The Verran crest caught the last of the afternoon and held it. The carriage rolled beneath the iron arch, brass lamps flickering, wheels whispering over white gravel. At the gate, halberds crossed, a guard leaned in to confirm the seal, and the great doors swung inward on hinges too oiled to betray their size.
They stopped beneath the front steps. Cecil stepped down first, the long coat of the head guard settling like a decision. He turned and offered his hand. The maid accepted with a small nod, careful with the canvas satchel stamped with a plain ink logo: Livesey's Clinic, Riverside.
Inside, the entry hall had that soft echo only old houses learn. Portraits watched with varnished patience. Officers on duty straightened at the sight of Cecil. He returned their salute with the precise economy that made men believe in order.
"Stock these in the infirmary," he said to the maid. "Prepare the evening dose as instructed."
"Yes, Chief."
Cecil paused, eyes flicking once toward the upper landing. "And inform the Duke that I request an audience."
It was granted before the sentence finished.
He went alone up the private stair. The Duke's chamber was large only in the way necessary rooms are. A bed adjusted for support sat perpendicular to a tall window. Gauze curtains made the sinking sun into something the room could hold. A table stood ready with kettle and cups. A chair waited beside the bed and had not learned to look temporary.
The Duke sat upright, robe closed, a blanket folded across his knees. His gaze was on the view, where the estate fell away in terraces and trees, a slice of river finding its own logic in the distance.
"This hour," he said without looking over, "is when the day admits it was not enough."
Cecil took the chair and let silence answer first. "It is a good hour to count what remains."
The Duke's mouth moved in what might have been a smile or might have been a wince. Emotion did not volunteer itself on his face.
"The medicines," Cecil said. "Retrieved. The staff are preparing them."
The Duke dipped his chin.
Cecil watched the man who had taught a city to stand straighter on bad days. "You named the clinic," he said. "That was not for convenience."
A small, brief curve lit the Duke's features, like the room had told a joke to itself. Cecil had known him long enough to be startled anyway.
"As expected of you," the Duke said. "You could tell."
"This is no ordinary doctor," Cecil replied. "I can feel the shape of him by the reports."
"Livesey is an old friend," the Duke said. "From days when I carried a spear and pretended not to be afraid. He is hard to understand and stubborn in every unhelpful way. He is also reliable, which balances the ledger. He prefers solitude for reasons he calls reasons."
Cecil hesitated. "It seems solitude is no longer absolute. The doctor lives with a young man. I looked into it. His adoptive son."
The Duke turned sharply, surprise breaking through the practiced calm. "Are you sure."
"Yes," Cecil said. "And not just any young blood. It is—"
He stopped. His head tilted toward the door.
"Miss Evelyn," he said, not raising his voice. "You cannot hide your presence from me. Join us rather than practice espionage."
The door opened as if it had always meant to. Evelyn stepped in, posture exact, uniform of the Royal Academy neat enough to deny the existence of dust. She inclined her head.
"Forgive me," she said. "I heard voices."
The Duke's smile this time was easy to name. "Since you have joined us, join us. Sit."
Evelyn took the edge of the window seat, every motion measured. "Please continue, Cecil."
Cecil resumed, eyes moving between father and daughter. "The young man with Livesey is the same porter the young miss assisted during the sealed raid. The one from the report."
Two intakes of breath, one almost not there. Then, together, not quite in unison: "What."
The Duke did something he had not done in weeks. He laughed. It came out as a cracked bell, then steadied.
"This city," he said. "Small as a coin after all. If Livesey took him under his wing, the boy is unusual. Livesey has trained no apprentice. The Emperor himself asked. On his knees, some say. Livesey told him to stand and send soup instead."
Evelyn's gaze dropped, a tilt of the head that hid more than modesty. Cecil watched her, the way soldiers watch weather.
"Young miss," he said. "Something troubles you."
She did not answer at first. The Duke set his hand over hers, a slow, deliberate weight.
"Speak," he said. "Since that dungeon, you have been colder and farther. Your mother worries. I do too, though I am less talented at worrying."
Evelyn held the silence like a precious object and then let it go. "I lied on the report," she said. "I did not save him from the effigy. I did not kill it."
She looked up to meet their eyes and did not look away. "He killed it. In one hit."
Cecil's breath sharpened. The Duke's did not; only the skin at his throat moved.
"That is not a jest to make," the Duke said quietly.
"It is not a jest," Evelyn said. "I hid it because with your illness, Father, our power shrinks. The factions smell it. That raid was meant to show we are still… that we still can." She faltered. The word still carried too much.
The Duke tightened his fingers over hers until stubbornness had something to press against. "It is not your work to carry this house alone," he said. "That is adult business, and much of adult business is foolish. But if you lied, you did not choose badly. You protected the porter from attention. Men do not like anomalies they did not create. A porter who kills an effigy in a stroke will be collected, examined, broken, or bought."
Evelyn's jaw set. "Whatever he is, it happened when he lost consciousness. I tried to kickstart his dormant core with my mana. He became… empty. Strong. A pressure that took the room apart without touching it. He ended the effigy and collapsed. He spoke to the investigator later as if nothing had happened. He honestly believes I saved him."
The Duke let that wait between them. "Then do not feel bad," he said at last. "Feel responsible. It is different and less dramatic."
Cecil cleared his throat. "I spoke to the young man today," he said. "He will attend the Hunter's Examination tomorrow. Same session as the Academy cohort. If you wish to see him, that will be the place. He looked determined."
Evelyn's head snapped up so fast the braid flicked her collar. "Truly."
Cecil allowed himself a smile he did not use on men with swords. "Truly. Where has your famous frost gone, young miss."
The Duke chuckled, the sound like a hinge relearning pleasure. Evelyn's ears colored a fraction and she rebuilt her face with admirable speed.
"I do not care about him," she said, too carefully. "I want to confirm his wounds have healed."
She stood. The window gave her back to the room in one long strip of light.
"Then go," the Duke said. "Stand where courage is measured and see what returns your gaze."
She bowed slightly, to both, and left in a drift of quiet that made servants flatten against walls without knowing why.
When the door closed, the Duke and Cecil shared an old smile, the kind that does not need mouths.
"These young ones," the Duke said. "All special, or at least convinced. Livesey chose not by accident."
Cecil inclined his head. Agreement did not need words.
The house kept its secrets for the night. Somewhere in the private kitchens, water simmered, and in the infirmary, a maid read Livesey's instructions twice and then once more because the handwriting was technically a weapon.
Stone breathes differently when fifty thousand people teach it how. The great oval of the Grand Coliseum held a sound like weather trapped in a bowl. Heat rose off the sand. The air tasted of chalk and thunder. Steel rang in brief conversations that ended before they became arguments.
A young instructor in a battered cuirass pivoted, swept the legs of a candidate who had mistaken enthusiasm for initiative, and touched a blunt spearhead to the throat with professional mercy. The bout ended on two strikes and a lesson. The crowd approved. It did not cheer wildly; it thumped agreement into the benches the way rain approves of roofs.
Up in the Academy section, a row of students wore their blue and silver like they had been born knowing their measurements. Evelyn sat straight and still, uniform crisp, hair braided back without a brag. She watched the sand as if it had written her a letter and she was deciding whether to reply.
Beside her, Alicia leaned in. Alicia always leaned in; her curiosity had a gravitational field. "Not a bad fight," she said. "Admit it. Clean stop. Decent footwork."
"They are all weak," Evelyn said. "I am not interested."
"You are impossible," Alicia said, delighted. "You sit here judging everyone, and you are the one who wanted to come most. I heard you tell your mother you would not miss it if the sky fell."
Evelyn had a reply prepared, something efficient and cutting. The arena's voice stole the timing.
A steward with a cone of lacquered wood lifted it to his mouth. Magic took the words and shook them large.
"Honored guests," he said, "I hope your blood is still hot. For our last bout, Instructor Leila has chosen a candidate herself and will face him."
A ripple ran through the seats. Instructor Leila did not choose often. When she did, people remembered the results.
"This candidate is a former porter who chose the hunter's path. He is a special case. Every bar in the physical examination, maxed. Monstrous strength. No mana."
The pause was anatomical, a breath held until the name.
"Please welcome, Rem Avern."
The Coliseum shouted like a single animal discovering teeth. The final gate ground upward. A figure stepped into light, the cut of him exact. Sleeveless compression black. Broad shoulders built by work, not rumor. A long black dagger riding his back like a quiet promise. He did not wave. He did not bow. He looked at the sand the way people look at a field before they plant.
At the opposite gate, Leila walked out with a spear balanced in one hand. She stretched once, a small, precise motion that made her joints confess readiness.
Alicia turned to make a joke and forgot to. Evelyn had not moved, but her face had closed on something the crowd could not see. Her mouth had softened into the faintest of smiles. It was not pleasure. It was recognition on the edge of relief.
So that is why, Alicia thought, and wisely kept it to herself.
On the floor, flags rose. Bells spoke. The day held its breath and waited to be named.