The morning began like so many others: quiet, cold, and silver with frost.
The inner courtyard was silent except for the sound of cloth snapping on a laundry line. Marith had hung the wool wraps early, before the sun could melt the rimed edges from the flagstones. Caesar stood nearby, sleeves rolled up, arms aching as he hauled another bucket of water from the well. The metal rim stung his fingers. His knuckles had cracked during the night, small lines of red where skin had split from the cold. They burned now, every time he gripped the handle.
Marith looked over, eyes narrowing. "You're bleeding again."
"It's nothing."
"You should wear the gloves Nico lent you."
"They don't fit."
"Then cut the fingers out. Or wrap your hands in linen. You're not going to prove anything by freezing yourself to death."
He didn't reply. Instead, he dumped the bucket into the rinsing trough and watched steam curl up from the surface. The warmth was fleeting, stolen from the kitchen fires nearby. Another gust of wind swept across the courtyard, and with it came the faint clang of a bell—someone signaling arrivals at the eastern gate.
Marith straightened. "More guests?"
Caesar wiped his palms on his tunic. "Probably another Dreadvine caravan."
"Or Kharun," she said. "They're still sniffing around the library tower. Something's got them interested."
Caesar didn't answer. But his mind tightened like a knot being pulled too fast. He remembered Ethan's warning. He remembered the way that crow's eye had stared down at him from the rafters last night—like a blade waiting to drop.
He didn't say any of it aloud.
Instead, they finished the laundry in silence.
The trouble began just before midday.
Caesar was in the eastern corridor, helping Nico carry a crate of dried spices down from the storeroom. They had to move carefully—some of the jars were ancient, sealed with wax and bone. Most were useless. A few were dangerously potent. And one, Caesar noted with dull recognition, contained powdered silvermint from the high ridges of the Kharun border. It could induce vomiting, or visions, depending on how much you breathed in.
They had just reached the lower steps when voices rang out from below.
Rough. Loud. Unfamiliar.
"Oi! You there! Rat-boy!"
Nico flinched. Caesar stopped walking.
Three figures stepped into view at the base of the stair. Their tunics were marked with dark red thread—a subtle, coiled vine embroidery near the sleeves. House Dreadvine. Junior stewards, by the look of them. None older than twenty, but all full of cruel bravado and sharp grins.
The tallest, a demon with bronze skin and curling dark horns, pointed at Caesar with a gloved hand. "You're the one who got in Galen's way last night, aren't you?"
Caesar's gut turned cold.
"I didn't speak to any of the guests."
"You think you're clever," the horned one said. "Think you're hiding behind Lady Berla's apron. But we see what you're doing. Always watching. Listening."
Another of them—a shorter boy with ash-gray skin and jagged teeth—grinned. "Maybe he thinks he's more than a broom-hand. Maybe he thinks he's someone."
"I don't want trouble," Caesar said, voice low.
"That's too bad," the tall one replied.
And then they surged forward.
The beating wasn't loud.
That was the worst part.
No screams. No shouted commands. Just the dull, meaty sound of fists against bone. Of boots scraping against stone. Of air leaving lungs.
Caesar hit the ground hard, his shoulder smashing against the edge of a step. Someone's knee caught his ribs. His vision blurred. He tried to push himself up, but a kick drove into his side and flattened him again. Nico shouted something—a desperate cry—but was shoved backward.
"Stay down, rat!" one of the boys hissed. "You'll get yours if you move!"
A fist slammed into Caesar's stomach. Another grabbed his collar and yanked him up just to throw him down again. His head struck the wall, and for a moment, sound vanished. Only the sharp ringing remained.
He tasted blood. Warm and metallic in the back of his throat.
Through the haze, he saw a flash of movement.
Then—
A voice.
"Enough."
Sharp. Cold. Final.
The Dreadvine boys froze.
From the upper stair, Marith stood with a cleaning brush still in hand, her posture rigid as drawn steel. Berla was behind her, storming down the corridor with Nico at her side, face pale with fear.
"Step. Away," Berla growled.
The boys hesitated.
Berla didn't repeat herself.
They dropped Caesar's shirt and backed off, not looking her in the eyes.
But the tall one met Caesar's gaze once before leaving. And in that moment, there was no fear—only promise.
The infirmary room smelled of poultice and damp linen.
Caesar lay on a narrow cot near the wall, a strip of cloth pressed to his temple. His ribs ached. One eye was already swollen, and he suspected two fingers were broken. Berla had left after a quick inspection, cursing House Dreadvine under her breath the entire time.
Only Marith remained.
She sat beside him, arms crossed.
"You're lucky they didn't use their knives," she said softly.
"Didn't feel lucky."
"You're still breathing. That counts for something."
He closed his eyes. "They knew something. Or guessed. About me. About the letter."
Marith didn't reply immediately.
Then she said, "Nico told me. About what Ethan said."
"He didn't have to."
"He did. Because we can't help you if you don't tell us when something's wrong."
Caesar turned his head slightly. "I'm not used to having anyone who wants to help."
"That's your problem."
She didn't say it with cruelty. Just quiet certainty.
They sat there in silence for a while longer. Then, finally, Caesar broke it.
"I don't know what's in the letter. I just remember… in the future, someone started using Alaric's servants to send messages between houses. Secret ones. It got a lot of people killed."
"Do you think that's what this is?"
"I don't know. But I think someone wanted me to find it."
Marith leaned back slightly. "So you think you're being used?"
"I think we all are. I'm just one of the few who remembers it."
That evening, as the shadows lengthened over the estate and the lamps were lit one by one, Caesar found himself alone in the east wing corridor—sore, bruised, and carrying a tray of warm towels toward the guest rooms.
A shape moved behind him.
He turned, expecting Nico.
It was Ethan.
As usual, he appeared without sound—just a silhouette in the torchlight, lean and shadow-wrapped.
"Did you enjoy your lesson?" Ethan asked.
"You could've stopped it."
"I could've done many things," Ethan replied calmly. "But some lessons can't be taught through kindness."
Caesar narrowed his eyes. "Did you set it up?"
"No. But I noticed it would happen. And I chose not to intervene."
"Why?"
Ethan stepped closer. His eyes glinted in the low light—reflective, sharp.
"Because you're still pretending you're safe. That this is a second chance. A gentle do-over. It isn't."
"I know it's not safe."
"Do you?" Ethan's voice dropped. "Then act like it. That letter you touched? That wasn't just a message. It was a ledger cipher. An old form of soul-binding contract disguised in merchant code. If it had opened in your hands, it could have marked you."
Caesar's blood turned to ice.
"I didn't open it."
"No. But you came close. Close enough that others started watching."
Caesar clenched his jaw. "Then why didn't you destroy it?"
Ethan tilted his head. "Because it's not mine to destroy. It belongs to the game. And the game doesn't end until every piece has been played."
He stepped past Caesar, pausing only briefly.
"If you don't want to be a pawn, start moving like something else."
And then he was gone.