The package arrived at dawn.

  Aldric was already awake—had been for hours, his mind churning through the implications of Caelen Wyndthorpe's inspection. He'd practiced his new mana flow technique until his arm ached, trying to commit the smoother paths to muscle memory. The glow was still faint, still unsteady, but it came more easily than it had yesterday.

  A knock at the door. Then: "Delivery for Voss."

  He opened it to find a servant he didn't recognize, dressed in the plain livery of the Voss Trading Company. The man held a wrapped bundle the size of a small crate, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine.

  "From your father," the servant said, setting it down just inside the door. "He said to tell you—the usual channels."

  Aldric nodded. The servant left without another word.

  He closed the door and knelt beside the package. The "usual channels" meant his father had routed this through unofficial supply lines—avoiding the Order's records, avoiding questions about why a "worthless" spellblade disciple was receiving regular deliveries. Edmund had been doing this for two years now, ever since Aldric's stipend proved insufficient for even basic training materials.

  He untied the twine and unfolded the paper.

  Inside: three vials of a pale blue liquid (minor stamina draughts, the kind sold to travelers and merchants), a small jar of healing salve, a bundle of cloth bandages, and a sealed letter.

  Aldric picked up the letter. His father's handwriting—neat, economical, the script of a man who wrote more invoices than personal correspondence.

  Inspection begins today. I'll visit this evening. We should talk.

  Short. To the point. But something in the phrasing made Aldric's chest tighten.

  We should talk.

  His father wasn't one for unnecessary words. If he wanted to talk, it was because something needed saying.

  ---

  The day passed in a blur of tension.

  Caelen Wyndthorpe moved through the Order like a blade through silk—precise, unhurried, leaving disruption in his wake. Aldric caught glimpses of him from across courtyards and through doorways: the white robes, the pale eyes, the functionaries trailing behind with their satchels and scrolls.

  He wasn't watching the spellblade disciples. Not yet. He was examining records, interviewing instructors, reviewing the Order's accounts. The real scrutiny would come later.

  Aldric trained through it. The other spellblade disciples were on edge—Therin kept glancing toward the main buildings, Kira's strikes were wild and unfocused, and Dace had simply stopped, sitting on a bench with his head in his hands. No one said much. There wasn't anything to say.

  Aldric focused on the technique. The mana moved through his arm—still catching in places, still bleeding off at sharp angles, but smoother than before. He could feel the difference. Small, but real.

  By late afternoon, his muscles burned and his head ached. But he kept going. Because there was nothing else to do.

  ---

  The knock came just after sunset.

  Aldric opened the door to find his father standing in the corridor, dressed in the simple clothes of a traveling merchant—dark coat, sturdy boots, a leather satchel slung over one shoulder. He looked tired. The lines around his eyes were deeper than Aldric remembered.

  "May I come in?"

  "Of course."

  Edmund stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He glanced around the small room—the bed, the chest, the narrow window—before his gaze settled on Aldric.

  "You've grown," he said. It was an odd thing to say. They'd seen each other three weeks ago.

  "I'm the same height."

  "Height isn't what I meant." Edmund set his satchel on the floor and moved to the window, looking out at the darkening sky. "The inspection. How bad is it?"

  "Bad." Aldric sat on the edge of his bed. "The inspector—Caelen Wyndthorpe—he's targeting spellblades specifically. Resource allocation review. They're deciding whether we're worth keeping."

  Edmund was quiet for a moment. His reflection in the window glass was still, unreadable.

  "I'd heard rumors. The Trading Company has contacts in Leagueholm." He turned from the window. "Wyndthorpe. That name... I've heard it before. Youngest High Mage in a century. Cold, they say. Efficient."

  "That's one word for it."

  "Is there another?"

  Aldric thought of Caelen's pale eyes, the way he'd looked at the spellblade disciples—not with malice, but with the dispassion of someone examining a problem to be solved.

  "He doesn't hate us," Aldric said slowly. "He doesn't feel anything about us at all. We're just... numbers. Statistics."

  Edmund's expression shifted. Something flickered across his face—concern, maybe, or something deeper.

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  "That's worse," he said quietly.

  "Yes."

  Silence stretched between them. Aldric watched his father, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands kept moving to his coat pockets and then pulling back.

  "Father. What did you want to talk about?"

  Edmund hesitated. It was a small thing—a pause that lasted a beat too long—but Aldric noticed. He'd spent his whole life watching his father navigate merchant negotiations, and he knew what hesitation meant.

  He's weighing what to tell me.

  "I received word this morning," Edmund said finally. "From Leagueholm. Not official channels—someone I trust. The Ironwing Pact is under pressure. Resources are tighter than they've been in years. They're looking for ways to cut costs."

  "I know. That's why they sent the inspector."

  "It's more than that." Edmund moved to the chair by Aldric's desk and sat down heavily. "The pressure isn't just financial. There are... other forces at work. Factions within the Pact. Some who want to consolidate power, eliminate inefficiencies. And some who see the current situation as an opportunity."

  Aldric's mind raced. "What kind of opportunity?"

  "To reshape the Order system. To eliminate paths they consider... less valuable." Edmund's voice was careful, measured. "Spellblades have always been marginalized. But this is different. This is systematic. Someone is pushing for more than just cost-cutting."

  The words hung in the air. Aldric thought of Caelen Wyndthorpe's precise voice, his cold efficiency, his complete lack of interest in the people whose lives he was about to upend.

  "You're saying this isn't just about resources."

  "I'm saying there's more happening than what you can see. And I want you to be careful." Edmund leaned forward. "The Voss family has... connections. Old ones. Some of them are useful. Some of them are dangerous. And some of them—" He stopped.

  Aldric waited. His father's hands were clenched on his knees, the knuckles white.

  "Some of them what?"

  Edmund looked at him. Really looked, with the weight of something Aldric couldn't name behind his eyes.

  "Your mother," he said. "The catastrophe ten years ago. There are things I haven't told you. Things I thought I was protecting you from."

  The room seemed to contract. Aldric felt his heart rate spike, his hands curling into fists.

  "What things?"

  "I can't—" Edmund stopped again. His jaw worked, as if he were chewing on words he couldn't bring himself to swallow. "Not yet. I'm not ready. But I need you to know that whatever happens with this inspection, whatever the Ironwing Pact decides—there are options. Paths I've been preparing. You won't be alone."

  Aldric stared at his father. The man he'd known his whole life—the merchant, the Adept-rank mage, the quiet presence who'd always been there—suddenly seemed like a stranger. Or rather, like someone he'd only ever seen in fragments, never the whole picture.

  "Is this about Felix?"

  Edmund flinched. It was small, barely perceptible, but Aldric caught it.

  "What do you know about Felix?"

  "Nothing. That's the problem." Aldric's voice was harder than he intended. "He died saving my life. He left a letter I can't read because someone tore it in half. And ever since, you've been... different. Careful. Like you're waiting for something."

  Edmund's face went still. The merchant's mask slid into place—the one he wore during negotiations, when he was calculating angles and hiding his true position.

  "Felix was... unusual. I noticed it, though I never said anything. He said things that didn't fit, knew things he shouldn't have known." Edmund's voice dropped. "After he died, I made inquiries. Quietly. What I found..." He shook his head. "I don't have answers. Only more questions. And questions can be dangerous."

  "Questions about what?"

  "About where he came from. Who he really was. And whether his death was truly an accident."

  The words landed like stones in still water. Aldric felt the ripples spreading through him, disturbing everything he'd thought he understood.

  "You think someone killed him."

  "I think there are things I don't know. And I think the less said about it, the safer you'll be." Edmund stood, his movements stiff. "I'm not telling you this to frighten you. I'm telling you because you need to understand—there's more at stake than an inspection. More than the Order, more than the Pact. There are forces moving in the background, and I don't want you caught in their path."

  Aldric wanted to press further. He wanted to demand answers, to push past his father's careful deflections and find the truth underneath. But he could see the walls going up behind Edmund's eyes—the merchant's instinct to hold information close, to reveal only what served his purpose.

  He's scared. He's been scared for years.

  "Father—"

  "Not now." Edmund's voice was gentle but firm. "I've said more than I intended. Let me... let me find the right way to tell you the rest. When I'm ready."

  He picked up his satchel and moved toward the door. At the threshold, he paused.

  "The supplies I sent. Use them. Train hard. Show this inspector what you're capable of." A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "You've always been better than they gave you credit for. Your mother saw it. Felix saw it. I see it too."

  He stepped into the corridor. Aldric followed.

  "Father. The catastrophe. What really happened to our family?"

  Edmund stopped. His back was to Aldric, his shoulders rigid.

  "Someday," he said quietly. "When it's safe. I promise."

  Then he walked away, his footsteps echoing down the corridor until they faded into silence.

  ---

  Aldric stood in the doorway for a long time after his father left.

  The conversation replayed in his mind, each word turning over like a stone in a stream. His father's hesitation. The things he'd almost said. The things he'd stopped himself from saying.

  Questions can be dangerous.

  Whether his death was truly an accident.

  When it's safe.

  He thought of Felix—his strange wisdom, his out-of-place expressions, the way he'd sometimes looked at Aldric with an expression that seemed to hold more than friendship. He thought of the torn letter, the missing words, the fragment that mentioned The Hollowed Rite.

  He thought of his mother, who he barely remembered. Of the catastrophe that had shattered his family ten years ago. Of the crescent-shaped scar above his brow, whose origin he'd never been told.

  There are things I haven't told you. Things I thought I was protecting you from.

  The room felt smaller than before. The walls pressed in. The narrow window showed only darkness.

  Aldric walked to his bed and sat down heavily. The package from his father sat on the floor, unopened except for the letter. The stamina draughts, the healing salve, the bandages—they were practical gifts, the kind of support a merchant father would send to a son preparing for hardship.

  But underneath the practicality was something else. A message, maybe. A promise.

  You won't be alone.

  He reached into his tunic and pulled out Felix's letter fragment. The torn edge was ragged, the words incomplete.

  ...The Hollowed Rite... they know about—

  His father's voice echoed in his memory: I made inquiries. Quietly. What I found... I don't have answers. Only more questions.

  Questions. About Felix. About the catastrophe. About forces moving in the background.

  Aldric folded the fragment and tucked it away. Then he lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling.

  Tomorrow, the inspection would continue. Caelen Wyndthorpe would examine their records, their training, their worth. The spellblade disciples would be weighed and measured, and a recommendation would be made.

  But that wasn't what kept Aldric awake.

  What are you hiding, Father? What happened to our family? And what does any of it have to do with Felix?

  The questions circled in his mind, unanswered. And somewhere in the darkness, forces he couldn't see were moving toward a future he couldn't predict.

  ---

  A father's silence. A son's questions. And secrets buried so deep that even asking about them might be dangerous.

  The inspection continues tomorrow—but Aldric is beginning to realize that the real threat may not be the man in white robes at all.