That was how long it had been since the kidnapping attempt.
At least, according to Ezra’s journal.
He’d started keeping it after they’d moved him into the “nursery”—a guest room repurposed in the wake of the kidnapping. They’d renovated it in a single, decisive push: shelves, desk, bookcases, a crib. If you ignored the crib, it read as a private study.
White plaster walls. Pale stone floor. Tall windows that poured in hard light. A private washroom.
For a world that felt medieval in so many ways, it was one of the cleaner luxuries Ezra had seen in Bren.
He still wasn’t sure the rest of the Empire matched it. Bren’s technological level was uneven: Roman concrete and competent engineering, paired with limits that felt closer to Earth’s Middle Ages.
Two things stood out.
Plumbing, and paper.
The Empire’s plumbing resembled the Romans’. Aqueducts carried water from hills to cisterns, and gravity did the rest. Most places lived and died by height and slope.
Castle Blackfyre cheated.
The upper rooms had pressure—steady, immediate—as if the pipes were being forced. Ezra didn’t know how. The adults around him only said “water magic crystal.” Somewhere, a rechargeable crystal-and-core pair did the work of pumps, lifting water and feeding the halls on demand.
He hadn’t found the mechanism. He’d tried, quietly. Whatever made the water rise was behind doors he wasn’t allowed near, guarded with the kind of seriousness that made it feel less like plumbing and more like security.
Paper came in two classes. The expensive books were vellum. Most documents used plant-based paper, common enough to be ordinary. Bren even had paper mills, from what he’d gathered—an industry dedicated to feeding the Empire’s bureaucracy.
With paper that accessible, notebooks weren’t rare among the upper class. There was a literate caste of commoners—stewards, clerks, assistants—but real administrative authority still sat with nobles. Not heirs, usually. Second and third sons.
Ezra didn’t know if any commoner was trusted with leadership over “higher” matters, or if the ladder simply ended where lineage began.
He wrote.
Fort by the Badlands is on… seventh layer of walls?
No bandit reports for weeks.
Aerwyna hasn’t let go of the door latch whenever someone knocks for over a year.
He tried an experiment.
He stopped using mana and wrote again.
His fingers wobbled.
His body no longer fought him the way it had in the first months—head too heavy, legs too clumsy, muscles firing late.
Mostly.
He sent a thin thread from his core down his spine and into his limbs.
The wobble vanished.
He’d become dependent on it. At first it had been necessity. After that, he kept doing it because the clumsiness had pissed him off. Mana into the arm and the world snapped into tolerances—smooth, exact.
But he couldn’t let it overwrite his baseline. If he leaned on reinforcement for everything, he’d train the wrong muscle memory.
So he kept rules.
Mana for precision.
No mana when he needed to measure what the body could do on its own.
He smirked and kept writing.
This journal stayed in English. The first time Evan had caught him, the knight had watched for a moment—interested—then dismissed it as a child’s scribbling.
Ezra wasn’t writing because he needed notes. His memory was good enough.
He wrote because he needed practice, and because English held the thoughts that didn’t fit anywhere else.
Plans. Wishes. Half-built projects he didn’t want read.
He’d filled pages with ideas: rubber, or something close enough; extracting high-fructose for sweets; lists of tools, materials, and impossible timelines. Most of it was messy.
It was his.
He was still barred from returning to the library after the magic core explosion—the library incident.
There had been a concession. Books were brought to him, checked out and logged by the steward. The steward didn’t know they went to Ezra’s room; as far as he knew, Aerwyna was reading them. The log was “inventory,” so she wouldn’t request the same book twice.
By the end of his first year, Ezra had gone through the library twice.
So he wrote instead.
He wrote textbooks from Earth, then translated them into High Imperial.
He dipped the quill and added in the margin:
Have re-read same six histories three times.
If I read about the founding of the Empire again I might actually scream.
He paused, then added:
No, I won’t.
Screaming would alarm Aerwyna.
Not worth it.
He shut the journal and stared at his reflection in the inkwell.
On Earth, boredom never had time to settle. There was always another paper, another crisis, another feed to scroll, another simulation to run.
Here, he manufactured work.
He pushed AMP until his nose bled—fifty cycles at first, nearly a hundred now, before the pressure behind his eyes forced him to stop. He ran mana through his muscles, timing how long he could keep a thread before his limbs turned to stone. An hour, once. A full day, lately.
Without those drills, the boredom would have eaten him.
He climbed into the window seat and watched the courtyard, and the sliver of training yard beyond two towers. Knights and squires moved like steel dots. Faint mana clung to the stronger ones.
He’d spent whole mornings tracking the same drills—reinforced sprints, hardened arms, wooden sword swings.
It was fine.
Predictable.
Ezra had only seen Reitz train twice, from a distance, but the glimpses had burned into his memory. It was the closest thing he’d had to real combat in this world.
And that pissed him off.
“Genius,” he muttered at the glass. “Give me everything to see, then lock me where I can’t do anything.”
Today was supposed to change that.
A knock came at the nursery door.
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“Ezra?” Aerwyna’s voice. “May I come in?”
He hopped down, wiped his ink-stained fingers on a cloth, and walked to the door as it opened.
Aerwyna stepped in, already dressed for company.
Her blonde hair was braided and pinned. Her gown was deep blue, fur-lined at the collar, with accents of black and crimson—Blackfyre colors.
Fatigue sat faintly under her eyes. When she saw him, her face brightened.
“Good morning, little one,” she said. “Happy birthday.”
“Good morning, Mama,” he replied.
She still paused when he answered that clearly.
It was small—a blink, a soft hitch—but he saw it.
Then she scooped him up and hugged him hard enough that his ribs creaked.
“Two years,” she murmured into his hair. “You grow too fast.”
Not fast enough to stop being treated like a zoo animal.
He didn’t say it. He let her hold him.
The hug hit him differently every time. Warmth, yes—but also a pull that came from the body, not the mind. His body had decided she was safe before he could argue.
He’d often used mana to drown it.
Today he let it sit.
It smoothed the sharp edges.
He didn’t have a name for it, and he didn’t know what to do with it. But when she looked at him like that, the hollow space in his chest didn’t feel quite so hollow.
“Remember what we talked about?” she asked, pulling back to meet his eyes.
“Yes, Mother.” Ezra nodded. “Small words.”
“Yes,” she said, firm. “You may speak. You may answer when spoken to. But no talk of…” She searched for the phrase. “Angles of the sun. Or the way the castle’s shadow changes with the seasons. Or why the southern wall resonates differently when you touch it. People already talk enough as it is. At least for the party today. Okay?”
“I know,” Ezra said.
Last year, servants had whispered about the baby who walked like a grown man—the six-month-old who’d given orders during a kidnapping. The last thing they needed was Ezra lecturing in the hall.
He preferred being underestimated.
“I’ll behave,” he said.
Aerwyna exhaled, smile still in place. “All right. I’ll take that.” She squeezed his hand. “Come on. Your father’s been raiding the kitchen since dawn. I told the cook that if he steals more than three bites before the feast, they’re allowed to bill him for it.”
“That’s quite a habit he has before feasts,” Ezra muttered. “I don’t recall him doing it during the Day of Introduction, though.”
Aerwyna gave a short laugh. “Yes. Well, we were all rather tense that time.”
She set him down and took his hand. Together they walked the corridor toward the Great Hall.
The hall had been dressed again.
Not as grand as his Day of Introduction—the memory of countless nobles and the Rex watching him while he tried very hard to drool on cue was still burned into him—but close.
Banners hung from the crossbeams. Gemlamp chandeliers were lit.
The Blackfyre sigil rippled over the high seat, surrounded by allied sigils.
Long tables held simple food for now, with richer dishes waiting in the kitchens.
Near the lord’s chair, a smaller seat had been set on a low platform.
Dark wood. Cushioned. Entirely too elaborate for someone his size.
“Your thronelet,” Reitz announced when he saw Ezra.
He stood beside the dais with a pastry in one hand.
His tunic was clean but crooked, as if he’d dressed while walking. He grinned, eyes bright.
“Happy birthday, Ez.”
“Seriously, Father? Pastry? Again? Before the feast?” Ezra said.
Reitz glanced at it, then took a bigger bite on purpose.
“Come now,” he said around the mouthful. “You know we’re supposed to be feasting, right?”
Aerwyna lifted a brow. “You told me you’d stop at three. That’s your fifth.”
Reitz studied the pastry like it might testify, then looked back at her. “This one doesn’t count,” he said. “It’s for morale.”
Aerwyna closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose.
“You are Earl of Bren,” she muttered. “You face bandits, raiders, and murderous nobles. Feasting should not be your downfall.”
“It’s not a downfall,” Reitz said, grinning toothily. “I’m doing what’s appropriate for the occasion.”
He wiped his fingers on a napkin, then scooped Ezra up and plunked him onto the small chair.
“There. Sit. Look terrifying.”
Ezra sat with his feet dangling, hands folded over his knees. He kept his face calm.
If you mean terrifying, mean it. I could scare half the hall just by speaking.
Servants lined the walls. Knights in House colors stood polished and still. A handful of lesser nobles had come—minor lords, a couple of merchants allowed closer than most—and they were already stealing glances, whispering behind their cups.
Ezra knew what half of them were thinking.
There’s the miracle baby.
There’s the odd child that walks like a grown man.
There’s the piece the Rex has his hand on.
Aerwyna stepped forward, a hand on his shoulder.
“Friends of Bren,” she said, voice carrying, “thank you for coming to celebrate the second year of our son, Ezra Blackfyre.”
Applause rolled through the hall—bows, curtsies.
Reitz leaned in. “Now you say something adorable.”
“I thought you said terrifying?” Ezra murmured.
Reitz’s grin twitched. “I was joking.”
Aerwyna’s fingers tightened. “A simple thank you will do.”
Ezra swallowed. He didn’t mind attention. He minded the feeling of being examined.
He cleared his throat. “Thank you,” he said, steady but not loud. “Mother. Father. Everyone.”
Mild shock. A few soft laughs. An older lady dabbed at her eyes. Servants grinned.
He hadn’t babbled. He’d just spoken.
For now, that was enough.
Reitz clapped his shoulder. “Perfect.”
The speeches were short.
Reitz spoke of peace and the Rex’s continued favor, careful with every word.
Aerwyna announced food distributions into Bren so the town would feel included.
Then came the part Ezra had only been told about yesterday.
“Ezra,” Aerwyna said, turning to him in front of everyone, “from this day, you are not confined to the nursery and these halls alone.”
A murmur passed through the room.
Even some knights shifted.
“You may walk the streets of Bren,” she continued, “with me or your father, and with a proper escort. You may watch the men train from the yard, not only from your window. You may see more of the land you will one day help lead.”
The words landed in his chest.
It wasn’t freedom.
It was something.
A small smile pulled at his mouth.
Only Evan, standing near the dais in armor, seemed to catch what sat under it. The knight met his gaze, steady.
I know.
Ezra inclined his head a fraction.
Reitz clapped once, breaking the weight.
“A lord’s life is not lived alone,” he said. “Today, you receive the first of those who will stand at your side when I cannot.”
He beckoned.
“Caspian. Come.”
Ezra had met Caspian as a baby. Today made it official.
A boy stepped forward, awkward but trying.
Brown hair that wouldn’t lie flat. Freckles. A nose he’d grow into.
His tunic was new but plain, stiff with fresh dye. His boots were too big, stuffed at the toes.
Caspian had been rescued from one of the raids.
“Here is Caspian,” Reitz said, voice carrying. “Orphaned when bandits dared the king’s road. We took him into our house. In the past year he has shown a sharp eye and a steady hand. From this day he will train as one of your own men, Ezra, and spend two days each week as part of your escort.”
Caspian dropped to one knee, head bowed.
“I am at your command, my liege,” he said.
Rushed. Memorized. Forced through anyway.
Ezra studied him.
Children didn’t stay small. The raw hands, straight back, and the flicker of relief at the word command spoke of work, not laziness—and of something other than fear.
“Thank you,” Ezra said. “Stand. Train well.”
Caspian looked up, startled to be addressed at all, then scrambled to his feet and backed away, cheeks flushed.
Reitz nodded.
“Next,” he said. “Hearth. Come. Pay your respects.”
Hearth stepped forward with none of Caspian’s hesitation.
Nine, maybe.
Black hair, glossy and perfectly combed. His tunic was finer, trimmed with the sigil of House Bedross.
“Ezra,” Reitz said, tone smoothing around a small hitch, “this is Hearth. He is”—a short pause—“the son of Aaron Bedross. You know Aaron. Hearth will serve as your retainer.”
Hearth sank to one knee with precise control. He bowed less deeply than Caspian, kept his eyes on Ezra’s chest, and said nothing.
“Hearth,” Reitz prompted, gentle.
Hearth spoke, low and flat. Two words, aimed past Ezra at Reitz.
Where Caspian had been nervous, Hearth was shut down—not hostile, just locked.
Ezra watched him.
He’d met people like this on Earth. Raised on the certainty that they mattered, then forced to watch that certainty get reassigned.
“Since he is Aaron’s son,” Reitz added, a little too lightly, “I hope you’ll treat him well, Ezra, and not as a common servant.”
Ezra wasn’t sure if that line was for him, for the hall, or for Hearth.
“Okay, Papa,” he said.
He held Hearth’s gaze for a heartbeat, then nodded once—the same acknowledgment he’d given Caspian.
“Stand,” Ezra said. “We’ll… learn together.”
Hearth’s grey eyes flickered. Just for a moment.
Then his face smoothed.
He stood, stepped back to his place behind the dais, and became still.
Caspian ended up opposite him almost without thinking—two points on either side of Ezra’s seat.
Ezra filed the symmetry away.
The feast began.
Servants moved in steady lanes, carrying platters of roasted meat, baskets of bread, stewed fruit in gleaming bowls.
Reitz and Aerwyna drifted through the hall, exchanging words with their guests.
Compliments that were also questions.
Reitz answered with jokes and half-answers.
Aerwyna’s smile never quite reached her eyes.
Ezra stayed on his chair. He climbed down when he had to, then returned.
Old ladies pinched his cheeks.
Younger knights bowed awkwardly.
He replied when spoken to. Kept his words small and plain.
On the outside, it was warmth and celebration.
Inside, the boredom waited.
The knowledge that when the tables were cleared and the servants sent to bed, he’d walk the same halls back to the same room.
Unless something changed.
It changed halfway through a cup of watered wine.
A guard in Blackfyre colors strode into the hall, helmet under his arm, sweat darkening his hair.
He didn’t raise his voice or drop to a knee. He leaned in beside Reitz and murmured.
Reitz’s smile didn’t move, but his eyes sharpened.
Aerwyna’s hand stilled on the table.
Evan, near the dais, straightened.
Ezra pushed mana out to sharpen his hearing and caught the words under the hall’s noise.
“My lord,” the guard murmured. “Forgive the interruption. A rider has come to the outer gate.”
“And?” Reitz asked, without turning.
“He bears the mark of the Demon Hunters,” the guard said. “He requests immediate audience. Says his business is urgent.”
“What’s his rank?”
“He wears the sigil of a Hellspawn Slayer, my lord. Name of Deimos.”
Slayer. Not an apprentice. Not a courier with a minor report.
Ezra’s fingers curled against his knees.
Reitz gave a small nod. He set his cup down with deliberate care and let his gaze sweep the tables as if nothing had happened.
“Very well.”
Then, without turning his head, he added under his breath, “Have him lodged and fed. I’ll see him in my study after the reception.”
The guard bowed once and melted back into the crowd.
Whispers ran through the hall—people always sensed something—but no one could claim they’d heard it.
Something cold and bright slid through Ezra.
Not fear.
Interest.
Demon Hunters were one of the few things in his reading that still felt like a blank space—half-mentioned in histories, avoided in conversation, tied to places normal armies didn’t go.
And now one of them was here.
For the first time in too long, the world had put a piece in play that Ezra hadn’t already watched from his window.