Viktor eyed the estate ahead. "This is the place?"

  The house stood quiet and composed, its redstone walls catching the late light like dried blood. Ivy curled along the edges of the slate roof, too neat to be wild. The windows were shuttered, the path swept clean. Not a leaf out of place. It looked like a place that had never known violence.

  Soren stepped up beside him, voice low. "The man at the corner said he saw Nivarrio out front less than an hour ago. Said he was feeding birds."

  Viktor didn't respond. His eyes stayed fixed on the gate.

  Arelos shifted behind them, arms crossed. "We sure about this? We walk in there, we might not walk out."

  Fenric gave a dry snort, adjusting the collar of his coat. "There's still time to turn around and pretend we got lost. I'm just saying."

  No one laughed. The silence that followed wasn't agreement, but resignation.

  Soren glanced back the way they came.

  Viktor stepped forward.

  The others didn't move.

  He reached the gate and pressed a hand to it. The iron creaked open with a groan that scraped against the quiet like a blade on stone. He didn't hesitate. He stepped through.

  As his boots crossed the threshold, Viktor let his awareness stretch outward. A pulse of power, subtle but deliberate, rippled from his chest. It moved like a breath held too long, then released.

  Two faint signatures flickered inside the house—soft, mundane. Servants, maybe. But in the courtyard ahead, something else waited. A presence. Dense. Measured. It didn't burn or blind. It pressed. Like standing beneath a storm that hadn't yet broken.

  Soren lingered at the gate, voice barely audible. "Do we follow him?"

  Fenric shrugged, but his eyes didn't leave the path. "He's already through. Unless you've got a better plan, I guess we're committed."

  They followed.

  The gravel crunched beneath their boots as they entered the courtyard. The garden was immaculate, unnaturally so for the season. Dry leaves had been swept into perfect lines along the path's edge. Shrubs stood trimmed with geometric care, their leaves just beginning to bronze at the tips. Bare branches arched overhead in tidy rows, casting thin shadows across dormant flower beds. The air was cool, still, and far too clean—like the place had been polished for a guest who wasn't welcome.

  On a stone bench, a man sat carving a piece of wood. His robes were plain, his posture relaxed. The knife in his hand moved with slow, practiced ease, shaving curls from the block in his palm.

  He didn't look up.

  "Trespassers," he said, voice calm, almost bored. "People really don't value their lives these days."

  Viktor stopped six paces away. His voice came low, sharp. "Jorvan Nivarrio."

  The man's hand stilled. He set the wood down beside him, slid the knife into a loop sewn into his sleeve, and rose. His movements were unhurried. He brushed his palms down the front of his robe, as if dusting off a thought.

  "Depends who's asking," he said, tone dry. "And how keen they are to die knowing."

  Something shifted.

  Not wind. Not sound.

  Power.

  It rolled through the courtyard like a second heartbeat. Viktor felt it immediately—static crawling across his skin, down his spine, into his bones.

  He didn't flinch.

  The formation was invisible, but not to him. It spread in a wide circle beneath the gravel, layered and complex. Power radiated from it—not heat, but pressure. Like standing too close to a forge that hadn't been lit yet.

  Jorvan's voice remained casual. "You must be cracked in the head. Showing up uninvited to an Arbiter's doorstep? That's not bold. That's suicidal."

  The weight of the magic grew. Not brighter, but heavier. It pressed behind the eyes, settled in the chest. It didn't strike. It waited.

  Viktor's gaze flicked across the courtyard, tracking the edges of the formation. Then he looked back at Jorvan, unblinking.

  "Is that supposed to intimidate me?"

  The words landed like a stone in still water.

  Jorvan's brow creased—not in offense, but in calculation. "You can sense it?"

  Viktor exhaled, slow and dry. "Not exactly subtle."

  Behind him, Fenric frowned. "What's he talking about? Sense what?"

  Soren hissed, "Shut up, Fen."

  Arelos stepped forward half a pace, voice tight. "Viktor, please. Let's not make this our last moments."

  Jorvan tilted his head. "It's not visible. Not audible. Not even warm to the touch. And yet you saw it."

  "I didn't say I saw it," Viktor replied. "I felt it. It's practically screaming at me."

  That earned a pause.

  "Impressive." Jorvan studied him now, properly. His eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in interest. "You're not just some fool with a grudge, then."

  "I'm not here to impress you," Viktor said.

  "No," Jorvan murmured. "But you've done it anyway."

  The heat in the formation dimmed slightly. The pressure eased, just a fraction. It was still there—coiled, ready—but no longer on the verge of striking.

  Jorvan's gaze swept over the others. "And the rest of you? What are you, his backup singers?"

  Fenric raised a hand. "I'm just here to not get incinerated."

  "Lovely," Jorvan muttered. "A choir of cowards."

  Viktor didn't look away. "I'm the only one you need to worry about."

  Jorvan's eyes returned to him. He studied Viktor again, slower this time. There was something in the way the young man stood—shoulders squared, jaw set, grief barely held in check. Not arrogance. Not recklessness. Something colder.

  "Very well," Jorvan said at last. "Speak your mind."

  Viktor stepped forward, just one pace. His voice dropped, tight with restraint. "Did you have anything to do with the murder of House Avrolios?"

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  The question didn't echo, but it landed like a blow.

  Jorvan's expression didn't change immediately. But something behind his eyes shifted. Recognition. Not guilt. Not surprise. Memory.

  "That name's buried," he said slowly. "No one left to ask it."

  Viktor's breath caught, then steadied. "That's where you're wrong."

  Jorvan's tone sharpened. "Who are you?"

  "Viktor," he answered, his voice cold, letting the name settle before adding, "Avrolios. Son of Sanos Avrolios."

  The world stopped. No wind. No birds.

  Jorvan didn't move. His hands hung at his sides, fingers curled slightly. His face was still, but his eyes—his eyes were wide.

  "…Impossible," he said, hoarse.

  He stared at Viktor like he was seeing a ghost. Not a threat. Not the young man. A contradiction. A name that should not exist, standing in front of him with fire in his blood and death in his eyes.

  Behind Viktor, no one spoke.

  No one dared interrupt.

  Not now.

  Jorvan's head shook, short and sure, his mouth pulling into a hard line. "No. I don't believe it," he said flatly, like he meant to shut the door on the whole conversation. "The boy failed the mage test. Reported dead with the rest of his family. I was there for the test administration. I saw it myself."

  Viktor didn't answer. His gaze slipped sideways, toward the wooden carving resting on the bench beside Jorvan. A small horse—half-finished. Chisel marks still fresh. He didn't say a word. Just twitched two fingers.

  The carving rose. Silent. Graceful.

  Jorvan's brow creased. His arms tensed slightly.

  The wooden horse floated through the air and drifted delicately toward Viktor's outstretched palm. He caught it with ease, turned it once in his fingers, then twice, inspecting the whittled detail with a faint, tired smile that didn't reach his eyes.

  "I did fail that test," Viktor said, voice dry, but steady.

  He tossed the horse from one hand to the other and gave a small shrug. "But I guess those tests aren't as definitive as everyone likes to claim."

  "I—" Jorvan stared, sputtered, recovering from the motion too slowly. "That's not… that's not possible. Who taught you?"

  Viktor let the carving drop. It hit the dirt with a dull knock, forgotten. He met Jorvan's gaze. Hard. Cold. "First," he said, his voice lowering, "you answer me."

  Jorvan's expression twisted.

  "Did you have my family murdered?"

  The accusation dropped like a sword onto stone—raw, loud, ringing in the still air.

  "What?" Jorvan stepped back half a pace, disbelief etched deep across his face. "Gods, no. That—do you genuinely think I…?" His laugh came sharp and bitter. "You think I slaughtered your entire line? Do I look that twisted to you?"

  "You were there," Viktor said, unmoved. "I saw you. The day before." He kept his tone level, though the heat behind his words wasn't subtle. "You spoke with my father."

  Jorvan's silence lasted two slow heartbeats.

  "I met with him," he confirmed at last, voice quieter, less sure. "That much is true."

  "Why?"

  Jorvan's eyes darkened. "I was sent to warn him," he said. "There were whispers." His voice thinned. "It wasn't enough to make a formal call."

  "You were sent?" Viktor asked, all scrutiny now. "By whom?"

  "The king." Jorvan's jaw tightened. "Phanos."

  Viktor folded his arms slowly. "And the mage test? You watched?"

  Jorvan nodded once. "I did."

  "So why?" Viktor asked. "Why attend the mage test, why not seek my father out at our estate?"

  Jorvan took a breath, reluctant. "We were hoping you'd manifest the talent. That would've made things simpler."

  "What things?" Viktor pressed.

  Jorvan hesitated, fingers twitching at his side—as if weighing what would follow if he spoke.

  "You were… considered," he said carefully, "for marriage to the crown princess."

  Viktor scoffed loud and sharp. "Right. Sure." He waved a hand. "Line up the pigs for wings while you're at it. The Avrolios name barely opened half a gate, let alone a royal one."

  "You're thinking too small," Jorvan said. "Your father's name wasn't the point."

  Viktor squinted at him, step tightening. "Then what was?"

  "Your mother," Jorvan said slowly, like each syllable was a risk. "Castina Avrolios. Born Castina Mestros."

  The name hit like a punch.

  "Only child of Zenar Mestros. The rightful king of Vorum," Jorvan went on. "Before his crown was usurped by his younger brother."

  Viktor didn't move. His hands clenched at his sides, white against his knuckles. His shoulders drew tight, locked.

  The others behind Viktor—Arelos, Fenric, Soren, Jax—were silent. Still as grave markers.

  "You weren't just a borderland noble with an ambitious father," Jorvan added. "A direct bloodline to the scattered fragments of what was once a great empire. And with King Jaros aging and childless…" He lifted his brow. "You became a political key. A way to unify."

  Arelos scoffed. "Figures," he muttered. "Every king dreams of stitching the empire back together."

  Jorvan turned sharply. "And who are you?" His gaze scanned the group. "What are you doing here—clinging to his shoulders like wet laundry? Who gave you the right to pipe in during—"

  "Watch your tone," Viktor cut in suddenly, stepping slightly forward. "Don't mistake loyalty for weakness."

  Jorvan bristled. "I've half a mind to end this entire farce and bury what's left of you in that hedge."

  "Then why haven't you?" Viktor asked, voice low and unmoved.

  Jorvan's eyes flicked—something almost imperceptible shifting in his posture. A calculation stuttered.

  "You think you're still alive because I'm afraid of you?" he snapped, louder now. "Is that it?"

  "No," Viktor said quietly. "I just think that if you were going to kill us, you would've done so already... or tried, at the very least."

  Jorvan shook his head once, frozen in motion. Then he barked a laugh. "You're cracked in the head. Absolutely cracked."

  His tone shifted. It was less mocking now—more curious. "So how?" he asked. "How did you walk away from that inferno?"

  Viktor exhaled through his nose. The words came plain. "I wasn't home. They found someone else—maids, cousins. Close enough in size. Close enough for a fire to blur the details."

  "And you've lived like a phantom ever since?" Jorvan asked. "Hidden? No name, no claim?"

  "That's right," Viktor said. "Found an abandoned house, made some friends, and worked for my meals."

  Jorvan shook his head, clearly still trying to sort fact from madness. "And how in the hell," he muttered, "did you figure out formations?"

  "I didn't," Viktor said. "Not like you mean it. Half of it's guessing and pain. But when something pulses that loud…" He lifted a brow. "It's hard to ignore."

  Jorvan stepped back once—not in fear, but caution. Thought. He cast a brief glance at the others in the group, scanning their expressions.

  "I'll give one thing to your band of misfits," he said. "Smart to run silent. If word had reached the wrong ears before now…"

  "It'd be a second funeral," Viktor finished. "I'm aware."

  Jorvan nodded once.

  "Now how about you tell me who actually is behind the death of my family?"

  Jorvan met his gaze. "You still haven't put it together?"

  Viktor didn't blink.

  "Think, son," Jorvan said. "Who had the most to gain by wiping out a contender for the hand of the crown princess?"

  Arelos' voice cut in quiet. "The Carolians."

  "Exactly," Jorvan said, sighing through his teeth. "Duke Halren Carolian. It's not subtle. It never was."

  "So they murdered my family," Viktor asked, voice quieter now, but laced with fury. "To open the way. Smooth the path."

  "Yes," Jorvan said. "With you gone, there was no Mestros blood left to contest the union. That allowed their son to marry into the crown. And not long after—the king was dead."

  "Can that be proven?" Viktor asked. "Anything written?"

  "The record of your mother's claim still exists," Jorvan said. "Petitioned, notarized. Filed through the royal court, under her maiden name. All legitimate. The documents were an important piece of the negotations."

  "Where?"

  "The palace archives," Jorvan answered. "If they haven't destroyed them since the coronation."

  "And the attack?" Viktor asked. "Proof of that?"

  "None. No logs. No edicts. No fingers pointed." Jorvan's face hardened. "But it's practically an open secret in the upper echelons. They just don't say it."

  "Then why didn't the old king stop it?" Viktor demanded.

  Jorvan exhaled slowly. "Because he couldn't risk breaking the realm to save one family. He was already losing control. If he'd acted rashly, he feared civil war."

  Viktor bared his teeth slightly. "And no one helped? No one stood up to the Carolians?"

  "Who, exactly?" Jorvan asked bitterly. "Each duke holds their own little kingdom. No one dares move alone."

  Silence stretched too long.

  "Why are you telling me this?" Viktor asked.

  Jorvan's voice dropped, bitterness staining every word. "Because I still serve Phanos. Not the boy-king waving from his balcony while his father twists the realm."

  "You think they killed King Phanos too?" Viktor asked.

  "I don't think," Jorvan snapped. "I know."

  Viktor's tone darkened further. "And the arbiters? Where were they?"

  "Divided," Jorvan said coldly. "Some bend the knee. Others bite their tongues and live with it."

  "And what are you?" Viktor asked.

  "Tired," Jorvan said. "And increasingly unsure if anything we did ever fucking mattered."

  There was a long pause.

  Viktor shifted, resting his weight forward, voice steady. "Then give me what does."

  Jorvan blinked. "Like what?"

  "Your truth," Viktor said. "So far, it's been more than I've had in years."

  Jorvan studied him. Behind him, the others stood silent and watchful. Scars and wariness printed plainly across their faces.

  Jorvan let out a long breath. "I never liked your father," he admitted. "But no one deserved what happened to your family. Not them. Not you."

  Viktor glanced to Arelos, who met his gaze without hesitation.

  "I think he's telling the truth," Arelos said. "At least it tracks. All of it."

  Viktor nodded once. Slowly. Final.

  Jorvan's voice gained an edge again. "Assuming I let you walk out of here—"

  Viktor snorted. "Enough already. If you wanted us dead, we wouldn't be talking. You'd be dragging ash across your floor."

  Jorvan didn't argue that.

  He scrubbed a hand over his mouth. "Maybe you've earned something better than silence. Doesn't change what's coming."

  "No," Viktor agreed. "But I'm changing who faces it first."

  There was a beat of quiet tension.

  "What will you do now?" Jorvan asked.

  Viktor didn't hesitate.

  "I'm going to kill the Carolian patriarch."