the momentum of this alliance without declaring open opposition, that's how they'd do it. They wouldn't attack the Duke. They'd eliminate a symbol of succession."
"Me."
"Yes."
Zeliot stared at the table. "You don't have proof."
"No. But if I were planning it, that's where I'd aim."
Zeliot didn't argue, but he didn't agree either. "So where does that leave us?"
"Pay attention. Who moves too carefully when you walk in. Who avoids your name in conversation. Watch the representatives from the Gilded Quarter especially—they've resisted every attempt at magical reform, and now they're being told to share authority with a foreign court."
"And you?"
"I'll be occupied."
Zeliot's expression tightened. "With what?"
Raamiz didn't answer.
"You can't just say you'll be busy and expect me to be fine with it."
Raamiz's tone didn't shift. "You won't be fine with it. But you'll deal with it."
Zeliot leaned back. "So I just walk into the Sovereign Ring completely defenseless and wait for someone to try something."
"You won't be defenseless. You'll have Luca. That's more protection than anything I can offer you. And you're smart. Observant. That's more than most people bring into Mahindra."
Zeliot still looked unconvinced. He furrowed his brow, then slowly lowered his forehead to the edge of the table, staring down in silence.
Raamiz watched him, unsure if he was thinking or stewing.
After nearly a minute, Raamiz began to speak—just a few words, maybe to ease the silence—but Zeliot snapped upright before he could say anything.
His eyes were wide. Bright. Focused.
And for the first time in weeks, Raamiz actually flinched.
"What about Alba?"
Raamiz didn't answer.
"He knows more than we do. Father trusts him. He's at the table. And he's the one marrying into Legon."
"No."
Zeliot's jaw tightened. "That's short-sighted."
"I'd call it careful."
"He might already know who's involved."
"He might already be involved."
Zeliot scoffed. "You think that little of him?"
Raamiz met his eyes. "I think he tells my mother things. And I think she tells him exactly what she wants him to hear."
"You're treating him like an enemy."
Raamiz shrugged. "He's not mine. Doesn't mean he's not yours either. I just don't think it's a smart idea to trust him."
Zeliot looked like he wanted to argue, but then his tone shifted.
"Who said anything about trusting him?