"Let the hand that holds this book do so with reverence.

  What is etched here was passed from the Messenger to the Sacred Order.

  You are not its owner, only its bearer. Misuse is death. Disrespect is blasphemy.

  Study only what your soul can carry.

  This grimoire is authorized by the Priesthood for the use of Johan Minerva."

  Mikhael stared at the lines, cold sweat rising.

  "Why had Johan been given this? If nobles couldn't craft their own grimoires, someone had written it, copied it, blessed it, handed it over. If this sealcraft was so sacred, why had Romulus let Mikhael use another at all?"

  He turned the page.

  Seals were categorized: Creation, Reparation, Control, Destruction. Each person, the text said, was born with a fixed amount of power, mana, chi, aura, flame, essence. The names changed. The truth didn't.

  The name varied across time, but the truth was constant: it could not be increased. One's affinity leaned naturally toward one of the four categories. Johan's was Reparation.

  He flipped page after page, unable to stay on any one. Fear made him rush, excitement made him reckless. The knowledge could be taken at any moment.

  A knock at the door.

  Mikhael jolted. He shoved the grimoire under the bed just as the door opened.

  William Minerva stepped inside.

  Mikhael's eyes widened. He shot up so fast his chair fell over.

  "I'm sorry, my lord," he blurted. "Please forgive me for what I did to Johan. I'll do anything."

  "Never mind that," William said, pacing without looking at him. "He needed the correction. Servants let him win because they fear him. You didn't. He needed that."

  William chuckled, then glanced over.

  "Ill-tempered, just like his mother. Quick to flare up, quick to cool."

  Mikhael stood frozen. These people always caught him off guard.

  "Our conversation's flowing so well, isn't it?" William added with a smirk.

  "I... I'm sorry, my lord."

  "That one I won't forgive," William said, then pointed to a chessboard. "Do you play?"

  "Yes, with Valentin."

  "Good. Sit. Let's see if he's taught you anything."

  Mikhael hesitated.

  "Just sit down, Mikhael. For God's sake."

  He obeyed. William handed him the white pieces. They opened with pawns, safe, standard moves.

  William asked casually, "Where are you from?"

  "A village west of here. It's called Cesta."

  Another pair of moves exchanged. William's tone stayed light.

  "Any brothers or sisters? Did you come alone?"

  Mikhael's fingers paused on the board.

  "No. Neither," he said.

  He made a move, defensive, uncertain.

  William studied the board.

  "A dishonest one, are you?" His voice was playful, but his eyes sharp.

  "No, my lord."

  William leaned forward and nudged a piece on, aggressive.

  "I was under the impression you had a brother. Lionel, wasn't it? I'd considered setting him free. But since he's not your brother... why bother?"

  Mikhael froze.

  Then, carefully, he made his next move, one that weakened his position.

  "He was my brother. Not anymore. I gave him up. I serve Duke Romulus."

  William reset Mikhael's last piece.

  "You take me for a fool."

  Mikhael paled.

  Then, without thinking, he made a bold move, a deliberate attacking move. The kind he never used when playing with Valentin. The kind meant to win.

  William smiled slowly.

  "There he is."

  Mikhael blinked. For a moment, he thought he'd misheard.

  William leaned forward, his voice lowering. "I mean no good to these people either, Mikhael."

  The air in the room seemed thinner. Mikhael couldn't breathe.

  "I... I don't understand, my lord."

  "Stop pretending. You want this place to burn, don't you?"

  Mikhael said nothing.

  "They see what you let them see," William said. "But I see what you want."

  Mikhael wanted to run. Hide. Erase the moment.

  William's voice dropped to a murmur.

  "Don't worry. I won't stop you. I won't tell anyone. Keep doing what you're doing. But know this, when it ends, if it ends, it doesn't stop here."

  He stood. The movement was sudden, startling. Then came the grin, carefree again.

  "Good game. Quick one. Next time, don't pretend not to see the traps I lay. And next time, I'll play for real."

  At the door, he paused.

  "Oh, and the grimoire? It's yours now. Study hard. Johan won't mention it."

  William left without another word, the door clicking softly behind him like a closing verdict.

  Mikhael crumbled to the floor, hands gripping the roots of his hair. His breath came sharp, uneven.

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  "Is that man really on my side? No, no, it can't be. He must have some ulterior motive. Against Romulus? Against the Dukes as a whole?"

  His mind raced.

  "Fuck, I know so little. Was that a trick? Did Romulus send him? Was this all to see if I would crack?"

  He paused, panting. The room seemed colder than before.

  "But there's no proof I'm against them. Not that they need proof to throw me back to the plantation, but still... to discard me without reason would be irrational. Wasteful. That's not Romulus."

  He stared ahead, hollow-eyed.

  "No. William acted alone. Probably. He's... different. No bowing. No servants kissing his heels. Even his children, he doesn't shape them into nobles. What does he want? Power? Or something like mine?"

  He let out a slow breath.

  "I need to stay close. Watch. Figure it out. Maybe... maybe I can use him. He gave me the grimoire after all."

  He turned his gaze to the space beneath the bed. The leather cover caught a glint of light. It was calling to him, like a forbidden sin. He knew it brought nothing good.

  But he reached anyway.

  His fingers closed around the spine.

  Mikhael sat down slowly, placing the grimoire in front of him like something alive. He ran his hand across the cracked leather cover, then opened it.

  It could not be increased.

  Every soul had a number it could not see.

  Mikhael read the line twice. Three times.

  Finite.

  The priest back in his village had talked of endless mercy, endless light, a god who never tired. This page said: no. There is a limit. When you empty, you're done. Not holy. Just spent.

  His throat went dry.

  He read on.

  All seals are vessels. They do not hold power. They shape it.

  The essence flows from the user, channeled through form, governed by cost.

  This wasn't scripture.

  It was engineering.

  The next pages bore dedications to the god-names, stitched into doctrine:

  Let Creation be gifted by Svarog, who forges fire and air.

  Let Reparation be the realm of Ziva, who rebinds what is broken.

  Let Control be tempered by Veles, deceiver and keeper of oaths.

  Let Destruction be watched by Triglav, who sees all ends.

  Each name sat above a full-page seal.

  Svarog's mark looked like a flame bound in iron.

  Ziva's curled like roots around a central crack.

  Veles's was sharp and forked, like a serpent's tongue.

  Triglav's showed three intersecting eyes, none of them closed.

  He turned another page, breath shallow.

  The tone shifted, less sacred now, more instructional.

  Each soul inclines toward one, as the gods incline toward purpose.

  Beside each section, symbols ran along the margins. Spirals like smoke for Creation. Knotted braids for Reparation. Jagged inward-pointing triangles for Control. Heavy, downward lines for Destruction.

  Control stopped him.

  The writing grew colder, sharper.

  Obedience does not require belief, only imbalance.

  If the caster's output exceeds the target's resistance, the will is overwritten.

  The mind obeys, even if the soul does not.

  Mikhael's chest tightened.

  Only the blood of Veles may bind the will without backlash.

  The others must use speech, ritual, or threat.

  A note in different handwriting sat in the margin, cramped and slightly messy.

  "Tried this on one of the chained ones. Didn't hold. Too much noise."

  "Father furious. Said I skipped the anchor glyph again."

  Mikhael swallowed.

  The grimoire moved on to diagrams. Seals clashing. Lines of energy breaking, collapsing, rebounding.

  In contests of power, the seal is not divine. It is a transaction.

  If resistance exceeds output, the seal shatters.

  Reversal is not failure. It is punishment.

  The memory snapped into place: the trembling guard, the voice-command seal, the pressure in his body as he refused it, the amulet cracking, the man falling.

  He had thought it was judgment.

  Now he knew it was math.

  Power unused is power surrendered.

  Even gods may kneel.

  Mikhael shut his eyes, head bowed over the pages.

  He hadn't consciously resisted the guard. Or Romulus. His body had done it. Instinct. Reflex. Something coiled in him had refused to kneel.

  Romulus had seen that.

  Not as mercy.

  As calculation.

  He read on.

  The pages showed more energy flows, glyph interactions, failure states. Some margins held Johan's notes, small complaints, hesitations.

  "Father says not to use this without amulet backup."

  "Don't trust the priest's numbers."

  To Johan, this was a textbook with homework scribbled in the corners.

  To Mikhael, it was blasphemy, revelation, weapon, prophecy.

  His fingers gripped the paper like it might try to fly away.

  The world wasn't ruled by gods.

  It was ruled by ratios.

  He lost track of time. His own grimoire had been thin, half-explained. This one talked about the flow of essence inside him, how it could be suppressed, extended outward, shaped. How every living thing carried it. How intent and action twisted it over time, bending it toward corruption or cleansing.

  He wanted to try it.

  He stood and stared at his hands, trying to push something out, to feel something move.

  Nothing came at first.

  But as the hours slipped by, his awareness shifted. There. Just under the skin. A hum. A pressure. The faintest sense of something coiled, waiting.

  As he focused, a knock broke his concentration. His heart jolted.

  He shoved the grimoire under his bed.

  The door opened before he could call out.

  A servant stepped in.

  "Duke Romulus wishes to see you near the forest path. Immediately."

  The servant's eyes flicked around the room, wondering what Mikhael had been doing, just standing in the middle of the floor with his hand's half raised like an idiot.

  Mikhael stepped forward, blocking the view with his body.

  "I'll be there shortly," he said.

  The servant nodded. "Excuse me," he replied, and closed the door behind him.

  Mikhael's thoughts snapped away from the grimoire and back to the day. He didn't know what to expect from Romulus, but he knew better than to keep him waiting.

  He composed himself as best he could and went to meet him.

  Romulus was speaking with one of the taskmasters from the fields when Mikhael arrived. Mikhael couldn't quite make out the words without stepping closer, and stepping closer would make it obvious he was listening.

  A moment later, Romulus dismissed the man with a gesture and turned, signaling for Mikhael.

  Mikhael bowed and stepped forward.

  Romulus didn't acknowledge the bow. He simply turned his back and said, "Walk with me."

  Mikhael obeyed, falling into step beside him as they moved down the forest path. Not the one peasants used, this one was elevated, laid with wooden planks and lit by lanterns every few meters. Mikhael had always liked the sound of wood underfoot. It calmed him.

  Today, the sound only counted his steps toward something unknown.

  For a while, neither of them spoke.

  Then Romulus broke the silence.

  "I've been informed of your endeavors today," he said. "What should I make of them, do you think?"

  Mikhael had expected that. This was the scenario he'd rehearsed most.

  "I'm sorry, my lord," he said. "Johan challenged me, and I went overboard. It won't happen again."

  "This time?" Romulus repeated, like he was testing the shape of the words. "Were you able to go ‘overboard' before, with Valentin?"

  "I would never embarrass your son in that manner, my lord," Mikhael answered, in the tone he knew Romulus wanted. Like they were both agreeing to a lie neither of them would bother to name.

  "But you would deceive me," Romulus said. "And him. That is acceptable to you?"

  He still hadn't turned. His voice was calm, but the calm had teeth. It slid under Mikhael's skin like a blade.

  Mikhael had feared this. And he couldn't stop the thought: "Did William give me up? Why wouldn't he? He was a noble. I am not."

  "My lord…" Mikhael bowed as low as he could mid-step. His voice shook with genuine fear now. "I had no intention of deceiving anyone. I have always been loyal to you."

  Silence thickened around them, heavy enough to snuff the lanterns.

  Then, slowly, Romulus turned.

  Mikhael risked a glance up, trying to read his face.

  Nothing. Blank. A page in a language he still couldn't read.

  "I want you to get serious, Mikhael," Romulus said quietly. "I don't want you playing rivals with him. Your stagnation was beginning to worry me, but now I see why."

  "You will not punish me for beating Johan?" Mikhael asked, genuinely confused.

  "Why would I do that?" Romulus raised an eyebrow. A hint of amusement flickered, there and gone. He turned away again and gestured for Mikhael to keep walking. "I have no fondness for the Minervas. Although Valentina was furious when Valentin told her what happened—"

  Mikhael's mind drifted the moment he heard the name.

  "Valentin."

  "So, he'd been the one to tell her. Of course. The boy probably couldn't hide what had happened from his mother if his life depended on it. He wore guilt like a poorly tied ribbon."

  "I had once thought Valentin different. Kinder. Gentler. I had imagined that if nobles were more like him, the world might not be so cruel."

  But even then, he hated him.

  He hated him in the way two children hate each other when born into the same game with opposite hands. Valentin was pampered. Protected. Undeserving. And somewhere deep down, Mikhael knew he would've hated him even if they'd shared the same blood.

  Lost in that thought, he walked straight into Romulus's chest.

  He rebounded, stumbling backward.

  "My lord!" Mikhael gasped. "I'm truly sorry, I didn't mean to—"

  Romulus stepped back, more surprised than angry.

  "Where did you go just now?" he asked. "What's so important you stopped caring about the end of my sentence?"

  Mikhael's mind scrambled. Why had he lost focus now of all times?

  "I was thinking about the ball tomorrow, my lord," he said quickly. "As you know, I've never attended one. I… I'm nervous. I apologize."

  Romulus studied him for a moment, then raised a hand to his chin thoughtfully.

  "Considering your background, that would make sense," he said. Then, a flicker of amusement again. "But you've trained with my servants long enough not to embarrass yourself."

  His voice shifted back to iron.

  "Especially me."

  "I won't disappoint you, my lord," Mikhael said.

  "You've given me no reason to think otherwise," Romulus replied. "For now."

  They resumed walking. The path narrowed slightly, lantern light pooling around their feet.

  "Tomorrow," Romulus went on, "you will conduct yourself with the best manners you can summon. I don't want you standing out. You will provoke no one. You will be no one."

  He glanced sideways at Mikhael.

  "Every person in that room stands above you by birth. Am I clear?"

  "Yes, my lord," Mikhael said.

  Inside, something coiled and laughed.

  For now.