The morning bells always came too early. A long, hollow chime that carried through the stone hallways and shook the last strands of sleep from even the heaviest-headed servant. Caesar woke at the first sound, his body already trained to it. Sleep had been restless again, his ribs still aching from the beating days before, but he forced himself upright. Weakness could not be shown, not here.
The air was cold; autumn had sunk deep into the bones of the fortress. He splashed water from the basin over his face, shivering as it chased away the last blur of sleep. A plain shirt, trousers, and apron later, and he slipped from his chamber into the narrow hall that led toward the kitchens.
The servants' wing was already alive with sound: pots clanging, laughter mixing with barking orders, the steady thud of knives striking cutting boards. Bread baked in great ovens, filling the stone halls with a thick, yeasty warmth that clung to the skin. Somewhere farther in, Berla was berating one of the younger scullions for leaving dirty linens on the stairwell.
Caesar kept moving. The rhythm of the house demanded it.
The day divided itself into countless small labors: hauling water buckets from the pump in the outer courtyard, polishing silver goblets until his arms ached, setting out coal for the hearth fires before the noble wing awoke. Marith appeared beside him in the armory hallway, carrying a bundle of brass fittings.
"You look half-dead," she muttered, falling into step with him.
"I feel worse," Caesar admitted.
Her mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "At least you're honest. You'll last longer that way."
They moved in silence for a time, their footfalls echoing against the vaulted ceilings. Caesar found some odd comfort in her presence—she didn't waste words, and when she spoke it was always cut close to truth.
By midmorning, the two of them were set to scrubbing one of the lesser salons. The demon nobles rarely used this room, but dust never rested long in Valemont manor. Caesar knelt over the rug, brushing mud stains free, while Marith tended to the long table, rubbing oil into the wood.
The work was dull, endless, and yet it kept him steady. In the rhythm of labor, his thoughts could stretch—about what had been, and about what was coming.
It began small: a murmur in the kitchen when bread was being pulled from the ovens, a whispered remark in the laundry hall. By noon, the words carried further.
The Demon King was naming a new Demon Lord.
Caesar caught fragments of the gossip while carrying a tray of coals down the stairwell.
"They say it'll be someone from House Kharun," one footman whispered, his eyes gleaming."No, no—House Dreadvine. They've been pressing for months. The old king can't resist forever.""Whoever it is, it means war is close again."
Caesar paused at the turn of the stairwell, balancing the coal-scuttle against his hip. War. Of course it was coming. He remembered the last one too well—the endless sieges, the wasting hunger, the walls collapsing under fire. Yet hearing the word here, in this earlier time, sent an ache through his stomach.
When he set the scuttle by the hearth, Berla gave him a sharp look. "Don't repeat their chatter. Nobles have long ears, and loose tongues find the lash."
"I wasn't going to," Caesar said.
Her expression softened, only a little. "Good. You've already enough trouble shadowing you."
Trouble came anyway.
By the time the midday bell rang, Caesar found himself cornered again. Not in the courtyard this time, but in the lower corridor leading to the wine cellars. Three servants blocked the way—liveried not in Valemont colors, but in Dreadvine's green-black. Their presence in the manor wasn't unusual; visiting nobles always brought entourages. But their eyes told the story: they had come looking for him.
The leader, a lanky demon with thin curling horns, tilted his head. "Valemont's stray. Thought you'd slink off and hide after last time."
Caesar kept his tone even. "I've work to do."
"So do we," the demon replied, stepping forward.
The shove sent Caesar against the stone wall, his shoulder scraping hard. Pain flared across his ribs again, still tender from the earlier beating. He gritted his teeth and stayed standing.
One of the others leaned close, his breath sharp with wine. "Best to remember your place, little stray. Valemont's lord won't save you when the houses decide who truly holds the whip."
Caesar said nothing. He had learned long ago that words could worsen a wound.
But before the first blow fell, a voice cut through the corridor:
"Enough."
Marith again. She had stepped from the shadows near the stairwell, a basket of folded sheets balanced on her hip. Her gaze was flat, unyielding.
The Dreadvine lackeys sneered but eased back, muttering curses under their breath.
When they were gone, Caesar exhaled slowly. "That's twice now," he said.
Marith shrugged. "You're stubborn. They'll try again."
"Why bother helping me?"
For a heartbeat, her mask slipped, and he glimpsed something—weariness, maybe, or recognition. "Because I know what it's like."
The words landed heavier than he expected.
By evening, the whispers about the new Demon Lord had thickened into something more solid. Servants scurried faster, nobles' attendants grew sharper-tongued, and even Ethan, the ever-watchful crow in human skin, moved with an edge of tension.
In the dining hall, as Caesar laid plates, he overheard more than he should have. Noble voices drifting down the long table:
"…House Yrren pushing for their candidate…""…but the king favors Valemont, if only subtly…""…war preparations, inevitable now…"
Each phrase curled into Caesar's mind like smoke. He felt the future pressing closer, the weight of memory and inevitability.
Later, while he cleared away the dishes, Ethan appeared at his shoulder. His voice was a whisper, but sharp enough to cut glass.
"Pay attention. A change in lords shifts every shadow in this house."
Caesar met his gaze. "And if I already know where the shadows fall?"
Ethan's mouth curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Then you'll know they move faster than memory."
The night grew heavier, the manor hushed but tense. Caesar carried a tray of wine to the upper wing where Alaric met with guests. The voices inside the salon were low but edged with steel.
"…still in our possession?" one voice asked, deep and unfamiliar.
"Locked away," came Alaric's calm reply. "Until I decide otherwise."
Caesar kept his head down as he set the tray on the side table, but his ears burned. Locked away. It could have meant anything, but in his mind, the words hooked onto the image of the folded scrap of paper under the ledger.
When he left, he didn't look back, but the shape of the conversation stayed with him through the rest of the evening.
In his cot that night, staring at the low beams above, Caesar replayed the day's fragments: Marith's blunt words, the Dreadvine threats, Ethan's sharp warning, the nobles' talk of succession. Each piece pressed together into a picture that felt both inevitable and unfinished.
He flexed his bruised ribs, wincing at the pain. "Ancestors help me," he muttered under his breath.
But no help would come. Only choices, and the long shadow of war.