The sun hadn't fully claimed the sky when Harrowfen stirred to life.

  Horses clopped over cobblestones, carts rattled along narrow streets, and shopkeepers called out to early crowds. The air was thick with mingled scents—bread baking, herbs drying, smoke from chimneys. A living tapestry of a town waking.

  Notch moved among it all like a shadow, eyes wide at the organized chaos. He blinked once, pupils dilating as the unfamiliar bustle washed over him.

  The children were herded toward the main hall—a cavernous room lined with long wooden tables and polished benches. It smelled like everything good could smell at once: roasted meats, sweet pastries, spiced broths, and something vaguely unfamiliar that made Notch wrinkle his nose, then lean in closer.

  Noodles.

  The smell alone made his stomach twist pleasantly—a reminder of simpler comforts, though neither Viktor nor the original Notch had eaten anything like this before.

  The plates before them gleamed, not from neglect but from careful, deliberate presentation. Silver cutlery caught early light. Every dish looked sculpted rather than served. Rich sauces glistened like liquid jewels, breads puffed perfectly golden, and fruits shone as if polished by invisible hands.

  Even Notch, unused to Harrowfen's culinary subtleties, could tell this breakfast was meant for more than sustenance. It was a statement of wealth. Of culture. Of power.

  He hesitated only a moment before picking up a fork, letting the smells and luxury settle into him. Strange and thrilling and somehow a little terrifying all at once. His fingers curled around the fork a beat too tightly, knuckles paling.

  The other children wasted no time. Knives clinked. Spoons scraped bowls. Soft, eager conversation rose and fell like tide. Only a handful bowed their heads in small, private prayers—lips moving soundlessly over words Notch didn't recognize.

  "Well, of course gods actually exist here," he muttered, more curious than reverent. He lowered his voice until it was no more than breath against his own teeth.

  He wasn't especially religious. Not Viktor's resigned factory-faith nor the village's fervent devotions. But the memory of the Abyss's voices still sat like a stone in his gut.

  Was that Essence thing the god of this world?

  He shoved a forkful of stir-fried noodles into his mouth. The texture and heat were minor revelations—richer and cleaner than anything he'd eaten on Volkov's Reach. Viktor and Notch had survived on ration bars and greasy stew. This was a different language of food entirely. He chewed slowly, eyes closing for a fraction as flavor registered.

  Crystal, in her quiet corner, finished a whisper-prayer and reached for a bowl of broth seasoned with herbs Notch couldn't name. She ate with careful, almost ritual patience—every motion practiced over years. Her shoulders eased a fraction as she took the first sip; a tiny exhales of relief escaped her.

  Notch scanned the hall for Aelira.

  He found her before she noticed him. Already finished, standing with the fluid, unemphatic grace of someone who never exerted themselves for trivial things. Her braid lay neat against her back; she adjusted a stray lock with a precise, measured motion.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Svenn hovered like a careful shadow at the room's far side. He inclined his head and gestured toward the door. A carriage waited outside—polished, leather-lined. Not the cramped transport the poor-grades had used. Svenn's mouth thinned for a second, expression smoothing into professional neutrality.

  Aelira smoothed her braid, acknowledged Svenn's signal, and moved off with the effortless certainty of someone used to being obeyed. Her boots made no unnecessary sound on the floor.

  Seeing her leave wrenched something in Notch. A sting of competitiveness and the small, childish panic of being left behind. He caught himself swallowing too fast, throat tight with the impulse to run after her.

  He ate faster. Not because he was hungrier, but because moving meant not thinking. He pushed noodles into his mouth with sudden, mechanical haste, fork rattling against the plate.

  Several kids who'd already finished nudged one another and craned for a last look at Notch and Aelira being escorted out. A murmur ran through the room—half curiosity, half the petty envy of children given things they were not. One boy snorted softly, hiding a grin; another's eyes were flat with suspicion.

  ---

  Notch's carriage smelled faintly of oil and horse sweat and new leather. He took it in as if memorizing the scent would tether him to reality.

  He and Aelira were seated opposite one another, a small, awkward space of cloth and wood separating them. The road out of Harrowfen ate the last of dawn—cobbles went by in stony rhythm, the carriage frame creaked, and horses' breath steamed in cool air. Every sound felt magnified in the silence between them. Aelira's jaw worked once, as if she were chewing on words and choosing not to speak them.

  They rode in cramped, polite quiet. Aelira stared out the window with the look of someone cataloguing everything as data—eyebrows flicking at details Notch couldn't parse. Notch fidgeted with his tunic's hem, finding the little scuffs and pulls oddly comforting—proof he was solid and real, not just the sum of splintered anxieties. His thumb traced a familiar fray in the fabric, thumb working in small circles to stifle jittery energy.

  Svenn cleared his throat—soft, intentional. A transition from private discomfort to social script.

  "Lord Roger is waiting for you both." His voice was low, steady. "He's rather excited for your little get-together. The only other thing that ever got him this excited was the birth of his younger brother—young Master Malric."

  The name landed like a stone.

  Both Notch and Aelira blinked, surprised in different ways. Notch had never considered that Roger, with his effortless menace and predatory amusement, had family at all. The image of Roger in the throes of familial joy contradicted the neat, cruel puzzle of the man he'd seen at Bandit's Creak. He swallowed, a dry sound in his throat.

  "I hope he's not as—" Notch tried to laugh it off. "—psychotic as his elder brother."

  He forced nervous humor into his voice, but it fell flat in the carriage's confined space. His lips twitched once; the laugh died in his chest.

  Svenn gave a small, almost sympathetic smile that didn't reach his eyes. Aelira's jaw tightened. She said nothing, but the tension along her neck was visible—a thin line that suggested containment.

  The silence crawled back in, heavier this time. Like wool pulled over conversation. Notch pressed his fingers into his palm to feel something steady under his skin.

  The carriage shook as a wheel hit a dip in the road. The sudden jolt made him exhale.

  Notch looked at Aelira then—really looked—and saw the same line of anxiety along her mouth that curled up his own. For a moment, the space between them wasn't competition but shared concern. Her eyes flicked to his for the barest instant; something like recognition passed there before she turned her gaze away.

  Two children thrust into a man's game. Measured and maneuvered like pieces on a board.

  The stones thudded on.

  The mansion loomed ahead—white and indifferent and waiting. Sunlight washed the fa?ade and caught on carved balustrades; the place looked clean, clinical, like a statue mid-breath.

  Sly stirred against Notch's neck, tongue flicking out once. Her coils tightened around his shirt, a small, familiar pressure that steadied him. Her scales brushed his jaw. Her presence was grounding, a small warmth in the cold uncertainty. He felt her breathe against his collarbone and let out a quiet, involuntary breath.

  "Whatever happens," Notch whispered, low enough that only she could hear, "don't show them everything."

  Sly's coils tightened slightly—acknowledgment or agreement, he couldn't tell. Her head turned, eyes half-lidded, as if considering the promise.

  The carriage slowed. Stopped.

  Through the window, Notch could see the Friverr estate in full daylight—sprawling grounds, manicured gardens, the main building rising like a monument to old wealth and older power. Servants moved with practiced efficiency. Guards stood at attention, armor polished to mirror shine. A small boy in the distance darted between hedges and nearly collided with a footman, who barked a quick correction; the boy yelped and ran on.

  And somewhere inside, Roger waited.

  Svenn opened the carriage door. Morning light flooded in, harsh and unforgiving.

  "Come along," he said gently. "Best not to keep Lord Roger waiting."

  Aelira stepped out first, back straight, chin raised—every inch the high-grade prodigy. Her boots met the stone with calculated sound.

  Notch followed, legs unsteady, Sly hidden beneath his collar. He steadied himself against the carriage frame, breath shallow.

  The mansion's front doors stood open. Darkness waited beyond them, despite the morning sun.

  And from somewhere deep inside, Notch could have sworn he heard laughter—Roger's laughter, anticipatory and pleased.

  The test was about to begin.