Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In the heart of Alexandria, within the Foundation Room where the veins of the city’s magic converged, a single girl stood at the center of an ancient magic circle.

Rozemyne gently pressed her trembling hands against a flat feystone, embedded within it the sacred branch of Erwermaen. Its glow was almost blinding. She could feel the divine mana coursing through her limbs—power too vast for her mortal body, gifted by gods whose expectations far surpassed what any mortal should bear.

And yet, she smiled.

The circle activated. A wave of golden mana rippled outward, snaking through channels in the floor and walls. The stones of Alexandria pulsed with light as the ritual reached the entire duchy. The sea stirred, and the dry hills beyond began to breathe again.

It was a large-scale healing ritual—a miracle.

But Rozemyne, the Saint of Ehrenfest, was crumbling.

Her knees buckled. Ferdinand was beside her in an instant, supporting her weight. She leaned into him, her breath shallow, her body light.

“It’s done,” she whispered.

And then, her eyes fluttered closed.

A soft light enveloped her. Her body, overflowing with mana, dissolved into luminescent dust. A single feystone dropped to the floor—the condensed form of her soul.

It cracked in two.

Far beyond the realm of mortals, in the threads of fate that bound the world together, the Great Loom of Ventuchte halted when Dregarnuhr froze time.

Ventuchte, stared down at the weave. Rozemyne’s thread had split. Not severed. Not erased. Split. A rare and dangerous thing.

"It’s too late," the goddess of weaving complained. "But it’s not beyond repair."

The first soul-thread shimmered with familiar hues—blue and gold, threaded with memory and sacrifice. It was fraying at the edges. She took another blue strand, close in shade, and wove it in to stabilize the essence.

The second thread was stranger—less defined. Bursts of artificial light and copper tangs of logic shimmered through it. Its weave was erratic, woven not by prayer, but by science and electricity. She could not find a matching color.

So, she reached into her sacred reserve and drew forth a rare, colorless thread.

"Forgive me, little one," Ventuchte said as she bound it to the second soul. “But this is the only way.”

Dregarnuhr restarted the weave.

From the shadows between threads, Chaoscipher stirred. The goddess of chaos watched with quiet amusement.

A split soul. A twin rebirth. And soon… chaos.

I gasped awake.

My lungs ached, and the smell of musty straw filled my nose. I blinked up at a rough wooden ceiling. My limbs were heavy, my mana sluggish and faint. I knew this ceiling. I had seen it every day during my frail, book-starved childhood.

This was… home.

But I was too old to be here again. Too changed.

My mind reeled.

Urano Motosu.
Rozemyne.
I was both.

I remembered my quiet, book-filled days in Japan, crushed under a pile of tomes. I remembered life in Yurgenschmidt—temples, scholars, children, kings, and gods.

I remembered Ferdinand.

I remembered Alexandria.

And I remembered… dying.

A soft sigh drew my attention.

On the mattress beside me lay a girl. Blue-haired. Round-cheeked. For a moment I thought I was looking in a mirror.

She stirred and blinked at me, golden eyes flickering with awareness.

Before I could speak, a deep, distant pull tugged at my thoughts.

The world shifted.

In the University of Toronto, Mia Smith swiped away a notification on her laptop, eyes focused on the slow sweep of her 3D printer’s nozzle. The plastic form of a humanoid torso was taking shape—sleek, functional, and precise.

“Just a little more,” she muttered, fingers dancing across the keyboard. The robot’s skeleton was nearly complete. Her thesis project—the culmination of four years of blood, sweat, and sleepless nights.

She stretched, groaning as her back cracked. On a folding tray nearby sat her reward: a sour cream donut from Timmies, and a half-finished double-double.

Biting into the donut, she reached for the cup with her other hand.

Her elbow clipped the rim.

Hot coffee spilled onto the printer.

“No—wait—!”

A flash of sparks. A plume of smoke.

Everything went white.

Her thoughts scattered.

And then—calm.

Gods...
In my next life, let me live a life where I can make scientific advancements.

A hand grasped mine.

My eyes flew open.

The wooden ceiling above me was foreign—but so was the body I inhabited. I was… small. Light. But my mind felt too big, too full.

I remembered polymer bonds. Servo calibration. Night classes and coffee from campus vending machines.

And I remembered a ritual I had never seen. A girl who looked like me. A name whispered like a promise.

Rozemyne.

No—Myne.

I turned my head and saw her beside me. She looked just as shocked as I felt.

When our hands touched again, something clicked.

It wasn’t just warmth. It was a thread—a current—a flow of thoughts between us.

A library. A man with golden eyes. Sacred texts written in glowing script. I shouldn’t have known them.

But I did.

Lyn, you remember it too? she asked without saying a word.

I nodded.

Our memories must be connected. I said through our minds. You and me.

She blinked. “From the beginning?”

“From the end.”

Our thoughts brushed. Not words—just impressions. Echoes of feelings. Recognition.

Mana pulsed faintly between us.

It wasn’t strong yet. But it would grow.

As would we.

Chapter Text

As winter deepened, Lyn and I adjusted to life in our second childhood. It was strange, being five years old again and knowing so much more than our bodies could handle. Each morning we woke with aching limbs and shallow breath, our heads heavy with fever—but we pushed through it.

Our family knew us as quiet children. That part hadn’t changed. But now, we were quiet for a reason.

“Your temperature’s still high,” Effa fretted, brushing my hair from my forehead. “Stay in bed, both of you. I’ll bring soup.”

We nodded obediently, waiting until the sound of her footsteps faded down the narrow hall. The moment the door clicked shut, Lyn rolled onto her side, her golden eyes already sharp.

How’s your mana flow today? she asked, her voice in my mind.

Stable, I replied, mirroring her posture. I focused it toward my core, like we practiced.

We discovered early on that even light skin contact—like holding hands—helped regulate the Devouring. The mana within us, once volatile, became calmer when we synchronized. At night, we often fell asleep clutching each other's hands beneath the covers, disguising our connection beneath the illusion of sisterly affection.

Our bond went deeper than words.

“Do you remember the rinsham formula?” Lyn whispered aloud that morning as we sat cross-legged on our straw bedding. “Not the one from the guild, the one we made in the last timeline before you—before everything reset.”

“I do,” I said, closing my eyes. “Three parts oil, one part crushed herb paste, and a pinch of lye. If we steep it with hot water, it emulsifies.”

Lyn gave a small nod. “We’ll need to test variations. I don’t trust the purity of what we can find here.”

That was Lyn—precise, methodical, and skeptical. She never accepted anything at face value, even her own memory. It made her cautious, but that caution was exactly what I needed.

We began to divide tasks. I focused on recalling cultural patterns and noble etiquette. Lyn took notes on local material availability using the soot pencils and wooden boards Gunther made for us. At our request, Gunther carved several flat wooden boards for us, and we fashioned soot pencils using soot and clay we asked Tuuli to get for us. Using these makeshift tools, we drafted diagrams, sketches, and notes about our ideas for inventions and supply logistics. Tuuli assumed we were making toys, and we let her continue thinking that.

At meals, we played the part of dutiful daughters. We ate slowly, spoke politely, and listened when our parents talked about the town’s troubles—rising taxes, poor harvests, a cousin who had joined the city guard.

After dinner, while Effa and Gunther prepared for bed, Lyn and I sat by the hearth.

“Do you think Otto’s still at the gate?” I asked softly.

Lyn stared into the flames. “Most likely. He’d be one of the few reliable contacts we can start with. If we want to approach Benno, we’ll need Otto first.”

I nodded. “We’ll need a reason to go to the gate without raising suspicion.”

“Leave that to me,” Lyn said. “I’ve got a plan.”

Her confidence warmed me more than the fire.

We kept our training subtle. Each day, we practiced controlling mana in short pulses, timing our breathing to channel excess through our joined hands. We also began to address our physical frailty. With bodies too weak for traditional exercise, we turned to something gentler—yoga.

At first, we only managed simple poses: sitting cross-legged while breathing deeply, stretching our arms slowly overhead, or curling like cats to ease our backs. But even these light movements helped. The stiffness in our joints lessened. Our lungs felt stronger. And, more importantly, the controlled breathing and steady movement helped regulate our mana flow.

“It’s working,” Lyn said one morning as we finished a basic sequence. “My headache’s gone.”

I nodded, wiping sweat from my brow. “And I’m not dizzy for once. We should keep doing this.”

Yoga became part of our daily ritual, a quiet, shared time of focus that calmed our bodies and our magic. Sometimes Tuuli peeked in and joined us, giggling at the odd poses. We let her.

Other times, we whispered prayers to the gods under our breath to mask our intent.

“Do you think Ferdinand will notice us again?” I asked one evening.

“He only met you at the temple,” Lyn reminded me. “And we’ll still need to go there eventually. We can’t avoid it.”

I nodded solemnly. “Right. The temple is too important.”

The temple in Yurgenschmidt wasn’t just a religious center—it was the anchor of the land’s mana flow. It was where divine protections were granted, and without its regular mana offerings, the land itself would wither. Crops would fail, the soil would dry into lifeless white sand, and the people would starve. Avoiding the temple wasn’t just unwise—it was dangerous.

“We’ll approach it carefully,” Lyn added. “On our terms, not theirs. But we need to respect what the temple is to this country.”

“And we’ll need divine protections again if we want to reach the same heights,” I whispered.

So we agreed: we wouldn’t flee from the temple. We would walk toward it with our eyes open, stronger and wiser than before.

We fell asleep that night as we always did: hand in hand, thoughts spinning with inventions, schemes, and the heavy weight of knowing just how much we had to change.

The next morning, we sat down with Effa and Gunther while Tuuli helped clean. We told them everything.

Not all at once. Not with overwhelming detail. But enough.

That we remembered other lives. That we were reborn. That we had knowledge no child should have. That we were sick, but we could manage it—for now.

Effa wept silently. Gunther went pale and gripped the edge of the table.

Gunther was quiet for a long moment. Then he let out a short huff and said, "You girls really are something else." His voice was filled with awe, not doubt. "Of course you'd end up remembering a whole other life. Just proves you're special. The best there is."

Lyn gave a soft smile. “We’re still your daughters. Nothing will change that. But we remember a lot—more than most adults ever could. We’ve seen another life. Lived it. And we want to use what we know to make things better this time.”

Effa pulled us both into a hug, trembling. “Whatever you are, you're still our girls.”

Tuuli walked in a few minutes later, saw our faces, and frowned. “Did I miss something?”

“No,” I said quickly. “Just a family talk.”

Tuuli hesitated, but then sat down at the table, watching us with wide, cautious eyes.

“We should tell her,” Lyn murmured.

I nodded. “Tuuli, we’re going to say something strange, but it’s true. You might not believe it right away, but we need you to try.”

We told her everything—just as we had told our parents. The memories of being adopted by nobles. Of being taken to the temple. Of submerging into a jureve to survive. Of becoming first in class at the Royal Academy. Of being made Aub Alexandria. We told her about the friends we had made, the trials we had overcome, and the crushing loneliness that came with our rise.

Tuuli was silent for a long time. Her lip quivered, and she looked between us, wide-eyed and stricken. Then she scrambled around the table and threw her arms around both of us, hugging us tightly.

“I don’t care how strange it sounds,” she whispered into our shoulders. “I believe you. I just… I don’t want to lose you again.”

Her voice cracked, and I felt her shaking. “You went somewhere so far away last time. We didn’t understand what was happening. You stopped being our Myne… and now there’s two of you. I’m scared it’ll happen again.”

“We won’t let it,” I said, hugging her back just as tightly.

“We’ll find a way,” Lyn added softly. “This time, we’ll make sure we can always be together.”

Gunther crossed his arms and nodded, pride swelling in his chest. “Of course my girls are amazing. Nobles, huh? Sounds about right.”

Effa wiped her eyes. “But you were taken away from us…”

We both shook our heads.

“We were, but it had to happen,” Lyn said. “To survive, we needed access to a schtappe. And to ever have children—noble children—we couldn’t marry commoners.”

“But it came at a price,” I added. “We were constantly overworked. Our industries were taken from us. Our achievements credited to others. And I was… engaged to Wilfried.”

Gunther raised an eyebrow. “Wilfried? Who’s that?”

Effa’s breath caught. “He was your fiancé?”

I nodded slowly. “He was the archduke's son. It was supposed to be a political engagement. But he was… immature. Self-centered. He saw me as competition and tried to drag me down whenever he could.”

Gunther frowned, absorbing this. “Then we definitely keep you away from him.”

Effa looked horrified. “They just used you…”

Tuuli held us tighter. “Then we won’t let that happen again.”

We nodded. “We have a plan. But there are more conditions this time.”

We looked between our parents and Tuuli, hearts pounding. There was no easy way to explain what needed to come next.

“We have to protect ourselves differently this time,” I said slowly. “And to do that, we need more than just memories. We need leverage.”

“Leverage?” Gunther asked.

“Money, Dad,” Lyn explained. “Influence. If we can build up our own assets through business before the nobles take interest in us, we can make demands instead of just being dragged along.”

Gunther nodded slowly, his brows furrowed in thought. “Makes sense. You want strength in coin, not just mana.”

“Exactly,” I said. “The merchants are where we’ll start. Otto, Benno—people we can trust. If we establish ourselves, we’ll have some protection when the time comes.”

Effa folded her hands tightly. “But that still means they’ll come for you eventually, doesn’t it?”

We hesitated. Then Lyn spoke. “Yes. We’ll need to become nobles eventually. To get schtappes, to use our magic properly, and if we want children someday… we can’t marry commoners. The bloodlines are incompatible.”

Gunther’s shoulders tightened, but he didn’t argue.

“We’ve also realized something else,” Lyn continued. “To have children with someone, it’s not about having the same bloodline—it’s about having similar mana. Compatibility in mana density and quality. That’s why marrying commoners wouldn’t work—not because of social status, but because of magical imbalance.”

“That doesn’t mean we’re letting it happen like last time,” I added. “We’ve already talked it through.”

“We’ll start a rumor,” Lyn continued. “That we’re secret noble children—abandoned twins of Rozemary. She was Karstedt’s third wife and died young. Twins with low mana are often discarded quietly, so it’s believable.”

Tuuli’s eyes widened. “Wouldn’t that get you in trouble?”

“Only if someone can prove otherwise,” I said. “And with the right timing, we can use it to secure a better noble family before the temple or someone like Sylvester finds out.”

Gunther crossed his arms. “You mean you want to pick who adopts you?”

Lyn nodded. “Last time, Sylvester chose me for politics. But this time, we’d rather choose Bonifatius.”

Effa looked confused. “I thought he was the archduke’s father.”

“No,” I corrected gently. “He’s the archduke’s uncle. Bonifatius always wished he had a daughter or granddaughter. He’s the uncle of the current archduke—Aub Ehrenfest—not his father. Most commoners only know the name of the archduke by his title, not his name, but we remembered it clearly from our past lives. Bonifatius is known for being fiercely loyal and honest to a fault. We believed that if we presented ourselves properly, he would be willing to protect us and treat us as family—not as tools.. He’s direct, and while a bit overwhelming, he’s the kind of person who respects loyalty and personal strength. We believe he’d protect us if we offer him the right reason.”. This time, we’ll aim for Bonifatius. He’s powerful, but straightforward. He respects strength and doesn’t play as many games.”

“Oh,” Effa murmured, eyes wide.

“He’s stern but fair,” I continued. “And we think he’d value what we can offer. More than that, he’d treat us like family, not tools.”

Tuuli looked between us. “What about the temple? Isn’t that where you met Ferdinand?”

“Yes,” I said. “And we’ll need his help again. But this time, we’ll recruit him—not rely on him. We’ll approach through Benno’s network once we have something to offer.”

“And that brat Wilfried?” Gunther asked. “You’re not getting engaged to him again, right?”

“Never,” Lyn said sharply. “That engagement was a political trap. He never respected Myne. This time, we’ll avoid him entirely.”

Gunther’s mouth twitched into a grin. “That’s my girls. Already ten steps ahead.”

But there was one more thing.

“We can’t be separated by contract again,” I said, voice soft but firm. “Last time, we were forced into a noble adoption contract that stripped our ability to call you family. Even saying your names became forbidden. We won’t go through that again.”

Effa’s hand flew to her mouth. Tuuli let out a soft gasp.

“This time,” Lyn added, “we’ll pretend we’re noble children who were taken in by a kind commoner family. That way, when we’re adopted, the nobles won’t try to erase you. Instead, they’ll be pressured to thank you for raising us.”

Gunther’s eyes were misty now. “I don’t need their thanks. I just want to keep seeing my girls.”

“You will,” I promised. “We’ll make sure of it.”. Already ten steps ahead.”

Effa pulled us close. “Just promise us—whatever happens, don’t carry it alone this time.”

“We won’t,” I whispered. “Not this time.”

Gunther grinned, clenching a fist. “That’s my girls. Outsmarting nobles already.”

Effa smiled through her tears. “You’ll do it. I know you will.”

And Tuuli, always steady, added, “We’ll help however we can. We’re in this together.”

And this time, we truly were.

Chapter Text

Myne

The snow had finally begun to thaw, softening the sharp chill of winter and coating the streets of the lower city in slush and mud. It was the perfect time to begin moving.

Lyn and I stood at the doorway, layered in second-hand cloaks too big for our small bodies. Tuuli tugged at the hem of mine, frowning. “You sure you’re okay? You’re still pale.”

I smiled reassuringly. “We’ll be fine. We’re not going far—just to the gate.”

We walked arm in arm through the narrow alleys, the city already alive with early morning vendors. I felt every step in my bones, but the yoga had made the fatigue bearable. And with Lyn beside me, I could keep moving.

Gunther ended up carrying us both on his shoulders for most of the walk. “No point tiring yourselves out before even starting,” he said with a grin. The air was crisp, but his broad back was warm, and we were grateful for the rest.

When we reached the gate, Gunther strode past the other guards with a wave. “Morning. These are my girls—Myne and Lyn. They’ll be staying in Otto’s office for a bit while I do my rounds.”

The guards chuckled. “The little geniuses, huh? We’ve heard the rumors.”

Gunther rapped on the door with his knuckles before pushing it open. “Otto! I brought guests. Treat them right.”

Otto looked up, startled. He blinked when he saw us, then adjusted his glasses. “Guests, huh? And you must be Gunther’s daughters?”

“These are my daughters,” Gunther said, setting us down gently. “They’ve got sharp eyes and sharper tongues. Don’t let them bully you.”

“We’re harmless,” Lyn said sweetly.

Gunther chuckled. “I'll be outside. Try not to overwhelm him.”

Once he left, Otto returned to the stack of papers on his desk.

“You can sit over there. Just don’t touch anything.”

We nodded obediently and sat on a bench near the hearth. But as Otto resumed writing, our eyes wandered.

After a few minutes, Lyn tilted her head. “Otto… your totals on that column are off.”

Otto paused mid-stroke. “What?”

“The copper count for the third wagon,” I added. “You carried a five into the wrong column.”

He blinked. Then he checked. Then he double-checked.

“…Huh,” he muttered. “You’re right.”

We tried not to look too smug.

“Alright,” Otto said, leaning back in his chair. “What are you two really here for?”

“Just visiting,” Lyn said innocently. “And maybe curious.”

“About?”

“Your merchant work,” I said. “You weren’t always a soldier, right?”

Otto narrowed his eyes, but then smiled. “No, I used to be a traveling merchant. Then I met my wife, Corinna—and everything changed.” He straightened his back, his eyes lighting up with pride. “She’s brilliant, beautiful, elegant, and far too good for the likes of me. You know she runs her own embroidery workshop? Her needlework could make even the gods weep.”

He leaned in conspiratorially. “She’s the reason I stopped traveling. One look, and I knew I’d never find anything better no matter how far I roamed. I mean, have you seen her embroidery? The detail, the symmetry, the grace—it’s art. Absolute art.”

We blinked at the sudden intensity.

“I swear,” Otto went on, “she once embroidered a design so perfect, a noble mistook it for imported work from the Sovereignty. And she did it while humming like it was nothing!”

We nodded politely, letting him gush. It was clear this was a favorite topic of his—and probably a common one.

“What was it like?” Lyn asked. “Running your own business?”

“Tiring. Rewarding. Dangerous. Free,” he said, ticking off the words on his fingers.

We nodded thoughtfully.

“If we had a product,” I said slowly, “and we wanted to start a business, who would you talk to?”

Otto arched an eyebrow. “That depends. What kind of product?”

“We’ll show you later,” Lyn said. “But it’s useful. Really useful.”

Otto studied us for a moment, then chuckled. “You know… I might have just the person. My brother-in-law. Benno. He runs the Gilberta Company. Always looking for new ideas—and he likes a bit of chaos.”

He smirked. “He’ll love you two.”

A few days later, we joined Tuuli on a foraging trip to the forest. The spring air was still brisk, but the snow had melted enough to reveal patches of green. As we passed the outer fields, we spotted a boy with blonde hair and green eyes crouched near the edge of the woods, sorting through a bundle of sticks.

“Hey!” he called out, waving. “Myne, Lyn!”

We smiled and waved back. “Lutz!”

He jogged up to us, brushing leaves from his sleeves. “Our moms said we’re second cousins, right?”

“That’s right,” I said. “Tuuli said you usually help out when she goes foraging.”

We chatted for a few minutes, and when we asked what he wanted to do after baptism, his face lit up.

“I want to be a traveling merchant,” he said. “I want to see the world.”

Lyn tilted her head. “Do you know what that means? Traveling merchants don’t take apprentices. You’d have to give up your citizenship. Your family might not like that.”

Lutz blinked. “I didn’t think of that…”

“You could become a merchant apprentice here in the city,” I suggested. “Some merchants travel occasionally, and you’d still be able to stay registered in Ehrenfest.”

“And it’ll be easier to convince your family,” Lyn added. “They might accept that more readily.”

Lutz looked down, thinking hard. “I guess… that makes more sense.”

“We have a meeting with a merchant soon,” I said. “If you want, you can come with us. It might be helpful to see how things work.”

His eyes lit up again. “Really? That’d be great!”

“Then wash up and wear your best clothes,” Lyn said. “We’ll help you get ready.”

Before the meeting, we met Lutz again and gave him a small bottle of rinsham.

“Use this to wash your hair,” I said. “It’ll help you look presentable.”

He sniffed the bottle and blinked in surprise. “Smells amazing.”

“Just wait till you try it,” Lyn grinned.

He promised to clean up in the river and wore his cleanest shirt, nervous but excited.

That’s how Lutz came with us to meet Benno, and the future began to unfold for all of us.

The night before the meeting, Effa helped us wash our hair using the remaining rinsham.

“You really think this will work?” she asked.

“It will,” I said. “Benno is a sharp man. He’ll see the value.”

Gunther grumbled from the side. “He better treat you right.”

“We’ll make sure he does,” Lyn said.

We stayed up late that night, going over our pitch, our memory, our pricing strategies. By the time the hearth’s embers cooled, we were ready.

The next morning, we walked into the Gilberta Company hand in hand, wooden boards tucked under our arms, our hair gleaming and styled with simple but elegant crocheted hairpins Tuuli had made for us. We wore our cleanest clothes, and despite our nerves, we carried ourselves with practiced poise.

Benno entered with brisk steps. His eyes narrowed with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity as they passed over us.

“You’re the twins Otto was raving about?” he asked, then paused. His gaze lingered on our hair. “...Your hair. That shine—it’s not natural. And those hairpins...”

“They’re embroidered by our sister Tuuli,” I said. “And we used a rinse we call rinsham.”

Benno stepped forward, examining both our hair and the pins with interest. “Luxury goods, huh?”

“We believe they can be,” Lyn said politely. “We’ve prepared a sample of the rinsham, and notes on the variations we’ve experimented with. Different scents, different ingredients.”

I placed the vial on the table, followed by the wooden boards.

Benno opened the notes, brows rising with each turn of the page. He sniffed the rinsham, then gave a low whistle.

“You want to sell this?”

“We do,” I said. “And we’d like to offer the rights to the product line—including future variations—and the decorative hairpins, for one large gold and ten percent of the profits.”

Benno blinked, then barked a laugh. “You’re negotiating with me?”

“It’s only fair,” Lyn replied smoothly. “These are luxury items. Rinsham will take noble society by storm, and the hairpins—especially with silver or gold bases—can be enhanced into high-class accessories.”

We haggled. He tried to lower the price, and we raised the stakes, listing future variants of rinsham tailored to different social classes, fragrances, and needs. We outlined how noble ladies would pay dearly for something exclusive and elegant. Benno was visibly impressed—not just by the products, but by our composure.

He finally nodded. “One large gold and ten percent profits. You drive a hard bargain.”

We bowed slightly. “Thank you for your trust.”

Benno folded his arms and looked at us seriously. “Now tell me: where did you learn all this?”

We exchanged a glance.

“That’s a discussion for another day” Lyn said.

Benno stared at us, then slowly shook his head with a wry smile. “Honestly? I don’t care where your ideas come from, as long as they make money. Just keep them coming.”

He snapped his fingers. “Mark! Prepare a magic contract.”

A quiet, efficient man entered the room and laid out the parchment. We signed with firm strokes, and as the last name was written, the contract burst into flames—binding the deal with mana.

“We’d like to have the products registered under our workshop name,” I said. “With us listed as forewomen.”

Benno raised a brow, but nodded. “Fine. That way, the rights stay in your hands. Smart.”

“We’d also like to offer something else,” Lyn added. “Our sister Tuuli can demonstrate how the hairpins are made. And… she’s interested in becoming a seamstress. If Corinna’s looking for an apprentice…”

Benno smirked. “I’ll leave that decision to her. But if she’s half as sharp as you two, Corinna won’t hesitate.”

“And we have more ideas in development,” I added. “This is just the beginning.”

Benno gave a sharp nod. “Good. I’m in.”

Then he turned to Lutz. “And you. Apprentice, huh?”

Lutz stiffened. “Yes, sir. I want to learn everything.”

Benno rubbed his chin. “Well, it’ll give me a reason to keep an eye on these two. You’re in—on the condition that you keep up.”

Lutz’s eyes widened with joy. “Yes, sir! I won’t disappoint you!”

We exchanged looks of relief. But Benno wasn’t finished.

“Come back tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll go over the production details. I want to know exactly what I’m investing in.”

The next day, we returned to the Gilberta Company. While Tuuli headed upstairs with Corinna to demonstrate how she crocheted the decorative flowers for the hairpins, we met Benno again in the office below.

Benno set down his pen and leaned forward. “Alright, let’s hear it. What makes this rinsham special?”

“We suggest using a coarse cloth when extracting the oils,” I began. “It allows fine particles to remain in the rinse. Those particles help clean the scalp and hair.”

“For a premium version,” Lyn added, “you can use a fine cloth to get pure oil first, then mix in ground fruit peels like apfelsiege or finely crushed salt for the exfoliating effect.”

Benno scribbled notes. “Apfelsiege, huh? I’ll have someone look into the supply.”

Once we had his full attention, we shifted topics.

“We want to tell you more,” I said carefully. “About where these ideas come from.”

Benno looked up. “I thought we agreed I didn’t need to know.”

“You don’t. But if we’re going to work together long term, you should understand what you’re dealing with.”

We told him everything. My memories from a previous weave of this world. Lyn’s memories from Earth. Of being Aub Alexandria, of creating paper, and of having our efforts stolen or controlled. Of the cruel contracts that tore families apart.

Benno didn’t interrupt. His face darkened as we described the ink and parchment guilds, especially the shadowy figure known as Wolf—the ruthless head of the ink guild, who had threatened us before.

“In the past weave,” Lyn said, “you split off from the Gilberta Company. You founded the Plantin Company and built a powerful industry around paper-making. You took us in when no one else would.”

Benno leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed.

“So you’re saying I’ll make even more money if I follow your lead again.”

“We’re saying you’ll make history,” I said.

He was quiet for a long time. Then he nodded once.

“Alright. You two better not hold back.”

The next few days were filled with introductions. Benno brought us to several craftspeople he trusted—people he said had sharp hands and sharper instincts.

First, we met Ingo, a sturdy man with calloused palms and a straightforward demeanor. He was a carpenter who eyed us with mild curiosity as we laid out our design for a steamer lid that could sit neatly atop a large iron pot.

“We need it to concentrate steam over strips of soaked wood,” I explained. “It should be domed, not flat, so condensation doesn’t drip back too quickly.”

He scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Huh. Never made anything like that. But it sounds doable.”

Lyn added, “We’ll also need two sets of flat wooden boards. Smooth, palm-sized. Hinged with loops, like a little booklet.”

Ingo raised an eyebrow. “Writing boards?”

“Exactly. Diptychs,” I said. “We want two for ourselves, and if possible, three more—one each for Benno, Mark, and Lutz.”

Benno gave a dry chuckle. “Never seen writing boards cause such excitement.”

Next, we visited Johann the metalworker. He was younger than expected, with arms strong from years of forging and eyes that gleamed with interest.

“I need a stylus,” I told him. “Something with a fine point, not a pen or quill. Metal, reusable. Light enough for a child to grip.”

“And rings,” Lyn added, “to bind wooden boards together.”

Johann examined our soot sketches, nodding slowly. He asked, “How thick should the stylus be? Also, what’s the angle of the tip? While we’re at it, how large should the tip be?”

We gave him the details and he answered, “Yeah. I can make these. Might take a few days, but you’ll have the best I can forge.”

As we left, Benno looked both amused and intrigued. “You really are full of surprises. Writing boards for everyday use, huh?”

“Diptychs aren’t just for kids,” I said. “They’re reusable, efficient, and perfect for merchants or students. Wax makes the surface erasable, and the stylus offers precision.”

Lyn nodded. “We plan to fill the boards with wax. They’re practical and cost-effective, especially for anyone learning letters or managing ledgers.”

He grunted in approval. “Let’s make them, then.”

Chapter Text

Myne

Mark brought us to the new workshop that Benno had arranged near the forest. It was a sturdy little building nestled between the trees just inside the south gate—a perfect hideaway for our operations.

Mark unlocked the door and stepped aside with a slight bow.

"Everything’s been delivered," he said. "The craftsmen were eager to meet your deadlines."

Inside, the workshop smelled of fresh wood and resin. The floors creaked with each step, but the structure was sturdy. Sunlight spilled in from high, narrow windows, casting golden stripes across the wooden worktables. Our tools were already arranged neatly—steamer lid, drying boards, molds, frames, vats, and basins. A set of shelves held sealed jars of adhesive, pigments, and some experimental wax samples. In one corner, we spotted the completed diptychs stacked together. Each was filled with wax tinted a soft, pale green. The surface glinted under the sunlight.

Lyn opened one and handed me the stylus. "Try it."

I pressed the tip to the wax and began writing. The letters were crisp and clean. It erased with a smooth swipe of the flat end.

Lutz’s eyes widened. "These are amazing. Better than slate boards."

We each took turns practicing numbers and merchant shorthand, the styluses whispering as they etched across the surface. I grinned, imagining a room full of merchants taking notes with our diptychs instead of wasting paper.

With our tools in place, we began papermaking in earnest. Lyn prepared the vats with fresh water, Lutz trimmed and peeled the volrin bark we had gathered, and I set out the boards for drying. The workshop filled with the rhythmic thuds of pounding pulp, the soft hiss of steam, and the occasional splash of water. We moved like a practiced team—our hands following memory as much as training.

Later that afternoon, we carried our tools to a secluded grove deeper in the forest. We wanted privacy—mana was involved, and the fewer eyes that saw, the better. I reached into our supply crate and pulled out a single taue fruit, still firm and warm. It was small, round, and slightly rough to the touch.

"Ready?" I asked.

Lyn nodded. "Just a little mana."

I held the fruit out in both hands and funneled a thread of mana into it. The reaction was instant. The fruit began to bulge, veins throbbing faintly under the skin before—

Pop!

It burst like an overripe berry, flinging small bits in every direction. Each piece landed with a faint squelch onto the forest soil. Almost immediately, the bits began to tremble, stretch, and root themselves.

Tiny sprouts emerged, stretching toward the sun with a vitality unique to trombe. Within moments, the largest had already begun curling upward, its surface darkening.

"That one," Lyn pointed.

Lutz moved swiftly with a small axe, severing the young shoot just above the root. It was smooth, fibrous, and still pliable. The ideal stage for pulping.

He then harvested the remaining sprouts.

He held the largest one proudly. "Let’s get these into the vat before it starts hardening."

We soaked the trombe fibers and volrin separately, letting them sit overnight. The next day, we beat them with mallets until the fibers are nice and fluffy. We then mixed the fibers with water and our secret ingredient - edile. The mixture of water, fiber and our secret ingredient took on a soft sheen when it was ready. We made two batches – trombe and volrin.

We dipped the screens, shook them gently, and laid the newly formed sheets on drying boards. The sunlight warmed our backs as we worked. Each pass became more consistent. Some sheets dried with faint textures of the netting, others curled at the edges—imperfections we noted in our journals for improvement.

By the third day, we had a collection of smooth trombe paper and firm volrin stock, bundled in neat piles and weighed down with clean stones.

We carried the finished sheets to the Gilberta Company to sell them. Benno met us in the back room, already seated with a cup of tea and a fresh diptych in hand.

"Let’s see what you brought," he said.

We laid the samples on the table—first the volrin paper, then the trombe paper stacked separately. Benno picked up a sheet of volrin first and began to write on it with a stylus dipped in ink.

“It holds the ink, but the drag is a little rough,” he muttered.

Then he tried the trombe paper. The stylus glided smoothly, and the ink settled evenly.

Benno blinked and looked at the sheet again. “This... This is something else.”

“It’s trombe,” Lyn said softly.

Benno stared at her. “You made paper from trombe? Are you insane?”

“It was a small sprout. Controlled,” I added quickly. “But yes.”

He ran his hand over the sheet again. “You’re mad. But this will sell. Premium, high-end. Nobles would pay for this.”

He sat back with a low whistle. “Alright. I’ll buy the whole batch.”

We beamed.

We negotiated a fair price, and with that, plus the earnings from the rinsham recipes, we had enough.

“We want to rent a floor in the Gilberta Company,” I told him.

Benno didn’t even blink. “Done. I’ll handle it.”

Effa and Gunther were quiet that evening as we packed. They stood in the doorway of our small home, staring at the floorboards worn smooth by years of footsteps.

“This place... it’s where we raised all of you,” Effa murmured.

Gunther nodded. “We were younger than you two when we moved in. It feels like a different lifetime.”

“But we’re all going together,” he added, placing a gentle hand on Effa’s back. “That’s what matters.”

The new apartment had three bedrooms: one for our parents, one for Tuuli, and one for us. The furniture still smelled of polish and new wood. That night, though, we all curled together on the large mattress in our new home, like old times. Tuuli lay nestled between Effa and Lyn, while I took the spot closest to Gunther. The room was quiet, filled only with the soft rustling of blankets and the occasional sigh.

No one spoke of the past. But as the night settled in, I felt a warmth that no new furniture or polished floor could replace.

“I don’t think I can sleep alone yet,” Tuuli whispered.

“Then don’t,” Lyn said. “Just for tonight.”

We huddled together under the same blanket, the quiet sound of breath and night wind filling the space.

Tuuli continued her work at Corinna’s atelier. Her crochet stitches had become more intricate with each passing week, and the flowers she made now rivaled the sample hairpins we had used to impress Benno. She experimented with different thread thicknesses and petal layering techniques, creating blooms that looked nearly lifelike.

One afternoon, Corinna paused mid-loop and gave Tuuli a long, thoughtful look. “I would like to offer you a lehange contract.”

“I’d be honored,” she said.

Soon after, Benno brought us to the Merchant’s Guild to finalize our registrations. Once the paperwork was processed, we were led upstairs to the Guildmaster’s office. The room was richly furnished but surprisingly tidy, with a faint scent of old parchment and polished wood.

The Guildmaster, a broad-shouldered man with a measured gaze, looked us over as we entered. His eyes shifted from our faces to the sample hairpins we carried.

“I’ll have one hairpin, then,” he said, tapping the desk with a thick finger. “Please finish it before the winter baptism ceremony.”

Lyn tilted her head thoughtfully. “Mmm, how does she wear her hair? She might need two hairpins depending on her hairstyle.”

“She wears her hair in two ponytails,” he replied without hesitation. “So she would need two hairpins. I’ll order two, then.”

I nodded and took out my diptych. “What should be the color of the flowers? The hairpin should match her clothes and hair color too. If possible, could we meet your granddaughter and ask what she would like?”

The Guildmaster frowned, scratching his cheek. “I want to keep it a secret and surprise her.”

Not again. I grumbled inwardly. I shot a glance at Lyn.

Myne to Lyn, telepathically: He’s totally going to ruin the gift.

Lyn to the Guildmaster, aloud: “I think she might get frustrated if you give her a hairpin after she’s already prepared another one.”

“We’re going to be making one from scratch,” I added gently. “So I think she’ll cherish the gift more if it suits her tastes, rather than something that doesn’t look very good on her. Don’t you think a happy smile will be more wonderful than a look of surprise?”

The Guildmaster stroked his chin, considering. “Hmm… I see…” His eyes narrowed with interest. “Myne and Lyn, was it? Would you be interested in coming to my store?”

“Not a chance!” Benno cut in sharply before we could even react.

“My store is larger than Benno’s and has a more storied history,” the Guildmaster continued, undeterred. “No conditions either. As you have not been baptized yet, you are not official apprentices and can easily switch to my store. What do you think?”

Lyn to Myne, telepathically: We need to be firm. If we give him an inch, he’ll drag this on forever.

Myne and Lyn, together: “We decline!”

The Guildmaster exhaled through his nose, chuckling. “That’s unfortunate, but I’ll give up for now. You won’t be able to give an honest answer with an intimidating guard by your side.”

Then his tone softened slightly. “Are you free to speak with my granddaughter Freida tomorrow? The sooner the better, I imagine.”

“Sure,” I said. “We can meet Freida tomorrow with Lutz, since he’s making the hairpins with us.”

“Very well. How does meeting at the plaza tomorrow at third bell sound? I will send Freida to get you.”

“That works,” Lyn said with a polite smile.

And just like that, we had our next appointment—and an even better idea of just how persistent merchants could be.

We met Freida the next day at the plaza, just as the guildmaster had arranged. She was an adorable little girl with a peaceful smile, observant brown eyes, and light rose-colored hair tied into soft ponytails. Her posture was graceful—almost too graceful for her age.

“Are you Myne and Lyn, pray tell?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.

“Yes, that’s right,” I replied. “I’m Myne, this is Lyn, and this is Lutz. Are you Freida?”

“That’s right. It’s a pleasure. Shall we go to my home?”

She guided us to the guildmaster’s estate. Like Benno’s, it was a multi-story building, but it had a more stately air. A store operated on the first floor, and the building sat closer to the inner wall, nearer the heart of the commercial district.

Once we reached the parlor, a maid led us inside. The room was comfortably furnished with plush cushions and decorative embroidery. A servant poured a bright red liquid into metal cups that shimmered under the light—so much fancier than the wooden ones I’d grown used to.

“So sweet! This stuff is great, Lyn,” I whispered after a sip.

“It really is,” Lyn agreed. “I love it.”

Freida smiled, pleased. “I’m glad it suits your taste. Now then... might I ask how this visit came to be arranged?”

“The guildmaster hired us yesterday to make a hairpin like this for your baptism ceremony.” I pulled the sample hairpin from my tote and placed it on the table for her to see.

Freida examined it, then nodded. “I know that. But I would have expected my grandfather to order one without consulting me.”

“Mmm, he did mention wanting to keep it a surprise,” Lyn said, “but we thought you’d be happier if you could choose your favorite colors and ensure it matches your outfit.”

“I see,” Freida replied, her tone somewhere between amused and exasperated. “So it wasn’t his sudden thoughtfulness—just you two saving him from himself.”

I chuckled. “If possible, could we see the outfit you’ll be wearing for the ceremony? We’d like to match the color of the embroidery.”

“Wait just a moment. I’ll bring it out.”

She left the room and returned soon after, carrying a carefully folded white baptism dress. It shimmered faintly in the light. While the base design was similar to Tuuli’s, that’s where the resemblance ended. The embroidery was done in thick, fluffy red wool, giving it a warm, luxurious feel.

“Wow, this is amazing!” Lyn breathed, brushing a finger near the edge of the hem without touching it.

“Do you have any leftover thread that was used for this embroidery?” I asked. “I think a hairpin with flowers of the same color would look best.”

“I believe there was. One moment.”

Freida left again and returned holding a small spool of red thread.

“Will this be enough?” she asked, offering it with a hopeful expression.

“We only need a small sample,” I said, accepting it carefully.

Lyn, telepathically: Let’s just ask Benno to find us something similar so we won’t have to discount the hairpins.

Me, telepathically: Good idea. We'll match it without using more of hers.

After a moment of silence, I leaned in slightly. “Freida... you mentioned not going out often. Is it because of the Devouring?”

Freida blinked slowly. “You knew?”

“We both have it too,” Lyn said gently.

Her eyes softened, and she nodded. “That makes sense. You’re stronger than you look.”

She took a sip of tea, then continued, her voice quiet but steady. “When I come of age, I’ll move to the noble district. I already have a contract... I’ll be a noble’s mistress.”

“That’s...” I hesitated. “Is there no other way?”

“It’s the only way to survive the Devouring,” she said. “You need mana tools and treatments. Commoners can’t provide those.”

Lyn, telepathically: Once we become nobles, we should see about ennobling Freida.

Me, telepathically: Do you think she’ll be okay with it?

Lyn tapped her teacup. “Would adoption ever be an option?”

Freida blinked. “Adoption? That would mean severing my current family ties. I’d have to move sooner and leave the downtown behind.”

“Is that a no then?”

She looked down at her lap. “It would be nice... but no one has ever offered me that. I’ve accepted what’s possible for someone like me.”

We shared a quiet look. She was clever, poised, and pragmatic—and trapped.

“I hope you’ll have more options someday,” Lyn said.

Freida gave her a sad smile. “So do I.”

Chapter Text

Lyn

Every morning without exception—rain or shine, sleepy or sore, spiritually enlightened or groaning like elderly lumber—we began our day with yoga. Not because it was noble or graceful or part of some esteemed training regimen from a mysterious foreign land, but because if we didn’t, our spines would slowly fuse into the shape of question marks from all the reading, writing, and chores we did the rest of the day.

“Focus your breath,” I intoned serenely, doing my best impression of a wise temple priestess, though I suspected I sounded more like someone trying very hard not to sneeze. “Tree pose.”

Across from me, Myne swayed like a loose signpost in a storm. “How is this helping us again?” she asked as her arms trembled and her foot valiantly attempted to glue itself to her thigh.

“It’s helping you not collapse like a sack of potatoffells every time you bend over to pick something up,” I replied helpfully, trying to hold my pose and my smirk at the same time.

Myne took that as motivation to try again—and immediately toppled sideways in what I generously called a controlled descent. The floor greeted her like an old friend.

Tuuli’s giggles bubbled out behind her hand. Lutz, ever the picture of polite restraint, looked down and blinked very slowly, which would’ve been noble of him if his shoulders hadn’t started shaking.

“We’re going to be the most flexible nobles this duchy has ever seen,” I said cheerfully.

“I don’t think nobles do yoga,” Myne muttered into the floorboards, possibly chewing on a bit of dust.

“Exactly,” I said, bending over to help her up. “That’s why they’re all stiff and suspicious.”

With our dignity somewhat intact (or at least evenly distributed across the group), we moved from contorted poses to the day’s true battlefield: academics. Our classroom, also known as the only flat surface not covered in invention scraps, was the large dining table in our living space—now heroically bearing the weight of diptychs, wooden boards, styluses, and several questionable soot stains I swore weren’t my fault.

“Okay,” I said, arms crossed as I observed Lutz’s attempt at a formal bow. “That was less ‘respectful merchant apprentice’ and more… ‘awkward potatoffel caught in the rain.’”

Lutz shot me a look. “I’m not a noble.”

“No, but you’re going to be dealing with them. And nobles, dear Lutz, are like potatoffels—temperamental, picky, and weirdly obsessed with presentation. Peel them wrong and you’re getting tossed out of the kitchen.”

Tuuli snorted behind her diptych. “He does kind of look like a mehren when he bows.”

“Really, Tuuli?” Lutz muttered, but his ears were going pink like the ripest of turnips.

Myne was the patient, methodical teacher, the type who could explain complex ideas calmly and clearly even while being stepped on by a clumsy priest apprentice. I, on the other hand, preferred more kinetic methods—like bribing Lutz with sweetbeans to recite merchant greetings backward or balancing wooden boards on Tuuli’s head until she walked like a proper lady or toppled dramatically into a pile of cushions.

Tuuli’s solemn expression as she shuffled across the floor, board wobbling with every step, was hilarious in a very dignified, scholastic way. Lutz, of course, puffed out his chest and said, “I could do that with my eyes closed.”

Naturally, he then attempted it, tripped over a stool, and kissed the floor with the grace of a stunned shumil.

“Mehren down,” I said gravely, as Tuuli and I dissolved into giggles.

“You’re the worst,” Lutz mumbled from the floor, but there was a smile tugging at his lips, so I considered that a win.

After that, they took the lessons a little more seriously. Sort of. Tuuli began walking like a noble lady at all times, pausing at doorways to deliver delicate curtsies like she was auditioning for the Spring Prayer. Lutz, meanwhile, opened every new conversation in a ridiculously exaggerated noble drawl—until I retaliated with a soot pencil to the forehead. He responded with his own soot pencil, and we very nearly declared war right then and there until Myne dubbed it “combat etiquette” and made us take it outside.

When the chaos faded and our laughter softened into little chuckles and sighs, we transitioned into reading and writing. To my genuine delight, they were improving faster than expected. Tuuli’s penmanship was neat and precise, like embroidery on paper, while Lutz attacked arithmetic like it had personally offended him.

We were in the middle of correcting Tuuli’s noble phrasing—she had, somehow, confused “Your Grace” with “your gravy,” which sparked an unhelpful discussion about sauce etiquette—when Myne suddenly froze mid-sentence, her stylus hovering just above the diptych.

“I forgot something,” she murmured, her eyes going wide.

I tensed. “Please don’t say volrin bark again.”

“No,” she said slowly, eyes growing distant. “Someone.”

My stomach gave a polite little lurch. “Oh.”

She lowered her diptych, hands trembling slightly. “Heidemarie.”

The air grew still, like a room just before a storm. We both remembered—not in perfect detail, but with enough clarity to feel the weight of it.

“She gets poisoned,” I said softly. “Sometime in winter. But we don’t know the exact date.”

“She’s pregnant now,” Myne whispered. “If she dies before the birth—”

“Benno,” I said, already pushing back my chair. “We need to talk to Benno. He’s the only one with enough reach to investigate House Linkberg without drawing suspicion.”

Tuuli looked between us, concern etched across her face. “Is something wrong?”

I smiled and patted her hand. “Nothing we can’t fix.”

Hopefully.

Myne

Benno’s office was steeped in the familiar scent of ink and oiled parchment, a faint trace of candle wax lingering in the air, though the brazier itself had long since gone cold. The stacks of documents towered precariously upon his broad wooden desk, leaving barely enough room for his inkwell and ledger, and it wasn’t until we were nearly close enough to smudge the ink with our noses that he lifted his gaze, his quill stilling mid-stroke with a faint scrape against the paper.

“I want to build the water pump,” I declared, holding my diptych tightly against my chest as though it might shield me from the conversation that was about to unfold.

Benno blinked, his brows furrowing faintly before he leaned back in his chair, the wood groaning in protest. “Good morning to you, too,” he said dryly, his voice already laced with suspicion.

“I’ve completed the designs,” I continued, hastening to explain before his retort could gather force. “If implemented, it would make the task of drawing water significantly easier—not just for commoners, but for the servants of noble households as well. It would reduce the burden on everyone.”

His sigh was long and weary, and with a soft clack he set his quill aside, folding his arms atop the desk. “And what measures,” he asked, voice careful and measured in that way that signaled he already had objections prepared, “do you intend to take to ensure your design isn’t stolen the moment word of it escapes your lips?”

“I want to start a patent system,” I said, my voice more confident than I felt, even as I braced myself for the predictable storm.

Benno’s eyebrows rose so high I feared they might vanish beneath his fringe entirely. “You want to establish an entirely new legal structure—one that doesn’t currently exist, mind you—as a child who hasn’t even been baptized into noble society?”

“We’ll record everything,” I insisted, pulling out the sketches and documents from my tote bag as if the weight of the paper could lend credibility to my claim. “The design, the date of creation, the materials used… We’ll create a record. It’s only fair that inventors receive recognition and protection for their efforts.”

He gave me a long, level look that could have flattened a parchment roll. “And who,” he asked slowly, “do you expect will enforce this protection of yours?”

My excitement waned like a flame exposed to wind. “…We would need noble backing,” I admitted, though the words felt heavy in my mouth.

“Precisely,” Benno said, tapping a finger against the surface of his desk with soft but final emphasis. “Without a noble’s authority—or better yet, the weight of law from the archduke himself—you have nothing. Anyone who wants your design can take it, claim it as their own, and you’d be powerless to stop them.”

My shoulders slumped ever so slightly, and I lowered my gaze to the corner of a sketch, suddenly finding the texture of the parchment extremely interesting. “Then… should we shelve it for now?”

“For now,” he agreed, though there was no unkindness in his tone. “Get yourself a duchy title and a legal structure to match, and then we can revisit the topic of patents.”

With a sigh born of reluctant acceptance, I began to tuck my documents back into my bag. “Fine,” I murmured, though disappointment still tugged at the corners of my heart.

“But,” Benno added suddenly, with a glance toward a separate pile of correspondence, “regarding the other matter you asked about…”

I straightened immediately, heart lurching with a mix of hope and dread.

“Heidemarie is alive,” he said, his voice lower now, more serious. “It was a quiet pregnancy. House Linkberg has kept the matter discreet, but all signs indicate she is well—for the time being.”

My hands clenched around the folder. “Then there’s still time…”

“But we don’t know how much,” came Lyn’s soft voice from just behind me, her presence quiet but grounding.

“She’s going to be poisoned,” I said, each word deliberate, my gaze unfocused as if staring into the threads of fate itself. “By someone close. A servant. Just like before.”

“But we can’t simply storm in waving a warning flag,” Lyn reminded me, her tone cautious. “Even if we’re right, it won’t be taken well. It needs to be subtle. Formal. Noble.”

I nodded slowly, turning toward Benno. “We’ll need parchment, ink, and a steady hand.”

He gestured to the supplies without protest, and we took our seats once more before his desk, hearts heavy with urgency.

“We’ll write it like nobles,” Lyn suggested, her eyes narrowing in thought.

“Yes,” I agreed. “A warning veiled in prophecy, cloaked in reverence. We’ll invoke the gods—Schutzaria for protection, Flutrane for healing, and Dregarnuhr to hasten the unraveling of fate’s tangled threads.”

Together, we carefully penned each line, weighing every word as though it were gold to be balanced on the scales of justice and belief.

Beware the servant cloaked in silence, for the cup offered with loyalty may spill with betrayal.
Let the shield of Schutzaria guard the hearth and the child within.
Let Dregarnuhr’s thread unravel swiftly, ere it binds too tight.
Let Flutrane’s waters protect the life yet to bloom beneath winter’s veil.

At the bottom, we inscribed two elegantly intertwined R’s, a symbol of the bond between us and the knowledge we carried.

“Should we send it through the temple?” Lyn asked, her voice hushed.

I shook my head almost immediately. “It’s too risky. Ferdinand would see through it and demand answers we aren’t ready to give.”

“Elvira, then?”

I exhaled. “She’s discreet. She’ll know what to do. And more importantly… she’ll believe it.”

With the letter sealed and marked, I closed my eyes and whispered a silent prayer—not just out of hope, but out of the desperation that only those with foreknowledge of tragedy can truly understand.
Please, I begged, as if the gods themselves might listen more kindly this time. Let this be enough.

Chapter Text

Elvira

The letter arrived just as the last light of day surrendered to dusk, its parchment still warm from the courier’s hands and edged with a faint scent of ink that had not yet fully dried—expensive ink, I noted absently, paired with vellum of such quality that no mere apprentice would dare waste it on something frivolous. The seal was unfamiliar, unmarked by any crest, suggesting neither noble lineage nor merchant house, only discretion wrapped in deliberate anonymity.

With the ease born of years managing correspondence for both family and duchy, I broke the seal with a practiced flick of my thumb, fully expecting to find another marriage proposal hidden beneath thinly veiled flattery, or perhaps a request for etiquette guidance from one of the more desperate mothers hoping to polish their daughter’s prospects before the next social season.

Instead, I found a riddle.

Beware the servant cloaked in silence, for the cup offered with loyalty may spill with betrayal...

The words curled across the page like a whisper from the Divine, cloaked in language that bore the rhythm and gravity of scripture. The invocation of Schutzaria, Dregarnuhr, and Flutrane was not something done lightly, nor something a commoner would dare attempt without a proper understanding of the gods’ domains. It was reverent, formal and filled with purpose.

And at the bottom—neatly and unmistakably—two stylized, overlapping R’s.

At first, my breath caught. Rozemary? The thought came unbidden, though it was quickly swept away by reason. No. She was gone. I knew without doubt that this letter had not come from her.

Still, the wording alone sent a chill down my spine, the kind that seeped into the bones and settled there, a silent warning that refused to be dismissed.

Without wasting another moment, I summoned Heidemarie and Eckhart to my sitting room, sending an attendant with the quiet urgency that left no room for delay but avoided alarming the rest of the household.

They entered together, and the moment I saw the way Heidemarie’s hand rested protectively atop her abdomen, fingers barely brushing the soft fabric of her gown, I knew. I had suspected, of course—no mother could miss such quiet signs—but now the truth stood before me, fragile and unmistakable.

Heidemarie flushed faintly beneath my gaze. “We were going to wait until we were certain,” she said, her voice soft, touched with both joy and hesitation.

Eckhart’s smile was gentle, proud—and then I handed him the letter.

He read it carefully, and as the words sank in, his expression changed. The warmth vanished from his eyes, replaced with something sharper and more dangerous.

“What is this?” he asked, though the question was not a request for information but a protest against what he already suspected.

“A warning,” I replied, my voice calm but firm. “One I fully believe.”

Heidemarie lowered herself carefully into a chair, one hand never leaving her abdomen, the other trembling slightly as she brushed the edge of the letter. “But… from who?”

“There’s no name,” I said, turning the parchment to show them. “Only this.” I tapped the overlapping R’s.

They exchanged a glance—sharp, searching, full of unspoken understanding.

I rose to my feet, the decision already made. “We need to search your residence, thoroughly. Start with the side building. Every servant is to be detained and questioned. I want no corner untouched.”

I summoned my most trusted attendants, those who had served my house long enough to know the difference between quiet orders and declarations of war. They bowed swiftly and vanished like shadows, returning not an hour later with their findings.

The attendants found a clear vial filled with pale liquid tucked away with enough care to avoid casual discovery, but not enough to escape scrutiny once the veil of normalcy had been lifted.

Poison - hidden in a servant’s quarters.

The air in the room thickened as I sent an ordonnanz to Karstedt, pouring every ounce of maternal urgency I possessed into the message. I was not simply a mother in that moment—I was a noblewoman facing a threat to her bloodline, and I would not be still.

Heidemarie’s hands trembled. Her eyes, wide with the terror that comes only from knowing you are no longer safe, turned to me as she whispered, “Justus.”

I nodded.

Her own ordonnanz took wing.

Justus arrived moments later. He entered with the composed swiftness of a man who had long since learned that calm was more effective than panic, but whose eyes missed nothing—not the tension in Eckhart’s jaw, not the fear in Heidemarie’s hands, not the way I stood just slightly between them and the vial.

He knelt by the offending object with precision, uncorking it without ceremony and producing from his belt a small crystal spoon, polished and narrow, the kind used by nobles and alchemists alike. He dipped the spoon carefully, then let a single drop fall onto a strip of detection paper.

The reaction was immediate. The paper blackened.

Justus’s brows drew together, his frown deepening. “This… This isn’t from Ehrenfest.”

Karstedt, who had just arrived and was now standing at my side, crossed his arms. “Then where?”

Justus rose slowly, his eyes shadowed with the kind of knowledge earned only by those who had spent time in the darker corners of noble society. “The composition is foreign and refined. It bears a striking resemblance to the compounds used during the purge—specifically, the one intended for Lord Ferdinand. It’s from Ahrensbach.”

A silence fell, heavy with unspoken truths.

No further proof was needed.

We knew where the blade had been forged.

Now we only had to find the hand that wielded it.

Karstedt arrived well after the sun had dipped below the horizon, his steps brisk and his cloak billowing behind him like a storm front. There was a familiar tightness to his expression, one that hovered somewhere between the sharp discipline of a knight on duty and the raw frustration of a father drawn into yet another web of noble treachery. I could see it in his eyes—that restless calculation, that quiet debate over whether this confrontation would require his sword or merely the steel in his voice.

“All the servants accounted for?” he asked, his tone clipped, his gaze already scanning the room for answers he could grip like the hilt of a blade.

“Yes,” I answered with a calm that I did not entirely feel. “They’ve been secured and are waiting in the garden under guard.”

What followed was not the thunderous display that stories might promise when justice came calling, but a quiet, methodical dissection of truth. Karstedt and Eckhart worked in tandem—one asking questions with the patience of a man who had heard every lie imaginable, the other watching every twitch of muscle, every flicker of the eyes that might betray a hidden truth.

At first, there was only silence and tension stretched thin as wire.

And then—a flicker.

Before I could even inhale, the servant in question began to convulse, his body seizing in place. A beat later, there was an earsplitting crack—a shockwave that slammed against the windows like a sudden gale—and smoke erupted into the air, thick and acrid, choking the area with its abrupt presence. Magic surged so violently that I felt the hairs on my arms rise, and outside, cries of panic rang out from the garden where the rest of the servants had been lined up in rows like nervous soldiers awaiting inspection.

When the smoke cleared and the trembling of the floor ceased, there was nothing left of the man. Not even ash. Only scorched stone and the metallic tang of mana burning itself out.

“Devouring soldier,” Eckhart muttered, his voice tight with both recognition and disgust.

Karstedt’s jaw clenched. “Search the rest for submission rings,” he commanded, voice low but crackling with restrained fury.

The search began immediately, and it did not take long.

Another man was found—trembling now, eyes wide with the dawning horror of consequences arriving faster than he could run. Upon his hand gleamed a thin, gleaming band.

A submission ring.

Before the man could utter a word—or a spell—Eckhart’s blade flashed with deadly precision. In the next heartbeat, his hand had fallen to the ground, severed cleanly at the wrist. He let out a howl that shattered the air with more force than the earlier explosion, clutching his bleeding arm and collapsing onto the grass in agony.

“I’ll talk! I’ll talk!” he cried, over and over, as though the words themselves might shield him from what came next.

Karstedt stepped forward. “Then speak.”

And so he did.

“Lady Trudeliede!” the man sobbed, the name falling from his lips like a curse that burned his tongue. “She gave the order! She told me to poison the soup at dinner—said it would be painless, said it was for the good of her lady, that she was only following her will!”

His voice cracked, the terror in it unmistakable, and for a long moment no one spoke.

The garden seemed to grow colder in the aftermath of his confession, as if the words themselves had stolen the warmth from the air. The wind passed through the trees with eerie silence, and even the guards, seasoned as they were, stood frozen with the weight of what they had just heard.

I turned to Karstedt, my voice quiet but clear. “What do we do now?”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes lifted toward the darkening sky, as if he expected the stars themselves to whisper counsel.

But the heavens offered no guidance—only silence, and the slow, inevitable turning of the world.

Karstedt

I did not want to believe it—not from Trudeliede, not from my second wife—but the signs arrayed before me had grown too sharp, too numerous, and far too damning to be waved away by sentiment or selective blindness. A servant’s desperate, tear-stricken confession, spoken under the weight of guilt and fear; a submission ring, cool and gleaming with the unmistakable crest of Trudeliede’s, hidden in a place where it ought never to have been; and scattered throughout it all, a sense of something quietly, deliberately veiled beneath the surface of our lives—all of it pointed to one unmistakable truth: something was being concealed, and Trudeliede, ever composed, ever poised, stood at the very center of that growing web of deceit.

And yet, for all my certainty, for all the facts that whispered her guilt in the hush of locked rooms and hushed testimonies, I knew that I could not simply storm her hidden chamber by force, for the magic sealing it was bound to her alone, and brute strength could not undo what mana had hidden. No—if I wanted the truth laid bare, I needed her to take us there herself, willingly, believing it was her idea and her choice.

Without delay, I summoned both Leisegang and neutral knights. “Bring her in,” I commanded, my voice low and crisp, each word edged with ice. “And begin a full sweep of her residence. Leave no drawer untouched, no wall unmeasured.”

The knights bowed and withdrew at once, cloaks flaring like wings behind them as they vanished through the manor’s halls.

When Trudeliede entered, it was with the unflinching elegance of a woman untouched by consequence, her every movement as polished as the silver clasps on her sleeves, each step practiced, precise, and meant to convey control. Her hands rested lightly at her sides, her expression serene, lips curved in a faint smile that might have passed for affection in another life.

“My lord husband,” she said with a voice like velvet drawn over steel. “What an evening surprise. Have the servants misplaced a fork again?”

I allowed myself a smile—thin, deliberate, and utterly devoid of warmth. “No, Trudeliede,” I replied softly, each syllable laced with purpose. “This matter is of far greater delicacy than silverware.”

I stepped closer, letting the distance between us narrow, letting her feel the weight of my presence without pressing too hard.

“We found traces of poison,” I said, my tone quiet but inescapable. “A servant confessed. It was intended for Heidemarie... and Eckhart.”

She did not flinch—of course she didn’t. That was her strength, her weapon: silence mistaken for innocence.

But I had already prepared my blade.

“He claimed he was acting under orders,” I continued, softening my voice, letting false sympathy seep into it like wine into water. “But not yours.”

Her gaze sharpened slightly—barely perceptible—but I caught the flicker.

“Lady Veronica’s,” I added.

Now she blinked—just once—and lifted her chin, the faintest twitch in her composure revealing that the arrow had struck its mark.

“I don’t know what he thinks he heard,” she began, her voice carefully leveled, “but I—”

“I believe you,” I said, cutting her off gently, smoothly, as though offering her a reprieve. “I believe you’ve only done what was necessary to remain in her favor. And I understand, truly I do. When someone of Lady Veronica’s stature commands something of you, refusing is not just dangerous—it’s impossible.”

She hesitated—not from fear, but calculation. I could feel the wheels turning behind her eyes, weighing her chances, measuring my tone.

“I’m not here to condemn you, Trudeliede,” I said, taking one more step closer. “We are both soldiers of the duchy, are we not? Bound by duty. I only want to ensure that nothing within this estate—nothing hidden or misunderstood—could be used to endanger us further. You have a hidden room, do you not?”

Her eyes snapped to mine, wide now with the recognition that I knew more than she had hoped.

“Locked with your mana,” I added, calmly, coaxingly, as if it were a matter of routine. “If there is anything inside—letters, gifts, tokens of loyalty to House Ahrensbach—I need to see it in order to protect you.”

The silence that followed stretched long, heavy with her deliberation. I let it hang there, saying nothing more, trusting that the false comfort I had laid like a cloak around her shoulders would convince her to act.

And in the end, it did.

“Very well,” she said at last, with a quiet dignity that no longer quite reached her eyes. “But you must understand—I did not act on my own.”

“Of course,” I replied, smoothly. “None of us do.”

She led us without another word, through her chambers and past the bed, towards the feystone locking her hidden room. With a slow breath, she extended her hand, and her mana flowed into the stone like a ribbon of light. It pulsed once—twice—and then the wall shuddered and slid open, revealing a room that had never existed on any blueprint of the estate.

The air inside was thick with disuse, the silence deeper than the snow-muffled world outside. A single lamp flickered to life as we stepped in, illuminating shelves lined with scrolls, sealed envelopes bearing unfamiliar crests, and in the center—placed with reverence and care—a glass vial sealed with wax, the unmistakable scent of bitterness still clinging to its rim.

My knights moved forward at once, gloved hands efficient and silent. They uncovered more with every passing moment: correspondence bearing Lady Veronica’s seal, maps annotated with noble movements, coded documents, and names that should never have left the confidential halls of the castle.

I said nothing.

And Trudeliede, who had once stood with the grace of a noblewoman untouched by fear, now stood trembling, her hands folded tightly as if she could hold herself together by force of will alone.

I turned to her slowly, my expression unreadable.

“Thank you,” I said at last, voice low and devoid of triumph. “You’ve done the right thing.”

She gave a shallow nod, but the cracks in her mask were too deep now to hide. She looked less like a queen of her own domain and more like a shadow trying to remain upright in the wind.

Outside, the sky had darkened further, and snow had begun to fall in soft, unbroken sheets, muffling the world in silence. The servants remained lined up in the garden, their breath rising in clouds, their expressions unreadable. And there, small and hunched in the line, stood Nikolaus, clutching his wooden soldier to his chest like it might guard him from the truth.

He looked up as I stepped outside. Our eyes met.

I took a slow breath, one that felt carved from the cold air itself.

“Send him to the temple,” I said, not raising my voice.

The knights exchanged uneasy glances, unsure whether to obey without further word.

“It’s for his safety,” I added quietly, eyes never leaving the boy.

Because I could no longer promise the same for his mother, not now, not after what had been found.

Chapter Text

The moment word of Trudeliede’s arrest reached noble ears, the air within the castle shifted. It did not howl or storm like a commoner’s grief—it changed in measured gasps, in the hush of paused conversations and the quiet rustle of teacups set too quickly back upon their saucers. Like a cracked plate hidden beneath a lace cloth, the genteel civility of noble society began to fracture.

Tea parties convened across noble residences like fire igniting dry twigs—fast, quiet, and contained only in appearance. The Veronica faction, proud and long dominant within Ehrenfest’s court, reeled in disbelief. Magic letters fluttered through the skies like migrating birds, carrying indignation cloaked in pleasantries.

“Surely there’s been some mistake,” murmured a countess, holding her teacup with a trembling hand. “Lady Trudeliede would never act without guidance.”

“She is being used,” another insisted, lips pressed thin behind a veil. “The Leisegangs have always resented her place in Lord Karstedt’s household. This is their doing.”

And yet, within the Leisegang faction’s own gatherings, outrage simmered with cold precision.

“She ordered the poisoning of not only the Linkbergs, but of others as well,” Giebe Leisegang said over clinking porcelain, his voice hard and clear enough to silence the room. “And yet we were asked to stomach house arrest?”

Tea cooled in cups as the implications brewed far hotter. House Linkberg itself had yet to release an official statement, but everyone knew this would not end with whispered apologies or letters of regret.

In the depths of the castle, far from the heated gossip, Lady Veronica stood alone in her audience chamber. Her posture remained upright, her hands delicately clasped at her waist—but her lips were drawn into a thin, bloodless line, and her eyes burned with insulted fury.

Trudeliede—her favorite, her instrument of quiet precision—had been taken. And not merely questioned, but locked away in the White Tower like a common criminal.

Veronica summoned messengers. She dictated letters with cutting grace, demanding that her son present himself and explain this farce. But Sylvester refused all communication.

Unwilling to wait, Veronica prepared to leave her wing of the castle, her mind set on marching into his chambers uninvited. But she had barely crossed the archway into the corridor when a figure stepped into view.

Bonifatius.

He stood alone, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his eyes flat and grim.

“Veronica,” he said, his voice quiet, as if speaking to a beast that might startle. “Go back inside.”

She halted. Her mouth opened, fury flaring like sparks in her throat.

“You cannot keep me confined—!”

“I can,” he said, taking a single step forward, “and I will. This is Aub Ehrenfest’s order. You are under house arrest. You may dedicate to the foundation, but you will not interfere.”

His presence loomed like stone—unshakable, immovable. The tales of Bonifatius’s strength were not merely stories. He could crush heads with his bare hands. And unlike most nobles, Veronica knew precisely how true that was.

She stepped back.

“I will remember this,” she said through gritted teeth.

“I expect you will,” Bonifatius replied.

In the White Tower, beneath thick walls and mana-sealed doors, Karstedt sat across from Trudeliede in a narrow, cold chamber made of silence and stone. Between them lay a simple wooden table, a magic circlet, and a vial of red potion.

Trudeliede’s hair remained tied, as custom demanded for an adult noblewoman, but her usual elegance had faded. Though her spine was still straight, her eyes had dulled to a brittle gray, and her voice, when she finally spoke, was filled with weary pride.

“So, mind reading. Is this what my years of loyalty are worth?”

Karstedt didn’t answer. He simply pushed the vial forward.

“This will synchronize our mana and allow the reading,” he said.

She stared at it, then back at him. Her expression flickered—for a breath, she looked hurt.

“You led me to open the room and told me I was safe. You lied to me.”

“I told you what I had to,” he replied, unmoved. “Now drink.”

She did. In silence.

Karstedt lifted the circlet, placed it gently over his head, and began to chant the incantation.

And then—

He saw.

A memory: the soft velvet of Veronica’s drawing room, the flicker of firelight. A small glass vial laid reverently between them on the table.

Veronica’s voice, calm, exact, without warmth:

“This is for Eckhart and Heidemarie. The duchy cannot afford a child from that line.”

And Trudeliede—eyes bright, hands steady—reaching for the vial with no hesitation.

“Nikolaus will make a fine heir to House Linkberg. I understand.”

The memory faded.

Karstedt removed the circlet slowly. His expression remained unreadable, but his fingers curled tightly against his knee.

“I see,” he murmured.

“I did it for my son,” Trudeliede whispered. “He would have been overlooked and forgotten. I only wanted—”

Karstedt rose. He did not stay to listen.

Sylvester sat in his study, his head lowered over a desk strewn with reports. The lamps flickered weakly. Outside, snow drifted down past stained-glass windows, casting dappled shadows across the floor.

Ferdinand stood near the window, arms crossed. Karstedt had just finished speaking.

“She did it at Veronica’s command,” he said, voice low. “She believed removing Eckhart and Heidemarie would clear the way for Nikolaus to inherit House Linkberg.”

Sylvester did not answer.

The silence thickened.

“Am I truly the kind of son who sends his mother to the White Tower?” he finally asked.

Ferdinand’s reply came without hesitation. “You are Aub Ehrenfest. If you hesitate now, you will become the kind of man who lets worse happen.”

Sylvester picked up a pen and signed the order.

“Veronica remains confined to her wing. She may dedicate, but if she leaves again without permission... she joins Trudeliede.”

No one challenged him.

He did not ask to see his mother’s memories. He already knew what they would show.

In the days that followed, the castle’s atmosphere turned brittle.

Among the Veronica faction, confusion reigned. Some questioned Veronica’s judgment. Others whispered that the Aub was being manipulated by the Leisegangs and Ferdinand. There were even murmurs—dangerous ones—about cleansing the nobility of corruption. But no one dared act.

Tea parties continued. Faces remained painted. But the laughter was strained, the smiles sharp-edged.

The Leisegangs, bolstered by public sympathy, now demanded louder punishment—not just for Trudeliede, but for anyone involved.

Neutral nobles watched from the margins. Some began to shift allegiances—not out of loyalty, but out of self-preservation.

The duchy was no longer divided in two.

It was splintering.

In a quiet room in the Linkberg mansion, Eckhart stirred beneath heavy blankets. Heidemarie sat beside him, holding his hand. The room was warm and faintly scented with herbal incense.

“We almost lost our child.”

“I know,” she replied.

“Do you think she regrets it?” he asked. “Trudeliede.”

Heidemarie stared out the window, where snow had just begun to fall.

“No,” she said.

And that, somehow, was worse.

Chapter Text

In noble society, rumors were like tea leaves steeped in lukewarm water—subtle at first, barely noticeable, and then unmistakably bitter. This time, they drifted through the winter estates on soft, perfumed air, weaving their way between silk screens and velvet cushions. The nobles did not speak of them openly, of course. Not at first. Instead, they were voiced in quiet moments between tea and dessert, in the lift of an eyebrow, or the sudden silence when an unfamiliar servant entered the room.

It began with an intercepted letter.

The Intelligence Bureau’s archives were not grand. Tucked behind the Knight Order’s main offices, the records room was small, stuffy, and reeked faintly of dust and old ink. Most nobles passed it by without so much as a glance.

But Bris, a commoner servant recently assigned to sweep the lower halls, knew it well. She didn’t mind the stillness. Compared to the training yards or stables, the archive’s silence was a blessing. Her broom whispered over the floor, the rhythm soothing after a long morning.

As she moved past one of the lower cabinets, her foot bumped a small bundle hidden beneath a ledge. She bent down, squinting into the shadows, and retrieved a pale, folded envelope — slightly crumpled at the corner, but unmistakably bearing the modest seal of House Everstein.

She turned it over. The parchment was neat and unassuming, as if it had slipped from a stack without notice.

Shrugging, she placed it on a nearby shelf and returned to sweeping.

It remained there for most of the day.

Justus had been sorting through a small stack of flagged correspondence in the hidden archives of the Knight Order’s intelligence bureau. Most were routine—exaggerated trade reports, nobles grumbling about border duties, the occasional petty blackmail attempt. But one letter, tucked neatly into an envelope bearing the modest seal of House Everstein, gave him pause. It was handwritten, casual, and lacked any enchantment. Almost too ordinary.

The sender: a laynoble named Klothilde, formerly an attendant of Lady Rozemary of House Linkberg.

The recipient: her younger sister, currently in service to Lady Adelheid.

Justus lifted the page and read.

“...I never said this before, but you remember how often Lady Rozemary took to her bed in her last year? Everyone assumed it was her illness worsening. But I was there. I think she was with child— twins. I saw the midwife, and I saw the bundles, both girls. Rozemary was... disappointed. Their mana was low. She had them sent to the temple, or so she claimed. But I checked, sister. They never arrived. I asked, quietly. No one knows anything. It was like they vanished. What do you think happened to them? Could this be useful, now that things are so unstable? I wonder if there’s someone who would pay to know they existed...”

The ink faded at the edges, but the words struck with chilling clarity.

Rozemary—the third wife of Lord Karstedt of House Linkberg, known for her beauty, her refinement, and her frequent clashes with Trudeliede. Rozemary had not been one of Veronica’s favorites, but she had been aligned with that faction out of convenience. She had died quietly, several years ago, her decline marked by long absences and whispered ailments. No one had questioned it until now.

Justus folded the letter carefully and placed it in a new envelope.

Ferdinand’s office in the temple was as still and ordered as ever, though the low hum of mana tools and rustling documents hinted at an undercurrent of motion. The scent of ink, lamp oil, and fresh parchment mixed with the faintest trace of dried herbs—a familiar blend that settled into one's bones with comforting weight.

Justus stood opposite Ferdinand’s desk, reciting his weekly report.

“Lady Veronica has broken the conditions of her house arrest on two occasions,” he said smoothly, adjusting a leather-bound folder. “Both meetings were brief and held within noble residences—first with Lady Adelheid, then with Lady Ottlinde. Neither outing has been publicly acknowledged.”

Ferdinand, pen in hand, made no comment.

“Lord Wenzel and Lord Dietger have been seen in close discussion over several days. They are cousins by marriage and staunch Veronica supporters.”

A faint tick of the pen.

“Lord Siegmar has begun courting Lady Sibylla. A curious match. She is a laynoble, and while charming, her family has no recent honors.”

“Reckless or desperate?” Ferdinand asked without looking up.

“Perhaps both. Lord Henrik, a scholar, has signed a concubinage contract with a devouring commoner. Whispers are already turning.”

“Noted.”

“Prices of oil and fruit have risen again. Southern trade caravans were delayed at the border.”

“Expected.”

“A new thread-based hairpin is popular downtown. Most wearers are merchant apprentices and low-ranking noble daughters.”

“Mm.”

At last, Justus drew a smaller envelope from the inner pocket of his coat and set it before Ferdinand. “And this.”

Ferdinand finished his note, then lifted the letter. As he read, his brow furrowed slightly.

“Twins,” he said, voice flat. “Disappeared. No temple record.”

He set the parchment down and met Justus’s gaze.

“If they were redirected, someone with noble authority would have been needed to bypass temple records. Investigate. Quietly.”

The next morning, the investigation began in earnest.

Justus returned to the knight quarters with a short list of names. Discreet surveillance of both sisters began immediately. One lived in House Adelheid; the other traveled often. Neither had noble protectors strong enough to resist if pressure were applied.

Within the temple, Ferdinand summoned Arno.

Outwardly, Arno was as serene and proper as any attendant, but those who dealt with him more than once knew better. Beneath his calm voice and perfect bows was a quietly vindictive man who prided himself on his precision.

“Search the temple ledgers,” Ferdinand instructed. “Births, initiates, transfers. Begin the year of Rozemary’s death and go forward. Flag any mention of twin girls.”

“As you command,” Arno replied, already mentally organizing which priests he would coerce for easier access.

By evening, he returned.

“There is nothing,” he reported. “No twins from House Linkberg, no unexplained initiates, no deaths or funerals. If they were sent to the temple, it was never recorded. If they died, they never had a funeral.”

Ferdinand did not speak. He merely stared at the report for a long moment before setting it aside.

That night, long after the temple had gone quiet, Ferdinand remained at his desk. The flickering glow of the oil lamp cast shadows along the spines of his neatly arranged books. He read over the letter once more, then turned to the registry of noble births. The timing did not match. Rozemary’s reported illness came earlier than the supposed temple transfer. Too many pieces did not fit.

A memory surfaced. Years ago, a destroyed carriage on the western road. A servant whose death had been ruled accidental. No one had connected it to Rozemary at the time.

But perhaps they should have.

He dipped his pen.

A new set of instructions began to take shape on the page.

The silence held its breath.

Chapter Text

Winter's chill had settled deep into the cobbled streets of Ehrenfest, leaving shopkeepers bundled behind their counters and apprentices scurrying with hunched shoulders and chapped hands. In the upper floor of the Gilberta Company, however, the atmosphere was warm and well-scented with tea, paper, and just a hint of ink.

Benno slammed open the door, a scowl carved deep into his face.

“Tch. Bunch of hidebound fools.”

He stomped across the office, tossing his gloves onto a nearby table, only to stop short when he noticed the familiar sight waiting for him.

Myne and Lyn sat at a low table, hands cradling cups of hot tea. A neat stack of freshly dried plant paper was placed between them—thin, soft, and snow-pale against the wood. Myne glanced up from a page she was rereading. Lyn raised an eyebrow.

“Let me guess,” she said, her voice dry. “The parchment guild is upset you’re selling something faster, cheaper, and more versatile?”

Benno let out a long sigh as he sank into his chair.

“They summoned me for an emergency complaint session,” he said. “Claimed I’m undermining their craft, flooding the market and corrupting traditions. One fellow swore commoners are going to start wiping their noses with it just because it’s paper.”

Lyn pressed a hand to her mouth to suppress a laugh. Myne tilted her head, frowning thoughtfully.

“If they’re that upset, maybe it’s time to separate things properly,” she said. “The solution isn’t to fight them, it’s to give them their space.”

Benno blinked. “Meaning?”

“Create a new guild,” Lyn said, tapping a finger on the table. “Plant paper has different materials, different production methods, and a different customer base. If they can’t be friends, they can be neighbors. Let each protect their own turf.”

Myne nodded.

“And give the parchment guild a ceremonial monopoly,” she added. “Official contracts should still be written on parchment. People cling to what feels official. Make plant paper the everyday tool, but keep parchment for official contracts.”

Benno leaned back, rubbing his chin. His eyes narrowed as the pieces began to fall into place.

“That would appease the guild… and give me space to build the plant paper market on its own terms. But I can’t run everything through the Gilberta Company. I’d need something new.”

“Exactly,” Lyn said. “A separate company, a separate brand.”

After a few rounds of brainstorming, they landed on a name: Plantin Company. A nod to plants, to printing, and to potential.

Benno grinned.

“All right. Let’s write up the contract.”

The twins exchanged a glance.

“One large gold,” Myne said.

“And ten percent of the profits,” Lyn added.

Benno choked on his tea.

“Ten percent?”

“You’re getting the whole production method,” Myne said sweetly. “The process, the tools, the material ratios. And we’ll provide training for your craftsmen.”

“We’ll even throw in a sample ledger,” Lyn added, “if you sign now.”

Benno groaned but didn’t argue further. The contract was inked that afternoon.

A few days later, Benno stood before the Merchant’s Guildmaster, arms crossed and voice calm.

“This isn’t a takeover,” he said. “It’s a division. Plant paper isn’t threatening parchment. It’s a different product entirely, suited to a different purpose. Let the parchment guild keep its monopoly on legal documents. I want a separate guild—one that handles production and sale of plant-based paper only.”

The Guildmaster narrowed his eyes.

“You want me to authorize a splinter guild, with no backing and no precedent.”

Benno leaned forward.

“With noble contracts still requiring parchment, your friends don’t lose a thing. But the city gains another source of tax and stability.”

There was a long silence. Then, at last, the Guildmaster grunted.

“Let the fools argue about texture. I care about coin.”

Approval granted.

Later that evening, the three sat again in the Gilberta Company office. The newly signed charter of the Plant Paper Guild lay on the table beside their tea.

“So,” Myne said, eyeing the parchment with a smile. “What’s next?”

“Ink,” she said. “We can produce new ink that works better with our plant-based paper. We could sell it with the paper in sets.”

Benno’s brow furrowed.

“That would stir up trouble with the ink guild. Wolf won’t like it.”

Lyn nodded.

“Wolf is still guildmaster, and ink is their lifeblood. If we move too early, we’ll face resistance. Better to wait until we have noble backing. Or until someone else starts stirring the pot.”

Myne exhaled.

“Then we wait.”

The formula was written down and tucked away. The ink would wait—there were no samples yet, just notes and ideas. But the paper had already begun to turn pages.

Chapter Text

[Justus’s POV]

Disguise is an art. One I’ve honed through years of tailing nobles too proud and merchants too clever for their own good. Blend in, vanish, resurface elsewhere. No name, no face—just a ghost trailing footsteps and whispers.

This morning, I was a cloth peddler, sleeves frayed, wig slipping, and back bent like I’d been kicked by a horse one too many times. My basket rattled with bolts of scratchy fabric and crooked sticks. I looked pitiful enough to be ignored. Perfect.

“Finest thread south of the river! Only slightly moth-eaten!” I rasped, limping down the lane.

Nothing.

A child tugged at her mother’s skirt and pointed. An old woman squinted at me like she’d seen me three disguises ago. I shuffled away before she could make the connection.

By midmorning, I was a cloth apprentice. Sleeves rolled, hair mussed under a cap, hands stained with fake dye. I elbowed my way through merchant alleys, throwing around nonsense jargon and calling everyone “boss.” Come afternoon, I was a delivery runner—eyes low, steps quick, hat pulled down far enough to hide the patchy glue still clinging to my forehead.

And still, nothing. No whispers, no slip-ups, no secret meetings. Just gossip about the upcoming harvest and who was marrying who.

It wasn’t until I passed the Gilberta Company that my instincts pricked.

The front display glittered—hairpins shaped like blooming roses, lace dyed to match. A bit too elegant for what I’d expect from a lower city boutique.

And too familiar.

We’d had reports. A surge in sales from an anonymous workshop, particularly among the daughters of lower-ranked nobles. Odd, but not suspicious—until that surge had started pulling funds away from established noble-backed shops.

So I went in.

Cool air. Cedar and ink. Orderly rows of ribbons and bolts. An apprentice at the counter, boxing up fabric with the kind of dull-eyed focus only shopwork brings.

I made for the silk section, slow and casual, like a merchant’s assistant hoping to steal a sample swatch.

And then I saw them.

Two girls seated at the far end of the room, heads bowed over ledgers. One of them—neat, precise—gripped her stylus like a scholar. The other—more relaxed, smirking—flipped a page with ink-smudged fingers and said something that made Benno twitch.

My breath caught.

Not because they were children. Not because they were working.

Because they looked wrong in this setting. Not out of place, exactly—just too… composed.

Then the one on the left glanced up. Her gaze locked on mine. For a heartbeat, I froze.

She smiled.

Then the second girl followed her lead, met my eyes—and raised a single brow with recognition.

Not suspicion. Not surprise. Recognition.

I turned and walked out before I gave myself away.

By sunset, I’d become someone else—again. An artisan with a beard that itched and a backache that wasn’t faked.

I lingered near the square, pretending to watch a vendor’s cart but keeping my eyes on the Gilberta Company’s doors.

They came out at last. The twins and Benno, walking briskly. One of the girls carried a basket draped in cloth. They paused here and there, trading words with merchants and glancing at price tags.

Too smooth, I thought. Too prepared.

They weren’t acting like children raised in the lower city. They didn’t fidget, didn’t shout, didn’t shove each other. Every step was measured. Every smile timed. They behaved like people used to being watched.

I wasn’t the only one watching.

As they passed, a merchant clapped Benno on the back.

“How are the Twin Roses today, eh?”

I blinked.

Twin Roses.

There it was. The name.

They had a name.

That night, I broke into the Merchant Guild.

Nothing fancy. Borrowed credentials, a dark cloak, and a forged smile. A sidelong nod to the guard who didn’t want to be awake at this hour. One twist of my favorite lockpick, and the record room was mine.

I scanned the drawers for “R.” Found nothing.

Then I thought of Benno.

Flipped back to “G.”

Gilberta Company. Sub-licenses. Partnerships. Expansion efforts.

Twin Roses Workshop.

Gotcha.

Registered under the Gilberta Company. Official proprietors: Myne and Lyn. Profits filed quarterly, tax forms spotless. The signature was Benno’s, but the handwriting on the profit logs was neater. Smaller.

Children.

I flipped to the income declarations.

Stopped.

Ran the numbers twice.

They were out-earning some archnoble houses. And not by accident. Everything was diversified—paper, rinsham, baskets, accessories. Strategic. Calculated.

Not child’s play.

A cover.

A launchpad.

Someone planned this.

I shoved the file back and locked the drawer.

Back at the safehouse, my hands shook as I lit the lamp.

From a locked chest, I took out a bundle. A leather folio, aged but carefully preserved.

Inside was Rozemary’s portrait - softly sketched, the edges faded from time.

She stared out with calm eyes, smile faint. The kind of woman who kept secrets like other women kept scarves—layered, hidden, ready to slip loose.

Beside it, I added my new sketch, rough, from memory. The twins.

I lined them up.

Rozemary. Myne. Lyn.

The tilt of the head. The arch of the brow. The spark in their gaze.

It’s them.

Not just in blood.

In drive. In cleverness. In the quiet way they held power like it belonged to them.

They weren’t hiding.

They were blooming.

Rozemary’s daughters.

The Twin Roses.

And someone—Benno, maybe —was helping them grow right under our noses.

The next morning, the sun glinted across the rooftops like spilled flour, and despite the lingering chill, it was clear and bright—a perfect day for parue gathering.

Myne and Lyn bundled themselves tightly in scarves and cloaks before leaping onto the sled with excitement practically radiating from them. Gunther gave an exaggerated sigh as he took the reins, while Tuuli marched ahead with practiced purpose. Snow crunched underfoot, and their breath puffed visibly in the frosty air.

“Parue only falls on sunny days,” Tuuli reminded them for the fifth time that morning, glancing back with a proud older sister expression. “We don’t get many chances like this.”

The trip into the forest was a quiet one, filled with the rhythmic squeak of the sled runners and the occasional giggle from the girls. Gunther hummed a low tune, his breath coming out in puffs, and the occasional call of a winter bird echoed through the trees. The deeper they went, the more the trees stood silent and tall, their white-dusted branches glistening with trapped sunlight.

[Lyn’s POV]

The grove opened like a secret chamber, filled with parue trees standing in perfect stillness. They shimmered faintly, the icy blue orbs of fruit barely visible within the powdery snow coating their branches.

I followed behind Tuuli, breath fogging in the cold as she climbed one of the trees like it was second nature. She rubbed a branch with her bare hands, her motions patient and practiced.

I stood there watching, utterly captivated. I'd never seen anything like this. The trees almost felt... aware. Like they were waiting, judging us silently from their frosty perches.

Tuuli was taking too long. My fingers itched to touch it myself. I glanced around—no one was watching too closely. I stepped forward.

Just a touch, I thought. What’s the worst that could happen?

I took a step forward. Then another. My gloved hand reached out without thinking.

A single fingertip brushed the skin of an icy blue parue.

Plop.

Then another. And another.

Suddenly, it was raining icy blue fruit like the world’s strangest snowfall. One bounced off my boot. Another hit me in the shoulder. A third grazed my ear.

“Waaah!” I yelped, flailing like a startled squirrel as I dived into a snowbank.

The tree groaned.

Then, like it had just remembered an urgent appointment in the clouds, it shook itself dramatically and launched into the sky with a fwump, trailing sparkles behind it.

I lay on my back in the snow, blinking at the empty space above me. “Okay. That was... unexpected.”

Myne stood a few steps away, blinking at me with that face that said, ‘You just did a thing again.’

“What? It was an accident,” I muttered, brushing snow from my coat.

Myne approached another tree with a sigh. “Might as well make it even.”

She reached out and touched a knot in the bark.

Plop. Plop. Plop.

This time we stood ready. We held out the basket like champions at a parue-catching tournament. When the second tree soared upward into the blue sky, we clutched each other and laughed until our sides hurt.

“Parue trees are incredible,” I whispered, still staring at the sky where the tree had vanished—and still slightly worried one might land back on my head.

[Myne’s POV]

By the time the sun reached its peak, the snow was dappled with shadows of falling parue. Tuuli and Dad were near the fire, talking and laughing as they warmed their hands. Lyn and I pulled the sled to a quiet corner behind a thicket, out of view.

We crouched down, keeping our voices low. I could feel the weight of the basket between us—full and humming with potential.

“We got at least two dozen,” I whispered. “Let’s be quick.”

Lyn and I each took a parue into our hands.

“One, two… now.”

I focused, letting my mana flow outward and into the icy blue fruit in my hands. I could feel Lyn doing the same beside me. The skin shimmered, hardening to a crystalline surface. A small glow pulsed inside.

Life feystone.

We repeated the process steadily. The mana pulsed through us like a shared rhythm.

When they were finished, sixteen fruits had been transformed, each now a mana-charged gem. Warm and humming.

We laid the eight remaining parues aside to eat and share later, then carefully wrapped the feystones in cloth and tucked them into our wooden tote.

“Too many would raise questions,” Lyn murmured.

“We’ll say the trees were unusually generous,” I said, glancing at the cart with a quiet grin.

We loaded the rest of the fruit into the cart and covered it with a thick wool blanket, hiding the soft glimmer beneath folds of fabric.

“Just in case anyone gets curious,” Lyn said with a grin.

[Justus’ POV]

From a shallow ridge overlooking the grove, Justus knelt in the snow beneath a heavy brown cloak. He had wrapped his scarf high enough to hide his mouth and wore a hunter’s cap pulled low over his eyes.

He had followed the twins that morning on little more than a hunch. Now, his breath caught as he watched them work.

Trees that soared into the sky. Mana pulsing in the air. Girls not just familiar with magic—but wielding it.

“They’re not ordinary,” he whispered.

He waited until the group turned back toward the sled. Then he crept toward a nearby parue tree and placed his hand against the bark.

An icy blue parue fell into my hand with a gentle thud.

I turned it over in my gloved hands, feeling the cool texture and tracing the faint bluish veins with my thumb.

“This one’s for Ferdinand,” I murmured to myself, heart still racing from what I had seen. But I kept another for myself, tucking both away before I could second-guess it.

I nestled it carefully between cloth rolls in my pack, making sure it wouldn’t bruise or freeze.

“Bird food or not, this is no ordinary harvest… and if I’m right, Ehrenfest has no idea what’s blooming in its backyard.”

Chapter Text

[Ferdinand's POV]

Late winter always brought with it a peculiar kind of silence, not one born of tranquility but of expectation, like the still breath before a storm that reshapes the landscape. Within the quiet walls of my study—lit by only two softly glowing enchantment lamps—I waited. I had already dismissed my attendants for the evening, knowing that what I was about to receive would require not only discretion but the ability to think, to listen, to calculate without the weight of performance. The tea beside me had long since gone tepid, forgotten in favor of the rising tension building between my temples. I was not a man given to superstition, but even I could sense that something beneath the surface of Ehrenfest was stirring.

The door opened with a sound that broke the hush without disturbing it. Justus stepped in with his usual calm, though this time it was laced with something tighter, more urgent. He said nothing at first, merely unfastened his winter cloak, brushed the frost from his shoulders, and set a heavy satchel down on my desk. I did not move. I waited. When Justus finally spoke, his words were direct.

“I’ve returned milord. And I bring more than speculation.”

I gave him the smallest of nods.

He launched straight into it—no preamble, no hedging, just the facts as he knew them, laid bare. Apparently, the twins were born six years ago in summer, daughters of Gunther, one of the soldiers stationed at the South Gate, and Effa, a dyer in the lower city. They had an older sister named Tuuli, currently apprenticed to the Gilberta Company. The family had suffered three losses before the twins arrived. Myne and Lyn—those were their names—had been raised above Benno’s shop, quietly tucked away, and somehow managed to avoid showing up in any noble or temple registry.

I sat still as he spoke, absorbing it all, my mind ticking through the implications.

Then he began to describe what he had witnessed in the forest, his voice tight with control even as the memory lingered beneath each word. He spoke of a parue tree and how Lyn had approached it and with just the barest brush of her fingers, the entire crop of fruit fell in a single cascade. Tuuli, apparently, had spent several minutes before managing even one drop. But Lyn? It only took one touch. Then Myne followed, doing the same. And then, he said, both trees launched upward into the sky—as if they had been waiting for that exact moment.

He placed two icy blue parue on the table. “They turned them into life feystones. Eight each. Effortlessly.”

My hands did not move, though I felt a slow tension unraveling in my chest, the kind that accompanied the recognition of something so unprecedented it could not yet be fully understood. The thought that untutored children had created life feystones with such ease was not only disconcerting, it was deeply unsettling. If such power could emerge without guidance or intention, what else might lie dormant, unnoticed and unchecked? The implications were not simply unusual—they were foundationally dangerous, capable of altering the balance we so carefully preserved.

“They didn’t consult each other,” Justus continued. “No instructions were given. They simply acted—as though it was second nature.”

Then, with a kind of quiet finality, Justus laid out the records—an extensive trail of profits and carefully structured ventures under the name of a single entity: the Twin Roses Workshop. He spoke of rinsham, a concoction that rendered hair glossy and smooth; of hairpins crafted with uncommon elegance; of paper manufactured from plants and sold in quantities that defied the expectations of any noble artisan. Each business bore legal documentation that traced directly back to the twins themselves. Their amassed wealth, by any reasonable metric, surpassed that of several minor archnoble houses, and yet there was no boastfulness in their dealings—only a studied restraint that did not suggest pride or ambition, but rather a deliberate and consistent effort to remain unnoticed.

Finally, he gave me the sketch. Myne and Lyn, side by side. Ink-stained fingers, sharp eyes, expressions calm and measured. And beside them, a preserved portrait of Rozemary. The resemblance wasn’t perfect—but it was there. The hair. The cheekbones. The posture. The kind of similarity that blood could not hide.

“Their eyes,” Justus noted, his tone more contemplative now, “are honey gold—a shade that does not appear in either Effa’s or Gunther’s lineage, nor in Rozemary’s, though I’ve heard similar hues appear from time to time, among those with Ehrenfest archducal blood.”

I tapped the end of my quill against the desk once, then again, slower.

“If they are her daughters,” I murmured, “then we are no longer dealing with mere rumor. But I will not let sentiment dictate my conclusions. Too much remains uncertain.”

With methodical precision, I reached for my writing board, the words forming in my mind even before my hand moved to write. Each line was brief, but every syllable carried the weight of what must now be confronted: a quiet request cloaked in formality, yet unmistakable in its urgency. It was not merely a summons—it was the opening move in a conversation that would change the course of a family, perhaps even more.

“Deliver this to him directly,” I said.

Justus bowed low, his expression unreadable.

When he had gone, I sat back, eyes drifting toward the parue fruit still lying on the table. The faint glint of magic shimmered across their skin.

[Karstedt’s POV]

When the letter arrived, I knew. Not what it would say, but that it would not be good. Ferdinand did not summon me without reason—and never alone unless it was serious.

His mansion was quiet, as always. Too quiet. As though sound itself dared not linger within those walls.

Ferdinand greeted me with a nod and gesture, no words. Justus was standing behind Ferdinand, unusually still. The moment I saw the materials on the table—sketches, a fruit, and a portrait—I sat down without waiting to be asked.

He told me everything.

Justus began by recounting everything in a voice that was steady but layered with the kind of subtle tension I had learned to recognize as the mark of something extraordinary: he spoke of the girls, the family they were born into—Gunther, a common soldier stationed at the South Gate, and Effa, a lower city dyer with quiet resilience in her records—and how the twins, born six years ago during the height of summer, were raised not in obscurity exactly, but in a deliberate kind of anonymity above the Gilberta Company’s main building, alongside their older sister Tuuli, now an apprentice seamstress, and following the sorrowful loss of three siblings before them; and somehow, despite being wrapped so tightly in the weave of common life, they had left no footprint in any of the temple's or nobility’s ledgers.

When he shifted to the events in the forest, I found myself listening more closely, more carefully. Justus described it simply, without flourish: the parue trees—rare, crystalline things of icy blue fruit—had responded to the girls in ways that defied both understanding and tradition. Tuuli, trying to shake a fruit down with effort and time, managed a single parue only after prolonged coaxing; but when Lyn approached her tree, she brushed her fingers against it casually—almost idly—and in that instant, every fruit fell, a full drop all at once. Myne, seemingly without any signal between them, mirrored the action, and her tree responded the same way. Then both trees, as if released from the weight of gravity or memory, lifted into the sky and vanished beyond sight. Justus's voice remained quiet as he spoke, not with awe, but with the steadiness of a man who knew what he had seen would be dismissed by anyone else—anyone, perhaps, but me.

The air in my chest stopped.

She had once confided in me, with a quiet voice and downcast eyes, that her health was too fragile to carry a child to term, that her body would never allow her the burden or the joy of motherhood—and I, trusting her as one trusts those they love, had believed her without question, had grieved with her, and when she passed, I mourned not only the woman I had lost, but the children we were never meant to have."Now I looked at the faces of two girls who bore her features—the tilt of her head, the curve of her smile—and I realized what I had lost.

“She kept them from me,” I said. “I would have raised them. I would have protected them.”

Ferdinand didn’t reply. He didn’t need to.

I drained the glass of vize he poured for me.

“You must tell Elvira,” he continued. “And I must meet the girls. Five days from now.”

I nodded.

[Justus’s POV]

I accepted the letter with a bow, but my heart was racing faster than I liked to admit. I had seen strange things in my years as Ferdinand’s eyes and ears—but nothing like this.

“Give this to Gunther and Effa,” Ferdinand said. “Five days at fourth bell. They are to bring their children.”

His tone was flat. But I saw it—the slight flicker behind his eyes, the calculation already racing forward ten steps.

I tucked the letter into my cloak and stepped out into the frost-kissed evening. Above me, the sky was still and starless, a great dome holding its breath.

Whatever happened next, I would be there.

And for the first time in years, I felt the hum of something greater than politics stirring beneath my feet.

[Elvira's POV]

The light filtering through the arched windows of the Linkberg mansion was tinged with the softest shade of gold, the kind of glow that only came in the final hour before sunset, when the bustle of the noble district began to hush beneath its own weight and the servants moved more quietly, as though afraid to disturb the peace the day had earned. I sat in my private sitting room, the one lined with embroidered panels that bore the Linkberg crest, gently threading mana thread into deep blue silk. Perhaps I would give the handkerchief to Cornelius, or perhaps, Lamprecht. They never noticed the details, but I liked to imagine they might, one day.

Then I heard it—the flutter of small wings, the rush of air not stirred by my fire. I glanced toward the window just as a small ordonnanz bird fluttered inside and landed on the edge of my writing desk. I watched it for a moment, my needle suspended mid-stitch.

When I tapped its head lightly with my schtappe, it spoke.

“I will be returning home for dinner tonight.”

It repeated the message thrice, Karstedt’s voice calm and steady despite the months of absence that lay between us like cold stone.

I stilled for a moment, a subtle tightness weaving itself through my chest—not quite surprise, but something adjacent to it, quieter and more constricted, like the delicate ache of a memory long tucked away and suddenly stirred to life.

It had been months since he last set foot in this house, not for tea, not for conversation, not even to lay eyes on the sons who bore his name, and while the occasional message passed through his attendants to acknowledge feast days or family updates, his presence had remained a distant echo rather than a reality. And yet now, without warning, he was returning for dinner.

Without letting my hand tremble, I turned my head slightly and gave the signal. One of the waiting attendants bowed at once and left the room to inform the chefs.

And as the ordonnanz dissolved into mist, I sat back and stared into the golden light again, my thoughts moving slowly, quietly. What had changed?

The dining room was prepared in silence, the candles trimmed, the dishes arranged in careful symmetry, the attendants lined up quietly, waiting to serve. When Karstedt arrived, he quickly changed into his noble attire and joined me in the dining room. I greeted him with the usual greetings. There was no warmth to offer, but no chill either. We were husband and wife—two people bonded by oath and duty, held together by bloodlines and the weight of our titles.

Lamprecht and Cornelius joined us at the table, and while the servants ladled mushroom soup and set servings of tschnitz in front of us, I watched Karstedt from the corner of my eye.

He asked about the children.

“Cornelius has shown a commendable grasp of etiquette and comportment,” I remarked with deliberate calm, my eyes flicking toward my son in a way that conveyed more than words ever could, “but when it comes to training in the arts of swordsmanship and the discipline expected of a future knight, his motivation has been notably lacking, and I can’t help but think that perhaps his progress would be swifter—and his resolve steadier—if his father, the Knight Commander himself, were to stand beside him in the training yard more than in name alone.”

Karstedt hummed in acknowledgment but said little else. Lamprecht offered a few comments about his patrol rotation, about the state of the Knight’s Order. Eckhart, he added, was occupied with training the newer recruits—apparently with far more discipline than patience.

We dined in quiet routine, each movement practiced. Each phrase carefully chosen. This was the way of noble houses—formality was its own kind of language.

When the plates had been cleared and the last of the tschnitz taken away, I lifted my tea cup. “Shall we take tea in the parlor?”

Karstedt inclined his head.

The parlor had already been prepared—my favorite room in this wing of the mansion, filled with soft chairs and warm drapes that filtered the light into something more forgiving. I chose my usual seat near the fireplace and he took a seat opposite me. Our attendants poured us our preferred blends of tea.

We lingered over the first cups of tea with the kind of polite small talk that often preceded more serious matters in noble households—observations on the state of the winter gardens, idle gossip about a new seamstress favored by Lady Leisegang, and a brief remark on how Cornelius had grown even taller since last summer. Then, without a word, Karstedt glanced toward his attendant, and I recognized the subtle signal at once. The request was made, and fresh tea was quietly ordered, though I suspected the new blend had little to do with taste and everything to do with what would follow. Karstedt’s attendant handed something to my own—a sound barrier tool, of the type used only for matters too delicate for walls to contain.

Once it was activated, and once the servants had withdrawn, Karstedt produced a letter.

It looked innocuous at first. Folded parchment, wax seal cracked clean. But as soon as I touched it, as soon as I opened it and began to read, my stomach tightened.

The letter unfolded like a carefully woven veil, each sentence delicately structured to obscure more than it revealed, yet the implications grew clearer with every line—a woman, once an attendant of Rozemary and now comfortably nested within the Veronica faction, reaching out to her sister under the pretense of familial concern, recounting old memories and whispered truths; she claimed Rozemary had given birth to twin daughters, that their mana had been regrettably low, and thus arrangements had been made to send them quietly to the temple, but as time passed, the twins had never arrived, leaving their fate suspended in a silence no one dared to question.

Rozemary’s twin daughters.

I placed the parchment at the low table in front of us.

I sat very still. “How did Ordoschnelli manage to reach you?”

“It was intercepted,” he said. “Through the Knight’s Order. Justus brought it from their bureau.”

“Intercepted,” I repeated softly, almost to myself. “How curious that something so private could go astray. Who dropped it? Who read it first?”

I did not say what I was thinking: that this could still be a trap. That anything involving Rozemary—and especially Veronica—was never without motive.

I stood slowly. My gown whispered across the floor as I crossed to the far cabinet, one sealed with both lock and crest. I opened it, withdrawing the thick bound ledger that held House Linkberg’s internal household records.

I returned to the table, opened it to the pages marked six years ago, and ran my finger down the names.

“She stayed at Joisontak mansion,” I said. “For one full season. It was listed as a health retreat.”

Karstedt sat without moving.

“She was carrying Geduldh’s burden,” he said after a moment, his voice lower than I’d ever heard it. “And I didn’t know.”

I said nothing. Not because I lacked words, but because I could feel something in him fracturing, and there were times when silence was the only kindness I could offer.

After a long moment, he lifted his head.

“If they are truly her children… if they are mine, will you stand as Wiegemilch?”

It would have been so easy to say no.

I had not loved Rozemary. She had been favored, and she had known it. She had fought with Trudeliede, and I had grown tired of being drawn into their feuds. But I also remembered a different child—Ferdinand—whose stepmother had not stood by him, whose lack of a Wiegemilch had followed him like a shadow. I refuse to be like my aunt Veronica.

“I must meet them first,” I said, my voice soft but certain. “But if they are Rozemary’s… if they carry your blood… then yes. I will be their Wiegemilch.”

I paused, then added, "But we must be sure. Their mana must be measured properly. If their levels are not sufficient for archnoble status, we will need to find a more suitable household for them, one that aligns better with their capacity and offers them the protection they’ll require without placing undue burdens or expectations upon them."

Karstedt looked stricken at the thought, his hands tightening faintly around the edge of his cup, and though he nodded slowly, I could see the quiet ache in his eyes—the pained acceptance that losing them a second time, even in name alone, would hurt more than he dared to admit.

"It would be cruel," I continued gently, "to raise them with expectations they could never meet. Better we ensure they belong where they are best suited, than sentence them to a life where their birthright becomes their burden.

Chapter Text

[Justus’s POV]

It was still early enough in the morning that the frost clung stubbornly to the edges of shutters and cobblestones, the sun having barely climbed above the roofs of the merchant quarter, when I made my way toward the Gilberta Company. My appearance was ordinary enough—dressed in the muted colors of a traveling merchant, a leather satchel slung at my side, my hair tied back in a style too plain for a noble, but just tidy enough for an ambitious tradesman hoping to curry favor. I was no stranger here, and yet each step into Benno’s domain felt like entering enemy terrain—not because he was hostile, but because he was far too clever for comfort.

Benno met me in the receiving room, his expression polite but guarded. I handed him the sealed letter bearing Ferdinand’s crest without a word, and he immediately understood. He called for Myne and Lyn, ushering me into the private meeting room behind the workshop floor, where the smell of fresh ink and starch hung heavy in the air.

The twins arrived moments later, slipping into the room in their usual work clothes, eyes sharp despite the hour. There was something about them—an unusual composure, the kind I had rarely seen even among the nobility. I set the wooden board before them, watched their silent faces as they read the summons.

“The High Priest requests your presence,” I said evenly, keeping my voice neutral but not overly cold. “You, and your parents. A carriage will arrive here, at the Gilberta Company, in five days. It will bring you to the Linkberg estate.”

Their eyes didn’t widen, but their expressions shifted just enough for me to catch the weight of understanding in the pause that followed. Whatever they had been expecting, this was not it—but they recovered quickly.

“Thank you for delivering it,” Lyn said with a little bow. Myne mirrored her.

I gave them one last look—assessing, calculating, searching for the slightest hint of duplicity—and when I found nothing but quiet resolve, I took my leave, stepping out into the city once again with thoughts already stirring like restless ink on parchment.

[Lyn’s POV]

It was strange, gathering everyone around the kitchen table like that. The sun had just dipped behind the taller rooftops, casting a dull orange glow through the windowpanes as we sat in the small, warm space above Benno’s workshop, the scent of stew lingering from supper still curling in the air. Tuuli brought over cups of tea, and Mom wiped her hands on her apron before sitting. Dad shifted awkwardly in his chair, still in uniform, clearly unsure of how to sit when a secret was about to be told.

“We’ve been summoned,” Myne said, her voice calm, as though she were announcing that tomorrow’s bread needed kneading. I slid the letter across the table. Dad blinked at the board. Mom frowned.

“To the Linkberg estate,” I added, just in case the gravity hadn’t quite landed.

“What for?” Tuuli asked.

“That,” I said with a shrug, “was left politely vague.”

What followed was a quiet but intense review of everything we had fabricated over the years—half-truths we’d wrapped around ourselves like cloaks, sewn with caution and stitched with necessity. We reminded them of the story we’d settled on: that we were foundlings, adopted by Gunther and Effa, with hints of distant noble blood that had never been properly documented. That our names—Rozemyne and Rozelyn—had been discovered on delicate handkerchiefs tucked into the basket where we’d supposedly been found.

Dad grunted. “I still don’t see why we can’t just tell them—”

“Because telling them would be suicide,” Myne snapped. “Do you want us kidnapped? Dissected?”

Mom cleared her throat. “Enough. Let’s stay focused.”

We would need new handkerchiefs, I thought, glancing toward the loom where Tuuli’s threads waited. We couldn’t risk showing the ones we embroidered when we were five. They were childish, and the crests were all wrong. We decided it would be best to commission a new pair of handkerchiefs from Corinna—each delicately embroidered with our proper names, Rozemyne and Rozelyn, rendered in fine golden thread and adorned with the official crest of House Linkberg—to ensure that every detail of our presentation, no matter how small, would align with the noble image we needed to portray.

No one else said it aloud, but we all understood: the meeting wasn’t just a conversation. It was a test.

[Myne’s POV]

The dress shop smelled faintly of rose oil and beeswax. Corinna met us at the counter, her brow already furrowed, sensing that this wasn’t a casual visit.

“We need two handkerchiefs,” I began, laying out our design sketches. “One to say Rozemyne. The other Rozelyn. In gold thread. And… we’d like the Linkberg crest.”

Corinna’s frown deepened.

“Benno approved it,” Lyn added before she could object.

“Still,” Corinna said, fingers tapping against the wood, “you’re asking for a noble house’s crest. That’s not something to take lightly.”

“We’re not taking it lightly,” I said. “That’s why we came to you.”

Corinna glanced between us, clearly trying to decide whether we were delusional or dangerous. But coin speaks, and I placed the full payment on the counter. Her fingers stilled.

“Three days?” she asked.

“Three days,” I confirmed.

We left the shop beneath the watchful eye of her apprentice, our pockets lighter, but our charade one stitch closer to believable.

[Tuuli’s POV]

I never liked the upper market—too many rich merchants in pretending not to sneer at us. But this time, it was us looking for elegant things, and I wasn’t sure how to feel about that. My sisters combed the secondhand shop with the precision of tailors, running their hands over seams, checking linings, muttering in that quiet way they do when they’ve already decided but want to look like they’re still thinking.

Myne picked a pale green dress with gold edging. Lyn went with blue, the color of the sky. They looked… expensive. Not noble, not quite, but close enough that if I hadn’t known better, I might have believed it.

They handed me a dress—dark green, soft, with tiny silver threads.

“For me?” I asked.

“Of course for you,” Myne said. “Do you think we’d leave you behind?”

I held it close, even as I tried to act like it didn’t matter.

Lutz handled the payment. The vendors didn’t blink.

[Lyn’s POV]

Later that night, Myne and I moved through the workroom in near silence, each task carefully divided between us. I filled the glass bottles with rinsham—slowly, so the glitter suspended in the liquid wouldn’t swirl too much. Myne bundled the paper samples—half volrin, half trombe—and tied them with velvet ribbon. Tuuli, quietly focused, worked the last few stitches of a crocheted flower pin made from high-thread-count yarn.

“Think she’ll like it?” she asked.

“Elvira?” I said thoughtfully, letting the name linger on my tongue. “She’ll act reserved, perhaps even offer only the faintest smile in response, but I have no doubt she’ll treasure it.”

We boxed it, then stacked the gifts in wooden boxes. One for Ferdinand, one for Karstedt, one for Elvira. Three nobles. Three layers of deception.

[Effa’s POV]

The whole apartment smelled like soap and hot water. We’d boiled three kettles full, all so we could scrub every bit of the week away. Gunther grumbled about the effort, but he still let me scrub behind his ears.

Tuuli’s hair shimmered after the rinsham. Myne and Lyn helped each other braid theirs, silent as ghosts.

They were always quiet when they were nervous.

Later, when the beds were laid out and the fire banked low, I braided Tuuli’s hair while she sat in my lap, just like when she was little. The twins sat at the table with Gunther, rehearsing greetings, reviewing noble titles.

Tomorrow would come too fast. But tonight, for just a little longer, we were still together in our quiet home above the workshop, and I held onto that as tightly as I could.

Chapter Text

[Myne’s POV]

The clatter of the carriage wheels against the cobbled stone of the noble quarter echoed strangely inside my chest, like the memory of a dream I could almost remember but not quite name, the kind that slips away just as the sun rises. I pressed my fingers together in my lap to steady myself, smoothing the fabric of my new pale green dress—elegant but modest, chosen to skirt the line between ambition and deference. Beside me, Lyn sat upright and quiet, her posture perfect, her expression neutral in that way she had mastered far better than I had. But I knew her. I knew that her eyes—though steady—were taking in every pillar, every statue, every passing garden wall and measuring it against some deep-rooted thread of familiarity we hadn’t admitted out loud.

We were supposed to be commoners. Merchants. Daughters of a dyer and a soldier. We weren’t supposed to know this place. But as the carriage pulled through the grand gates of the Linkberg estate and curved along the gravel path lined with snow-dusted hedges and evergreens cut into precise shapes, I found myself holding my breath—not because I was afraid, but because it felt like walking into a memory that didn’t belong to me and yet somehow had always been mine.

The estate was enormous, far larger than I’d pictured. Three stories of polished stone with arched windows that shimmered faintly with soft light, flanked by columns bearing the Linkberg crest carved in relief—an upright lion cradling a rose in its paw, stern and proud.

“Looks familiar, doesn’t it?” I whispered under my breath, barely turning my head.

Lyn did not look at me, but her lips curved slightly. “Too familiar.”

When the carriage stopped, I gathered the small parcel of gifts in my arms. We had rehearsed our movements. We had practiced our bows. We had even folded our new names—Rozemyne and Rozelyn—into our smiles like delicate embroidery stitched along the edge of a handkerchief. But even so, as the door opened and the cold air touched my face, my stomach flipped.

This was it.

This was the moment our lie became truth.

[Lyn’s POV]

The architecture had a rhythm to it—arched windows flanked by spiraled columns, doors carved with geometric lattice patterns, and above the entryway, a statue of a proud wolf. I memorized it instinctively, not because I needed to, but because something deep inside me insisted I already knew it.

When the carriage door creaked open and the footman stepped aside, Dad emerged first, dressed not in his usual soldier’s garb but in the rich, somber layers of merchant finery we had chosen together only days ago—his broad frame awkward in the stiff new coat, the fabric still holding its fold lines from the shop. He stepped down slowly, eyes narrowed with instinctive alertness as he took in the elegant stonework of the estate’s facade, then turned without a word and reached back inside the carriage. A moment later, he lifted Myne and me down one by one, his hands gentle but firm, as though balancing something far more fragile than two slightly nervous girls in winter cloaks. Mom followed soon after, gathering her skirts as she descended carefully, her shoes brushing the gravel with the softest crunch, one hand gripping the edge of the door for support, the other smoothing the lapel of her dark green shawl. She glanced around quickly, then rested her eyes on us—two girls standing with polished boots, tote bag in hand, and secrets nestled carefully behind polite smiles.

I could already hear the soft shuffle of slippers from the grand entrance. The doors had opened. The attendant was waiting, and behind him, a trio of noble figures stood in quiet formation—Ferdinand, Karstedt, and Elvira.

Their expressions were unreadable, polished into the kind of calm that came from years of noble bearing, but I didn’t miss the way Karstedt’s eyes landed on me and Myne and didn’t move. I didn’t miss how Elvira’s gaze flicked from our faces to our posture, then to our clothes, and then softened just a little. And I certainly didn’t miss the faintest lift of Ferdinand’s eyebrow—recognition without acknowledgment.

[Myne's POV]

As the carriage door creaked open and Dad climbed down in his rich merchant robes, the winter air swept across my face with a sharp clarity that made everything—the stone arches, the polished wood doors, the distant stained-glass windows—seem impossibly vivid. Dad reached in with his usual steadiness, and I let him help me down, the hem of my cloak trailing behind me as I landed softly on the gravel. Lyn followed, composed and quiet, her eyes already sweeping the estate like she was searching for something she couldn’t quite name.

Once Mom descended, carefully minding the folds of her new dress, we approached the steps together and knelt as one.

“We are Myne and Lyn, with our parents Gunther and Effa. May this meeting, ordained by the divine guidance of the gods, be blessed by the God of Life, Ewigeliebe, on this cold winter day.”

There was a moment of acknowledgment—a breath in the hush—before Elvira replied with a gracious nod, her voice warm but controlled: “May Ewigeliebe, the God of Life, bless this meeting.”

Then, without further ceremony, we were led through the arched entryway and into the estate itself. The interior was warmer than I expected, and as we passed beneath hanging tapestries bearing the Linkberg crest, I felt that strange, tingling nostalgia rise again—like a forgotten dream I couldn’t place.

The parlor was elegantly appointed, with velvet seats arranged around a low carved table and crystal windowpanes letting in a golden cast of winter light. Once we were seated—Mom and Dad on the settee, Lyn and I on a bench close by—attendants moved with practiced grace to set down steaming cups of pale golden tea and a small silver tier of honey biscuits dusted with almond powder.

We sipped quietly at first, offering small polite comments about the tea’s delicate aroma, the state of the roads, and how lucky we were to have clear skies. Lyn gave a charming answer about the blue gleam of the snow, and Elvira smiled at her, eyes lingering on the twins with something soft and unspoken.

When the tea had been refreshed, and the biscuits politely nibbled, Dad gave me a nod. It was time.

Mom reached into the polished tote bag and carefully withdrew the tray of gifts. She rose and stepped forward, lowering her head slightly.

“We are honored by this invitation,” she said, presenting the basket wrapped in brocade. “Please accept these gifts, offered with gratitude.”

Elvira leaned forward as an attendant brought the tray closer. Three glass bottles of rinsham caught the light like little stars—delicate swirls of shimmer in gold and silver suspended inside.

Elvira removed one stopper and held it up to her nose. Her eyes widened just slightly.

“This fragrance… it’s extraordinary,” she said. “I take it this is the secret behind your daughters’ luminous hair?”

Lyn and I nodded together. I tried to suppress my grin. It wouldn’t do to look too pleased with ourselves.

Karstedt raised his brows in mild amusement. “I’m told it’s called rinsham?”

I nodded my head. “Yes, Lord Karstedt. We created the formula ourselves and refined it through the Twin Roses Workshop.”

Elvira’s lips curved just faintly. “It will certainly find a place in noble houses, I suspect.”

Then Mom stepped forward again, this time presenting a smaller velvet box. “This,” she said, “was made by our eldest daughter Tuuli.”

Elvira opened it slowly. Nestled inside was the crocheted hairpin—ivory thread spun with a noble gleam, and a single bead sewn in the center like a frozen drop of morning dew.

“Oh…” she murmured, fingers hovering above it but not quite touching. “This could start a trend within the Florencia circle. I’ll wear it at the next tea party.”

Tuuli would be thrilled.

Meanwhile, Ferdinand, who had thus far remained silent in the face of polite conversation, reached forward and took the tied bundle of paper that rested beside the rinsham. His fingers moved with a habitual precision, undoing the velvet ribbon without haste, and lifting the top sheet with a motion that spoke of long familiarity with documents of far greater consequence. His eyes narrowed slightly as he examined the paper, lifting one corner to test the weight and pliability between his fingers.

“This is… unusually thin,” he remarked at last, his gaze still fixed on the page. “Is this a new type of parchment?”

Lyn inclined her head, her posture formal but relaxed. “It is a new product we recently began distributing through the Gilberta Company,” she explained smoothly. “These are made from plant fibers, not animal skins. We call it plant paper. What you’re holding now is our standard variety, but we’ve also included a sample of fire-resistant stock, which may be more suitable for long-term archival use.”

Ferdinand said nothing for a moment, flipping through several sheets with his thumb, pausing only to hold one up to the light. His expression betrayed little, but the slight furrow between his brows eased.

“A flexible material,” he murmured. “And more economical, I assume.”

Lyn offered a polite smile. “Considerably so.”

“It may indeed have applications in the temple,” Ferdinand said, carefully returning the bundle to the table, though not without one final glance at the fibers in the light.

Elvira’s fingers curled gently around the porcelain of her teacup, but she did not raise it to her lips. Instead, her eyes flicked briefly to one of her attendants standing by the door, and with the subtlest lift of two fingers—graceful, practiced, and unmistakable—she issued a silent command.

At once, the attendant bowed and moved to confer with the others. Trays were lifted, the teapots carried away, and within moments, a new blend was being prepared behind the silken partition, the faint aroma of honeyroot and winter spice beginning to drift into the room, signaling that the conversation was about to shift in tone.

[Ferdinand’s POV]

As the scent of the freshly steeped tea began to permeate the air—subtler, earthier than the last—I set my cup down untouched, letting the warmth of the porcelain seep into my fingertips a moment longer before speaking. The earlier niceties had served their purpose; now it was time for truth.

“I trust your journey here was not too taxing,” I said evenly, my eyes shifting from Myne to Lyn, then to their parents. Gunther sat stiffly, elbows tight to his sides, while Effa’s hands remained folded in her lap, her knuckles pale with pressure.

“No, milord,” Gunther replied, his voice low but steady. “We were honored to receive your summons.”

I nodded once, then placed the folded letter on the table—sealed again only for appearance. “You understand, I assume, that this meeting was not called for mere pleasantries.”

A subtle pause.

Gunther exhaled slowly and met my gaze. “I suspected as much.”

Elvira, seated to my left, leaned forward slightly, her teacup forgotten on the saucer. Karstedt remained silent, his posture taut, his gaze fixed not on the parents, but the twins.

I turned to the children then, both so composed, yet I could see it—the careful stillness of young minds already too used to holding their secrets tight.

“Myne. Lyn. There has been... a discovery.” I chose my words with precision, each syllable falling like snow. “We have reason to believe that you may not be the daughters of Gunther and Effa by birth.”

Effa gasped—soft, sharp, hands rising to her mouth.

Gunther did not speak right away. Instead, he closed his eyes, as if bracing himself for the weight of inevitability. Then, with a small nod, he spoke.

“I knew,” he said quietly. “I knew this day would come.”

He looked first to his wife, who still trembled beside him, then to his daughters.

“I’ll say it plainly now,” he continued, voice thick with memory. “It was the start of the summer, six years ago. I was patrolling the temple district when I heard something—soft cries, not far from the gate. When I followed the sound, I found two baskets. Side by side. And inside…”

He looked to the twins, and though he tried to steady his voice, I heard the break in it.

“…were you. Wrapped tight, tucked safe, sleeping soundly. Each with a handkerchief embroidered with a name.”

“What name?” Karstedt asked, though his voice was already tight.

“Rozemyne,” Gunther said, nodding toward Myne.

“And Rozelyn,” he added, turning to Lyn.

Effa reached into the small cloth bag by her side and withdrew the handkerchiefs—soft, worn, but intact. The threadwork bore the Linkberg crest, and the stitching… I could see Karstedt’s breath catch.

“Rozemary’s hand,” he whispered. “She stitched these herself.”

My fingers tensed.

“She told me she was sick,” Karstedt said, not looking at any of us now. “Said she couldn’t carry to term. Lied through her teeth.”

“I had just miscarried,” Effa said softly. “And when Gunther brought them to me… they looked like him. Same hair. Same cheeks. I thought the gods had returned what they took. So we raised them as our own.”

Karstedt rose slowly, moved around the table, and crouched before the girls. His voice dropped to something hoarse, pained.

“You are my daughters,” he said, eyes glistening. “And I am grateful to the gods—and to these people—for raising you so well.”

Neither child spoke. They simply bowed their heads in unison.

“Now,” I said gently, returning to the matter at hand, “if I may, I would like to confirm one final matter.”

I drew out the mana-measuring rod from my satchel—one calibrated for noble children. One to three feystones flickering meant laynoble. Four to six, mednoble. More than that shows archnoble level mana.

“Place your hands on this,” I instructed.

The girls complied, Myne first, then Lyn. A moment passed—then the rod flared. One, two… three, five… and then all nine feystones lit up in unison, a dazzling display of vibrant color. I heard someone draw in breath. Elvira, perhaps.

“Well,” I said quietly. “That settles that.”

Even Karstedt looked stunned. “They have more mana than I did at their age.”

I inclined my head. “They will need instruction and protection.”

Karstedt stood, clearly ready to act. “Then they must come home. Tonight. I want them under our roof.”

“Karstedt,” Elvira said, voice even. “You forget yourself. The Veronica faction still whispers, even without Trudeliede.”

“She’s right,” I said. “And until they are baptized, their position is too fragile. Let them stay in the temple. I will take them under my care as Erwachleren. It will be safer that way.”

Karstedt hesitated—visibly pained—but then nodded.

“So be it.”

[Myne’s POV]

The room had fallen quiet again, the kind of silence that didn’t press down but hovered, like the aftermath of a sudden snowfall—cold, delicate, and heavy with things not yet said.

I sat very still, my hands still tingling faintly from the mana I’d poured into the measuring rod. All nine feystones. I had seen them glow, felt the warmth hum through my palms like a heartbeat I didn’t recognize. Archduke-class mana, Ferdinand said. I wasn’t sure if that was a gift, or a verdict.

Beside me, Lyn’s expression was composed, but I knew her well enough to see the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers clenched slightly around the folds of her skirt. She was thinking. Planning. Worried.

“You will stay in the temple,” Ferdinand said, his voice low and firm but not unkind. “Under my protection, until your baptism. That is the only way to avoid drawing attention.”

The words were practical. Rational. And yet, I could feel my chest tighten.

“Wait,” I said, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. “You mean… we won’t go home?”

Ferdinand blinked once. “That would defeat the purpose of discretion. You will reside in the temple.”

I looked to Karstedt, who sat straighter now, as though preparing to make room in his heart for two strangers with familiar faces. His jaw was tight, his hand resting over his chest.

Lyn’s voice broke through before I could speak again.

“We understand that secrecy is important,” she said evenly. “But Gunther and Effa are our family. They raised us. If we leave them without a word—”

“They will not be erased from your lives,” Elvira interjected softly, her tone warmer than I had expected. “But we must be careful. Even one careless word could give Veronica’s remaining allies something to twist.”

I turned toward her, hopeful.

“So we can still see them?”

She gave the smallest nod. “Until your baptism, you may live with your family. Afterward, we’ll arrange visits—quiet, controlled, perhaps a few times each season. Enough to stay connected.”

I felt the tension ease in my shoulders, and from the way Lyn exhaled beside me, I knew she felt the same. It wasn’t perfect—but it was something.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

Effa reached out and clasped my hand under the table. Her hand was warm, callused, and trembling slightly. She had said nothing for some time now, but I felt the squeeze of her fingers and the message was clear.

Gunther, however, still looked as though he had swallowed a stone. He hadn’t spoken since the announcement of our mana level, and now, with Karstedt sitting only an arm’s length away, I could feel the sorrow radiating from him like heat.

That night, back in our apartment above the Gilberta Company, Dad didn’t say much during dinner. He barely touched his stew, and when Lyn reached for a second helping, he gave a sad little smile and handed her the ladle without a word.

Later, after the lamps had been dimmed and Effa had gone to bed, he stayed seated beside us, arms around both me and Lyn as we nestled on either side.

“You’ll always be my girls,” he said, voice low and hoarse. “Even if your names change. Even if your clothes change. You’ll always be mine.”

I didn’t answer aloud. I only leaned in closer, wrapping my fingers around the edge of his sleeve, anchoring myself to a warmth I wasn’t ready to leave behind.

Not yet.