Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ferdinand was already regretting waking up.

It was barely midmorning, and yet the central office of the Alexandrian castle resembled the aftermath of a failed siege—except louder, messier, and somehow glittering with powdered pigment. He didn’t ask why. He had learned.

A line of nobles stretched out the door, all of them wearing expressions that ranged from scandalized indignation to self-important despair. The waiting chamber had run out of chairs. Two attendants were trying to calm a minor lord who had nearly burst into tears upon learning that his assigned estate was, quote, “far too austere for a man of my cultural refinement.”

Ferdinand blinked slowly.

He did not sigh. He inhaled judgment through his nose , then returned his focus to the stack of crisis reports that had arrived before breakfast.

Mana fluctuation in the western annex.
Supply delay in the merchant district (again).
A guard fainted mid-sentence during patrol—diagnosed as "mana dissonance and mild heartbreak."
Someone dropped a cake near the east corridor. It had been meant for a diplomatic brunch. The diplomat stepped on it.

Rozemyne was across the room, handling four conversations simultaneously with her signature combination of clinical efficiency and unnerving cheer.

-“Of course, Lady Caldrina, we’ll make arrangements for the dance rehearsal,” she said sweetly, while gesturing silently at a nearby scholar to block Lady Caldrina from the guest list permanently.

She smiled at a priest delivering a report. The priest paled and fled.

Ferdinand flipped a page. His eye twitched. The pigment on the floor was apparently a result of a failed art project initiated by the child division of the new cultural outreach committee. Unsupervised.

The office door creaked open again.

Ferdinand didn’t look up.

Then he did.

Justus walked in. Or rather—
A “woman” in attendant attire with an aggressively neutral expression walked in, carrying a tray of tea.

Ferdinand narrowed his eyes.

-“…Justus.”

The “attendant” blinked innocently. 

-“My Lord?”

-“You’re wearing a wig.”

-“I’m in disguise.”

-“You are not assigned here today.”

-“I am... observing the effects of unmanaged nobility under administrative strain. For science.”

Ferdinand pinched the bridge of his nose.

Justus leaned in conspiratorially, glancing at the crowd of nobles like a child at a play.

-“Lord Veltras just declared spiritual offense over the placement of his banner. He believes it disrupts his mana flow.”

Ferdinand didn’t respond.

Justus added,

-“The banner is on the ceiling. ”

Rozemyne’s voice rang across the room. 

-“We’ll consider his proposal after consulting the “spirits” of architectural symmetry.”

Ferdinand, very slowly, set down his quill.

And reached for the tea.

It was cold.

Of course it was cold.

Rozemyne flashed him a smile from across the room. A terrifying smile. The kind that said “everything is fine, and if you say otherwise, I will break something valuable.”

A noble tripped on the powdered pigment.

A retainer screamed.

Ferdinand stood.

Justus clapped politely.

-“Alexandria,” he whispered, “has no chill.”

Ferdinand’s voice was gravel and dignity.

-“It never did.”

The door closed behind yet another disgruntled noble, leaving behind the faint scent of overpriced perfume and barely restrained contempt.

Ferdinand didn’t look up from his report.

-“I am beginning to suspect Alexandria attracts nobles with a talent for theatrical complaint.”

Rozemyne hummed in agreement, her quill dancing across a form with merciless efficiency. 

-“At least they haven't thrown anything. Yet.”

Justus, now comfortably out of disguise and sipping from a cup that definitely wasn’t his, handed over a slim folder labeled: “Concerns from the Upper Wing.”

Ferdinand accepted it with the air of a man preparing to be personally insulted. He wasn’t wrong.

“It’s unorthodox, to say the least. Twins?”

“Archducal heirs should be symbols of strength and tradition, not... curiosities.”

“Mana is a delicate inheritance. The Aub Alexandria and Lord Ferdinand both have tremendous reserves, yes—but can that be trusted to pass to two at once?”

“In some duchies, twins are believed to split divine favor.”

“Perhaps one should be formally recognized and the other... positioned elsewhere.”

Ferdinand closed the folder with an audible snap.

-“They are six,” he said, voice flat.

Rozemyne didn’t look up. 

-“And they both made a Highbeast last week. Without prompting.”

Justus added helpfully, 

-“One of them named theirs ‘Whirly.’”

-“Whirly bit a retainer,” Rozemyne muttered, finally looking up. “She deserved it.”

Ferdinand pressed two fingers to his temple. 

-“Why are nobles concerned with 'positioning' children they’ve barely seen?”

Rozemyne raised a brow. 

-“Because they don’t trust what they don’t control.”

He said nothing. She wasn’t wrong.

Across the office, faint voices leaked in from a hallway window—nobles gathering in a nearby salon.

-“I heard the twins read before they could speak properly.”

-“One of them asked a craftsman how printing presses work.”

-“They don’t make him bow. Did you see that?”

-“Strange children.”

-“They say the Aub encourages it.”

-“And Lord Ferdinand allows it.”

-“Perhaps they’re… not as proper as we hoped.”

There was a pause.

Then a softer voice added—

-“Still. They’re impressive. In a way.”

-“I saw one offer a commoner child a flower. Smiling.”

-“That’s not noble behavior.”

-“No,” the first voice replied. “It’s better.”

Ferdinand exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable.

Rozemyne tapped her fingers on the desk. 

-“They’ll try to twist anything unfamiliar into weakness.”

-“They always have,” he agreed. “But our twins are neither weak nor unfamiliar. Not to us.”

Justus said nothing. He only handed them both fresh tea and a small card with the words:

CURRENT COUNT OF RELOCATION PROPOSALS: 4
CURRENT COUNT OF SECRET ADMIRERS: 7
CURRENT COUNT OF RETAINERS PANICKING: All of them

Rozemyne laughed softly.

Ferdinand didn’t.

But the edge of his mouth curved.

Far from the chaos of the central office, in a quieter (but still heavily trafficked) wing of the castle, two small figures crouched behind an opulent curtain. The fabric was embroidered with golden threads and clearly not meant to be stepped on, let alone sat under. But neither child seemed concerned.

Kaoru adjusted the edge to create a better sound tunnel. Shiori held a diptych.

-“…They’re saying we’re weak,” someone muttered just outside, voices echoing down the corridor. “Too young. Too lenient.”

-“And those twins,” came another whisper, sharp with disdain. “They’ll never live up to the archducal legacy. They’re an embarrassment."

The footsteps moved on.

Silence returned.

Shiori frowned slightly. 

-“Mama says there’s no problem if we have less mana.”

Kaoru’s eyes narrowed, focused on nothing and everything at once. 

-“Yes. But that doesn’t mean they’re allowed to insult our parents and get away with it.”

Shiori considered that. 

-“You mean… our mana is like armor?”

-“No,” Kaoru said, straightening. “It’s like evidence. ”

Shiori scribbled something on the diptych.

They both fell quiet for a moment, listening again.

Then Kaoru added, softer. 

-“I’ve been running simulations.”

Shiori turned sharply. 

-“You promised you’d wait until after Midwinter.”

-“I have waited. But it’s time.” Her voice was solemn. “We can’t ask for protection if we’re not proving we’re worth defending.”

-“That’s dramatic,” Shiori said.

Kaoru didn’t blink. 

-“We’re nobles. It’s expected.”

Shiori sighed, then nodded once. 

-“Fine. But we plan it properly. Charts. Historical precedent. Health records. No mana loops. Just like Father.”

Kaoru smiled.

The curtain shifted slightly as they leaned closer to hear another round of gossip, heads pressed together, the diptych full of annotations.

They were six.

They were planning a mana compression regimen.

And Alexandria had no idea what was coming.

The meeting room was small by Alexandria’s standards—just three bookcases, a tea set, and enough mana barriers to keep nosy retainers far away. It was their designated "family discussion space," which meant no attendants, no scholars, and no politics.

Just... family.

Ferdinand sat at one end of the table, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Rozemyne was beside him, tapping a stylus against her diptych, gaze flicking between her children, who had seated themselves with unnerving formality.

Kaoru had a scroll. Shiori had a chart.

Danger.

Rozemyne glanced at Ferdinand.

He sighed. 

-“Proceed.”

Kaoru unrolled the scroll with a crisp flick. 

-“We request permission to begin mana compression training.”

-“No,” Ferdinand said immediately.

-“We expected resistance,” Shiori replied, placing the chart in front of them. “So we’ve prepared three counterarguments and a draft protocol.”

Rozemyne blinked.

Ferdinand stared. 

-“You’re six.”

-“Almost seven,” Kaoru corrected. “Chronologically.”

-“That is not—Rozemyne, please.”

Rozemyne set down her stylus. 

-“Well... I did start young.”

-“You also nearly died,” Ferdinand snapped.

Shiori nodded solemnly. 

-“That’s why we want Father to monitor us.”

Kaoru added, 

-“We’ve already studied several historical cases of early compression—yours included. We’ve identified risk patterns and mitigation strategies.”

Rozemyne leaned forward, scanning the chart. Her brow lifted. 

-“You annotated my old mana cycle diagrams.”

-“With color-coding,” Shiori said proudly.

Rozemyne looked impressed. Ferdinand looked betrayed.

-“You used my research,” he muttered.

Kaoru smiled. 

-“You’re the best, Father.”

Shiori nodded. 

-“No one else has survived that many compression anomalies and written papers about them.”

Rozemyne covered a laugh with her sleeve.

Ferdinand rubbed his temples. 

-“This will cause unnecessary strain. You’re still growing.”

-“We’ll do it slowly,” Kaoru said.

-“With constant supervision,” Shiori echoed.

-“And regular health checks,” Kaoru added.

Ferdinand looked at Rozemyne. She gave him a small, helpless shrug.

-“They’re your children.”

He exhaled. Closed his eyes.

-“Fine. On three conditions,” he said at last. “Short sessions only. I approve the schedule. And no secrecy. I want weekly reports, verbal and written.”

Both twins nodded immediately.

Ferdinand didn’t smile.

But the corner of his mouth softened.

Rozemyne reached for the tea, grinning now. 

-“We should celebrate this with cake.”

Shiori blinked. 

-“Didn’t someone step on it this morning?”

Rozemyne paused. 

-“Ah. Right.”

Kaoru looked up from his notes. 

-“Then we’ll compress mana instead.”

Ferdinand groaned.

Ferdinand was alone in his office again.

Or he had been, until the door opened without knocking and Hartmut glided in with the kind of reverent purpose that always foretold disaster.

-“My lord,” he said, bowing low, “I bring inspiration.”

Ferdinand didn’t look up. 

-“Return it.”

-“It’s about the twins.”

Ferdinand did look up.

Hartmut’s eyes were sparkling.

-“I’ve begun composing a hymn to their resilience,” he announced, as though bestowing divine favor. “Tentative title: Dual Stars of Alexandria: The Siblings Who Will Save the World. ”

Ferdinand stared.

Hartmut smiled beatifically.

Then he handed over a stack of paper sheets.

Ferdinand set it alight with a flick of his schtappe .

Hartmut blinked, then pulled out a second copy.

Ferdinand incinerated that too.

Hartmut opened his mouth.

Ferdinand spoke first. 

-“Leave.”

-“But—”

-“ Now. ”

Hartmut bowed. With regret. And dramatic flair. And one more backup copy, which Ferdinand burned before the door even closed.

He sighed.

A report slid down his desk from the pile.

Subject: Lord Rachtwald threatens to remove his entire house from Alexandria jurisdiction due to “emotional neglect and architectural inconsistency.”

Ferdinand pinched the bridge of his nose.

He grabbed the next report.

Subject: Merchant guilds escalating tension over seat arrangement at last festival. One accused another of “shady embroidery practices.”

He blinked.

Another page.

Subject: Section C-7 of the eastern wing is... sinking. Slightly. No known cause. Attendants and scholars currently praying at it.

Ferdinand pressed both palms against his desk and muttered,

-“Alexandria has no chill.”

Kaoru, who had wandered in with a book under one arm, didn’t look up.

-“That’s an understatement, Father,” she said, flipping a page.

Ferdinand glanced at her. Then—across the room—at Rozemyne, who had just walked in with Shiori trailing behind her.

Rozemyne met his gaze.

Held it.

And for the first time all day, Rozemyne laughed.

Not a sigh. Not a smirk. Not that tight smile of polite exhaustion.

A real laugh.

Light and sudden, like breaking glass in the sun.

Ferdinand blinked.

He let the moment happen.

And for just a second, the chaos didn’t feel quite so heavy.

Chapter Text

Alexandria had many strengths.
Logistics was not currently one of them.

The castle halls, once pristine, echoed with the sounds of overlapping orders, misplaced crates, confused retainers, and a mysterious bell someone had definitely not authorized.

A report was missing. A tax shipment was misrouted.
Someone had replaced a fourth-floor map with a very realistic oil painting.
Nobody could find the courier. Or the door.

In the central office, Ferdinand was asleep.
Not in a bed. Not on a couch.
Standing.

Pen still in hand.
Eyes closed.
Back perfectly straight.

Rozemyne, without even glancing up from her paperwork, reached sideways to catch Kaoru mid-leap as she attempted to pounce onto a rolling cart stacked with ledgers.

-“Not that one,” she said calmly, flipping a page. “Those are organized by season.”

Kaoru blinked. 

-“But it’s Autumn."

-“That’s not how time works today,” she replied, and let her go.

Across the room, Shiori was gently pulling the bell rope again.

-“Stop that,” Rozemyne added without looking.

-“But it makes the nobles run,” Shiori whispered, delighted.

Rozemyne sighed, signed another document, and turned just in time to prevent a feather pen from flying into an ink pot. Again.

The room was surviving. Barely.

And then Justus walked in.

He had entered with all the confidence of a man used to seeing some level of madness.

He froze.

Before him, in the middle of the hall, stood a precariously tall tower of books , stacked with architectural ambition and absolutely no respect for gravity.

At the top: Kaoru , balancing with a feather in her mouth like a war hero reenacting something.

Below: Shiori , acting as structural support and possibly bait.

The entire tower swayed slightly when Justus inhaled.

He exhaled slowly.

-“Why,” he said, “are my reports at the top of a death trap made of first editions?”

Shiori beamed. 

-“We needed height.”

Kaoru struck a pose. 

-“And inspiration.”

Rozemyne looked up from her desk for the first time in ten minutes.

-“They said they were building a commemorative monument to efficiency,” she offered.

-“Based on your logs,” added Kaoru proudly.

Justus stared at them.

Then at the tower.

Then at Ferdinand.

Still asleep. Still standing.

-“...No,” he said flatly, “I refuse to be the only adult here.”

And with that, Justus removed his cloak, rolled up his sleeves, and dove into the madness.

Rozemyne smiled faintly.

Kaoru saluted from the top of the tower.

Shiori rang the bell again.

Elsewhere in the castle—three turns left from the main library and one door they definitely weren’t supposed to open—Kaoru and Shiori sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by scrolls.
Ancient. Chaotic. Slightly singed.

Kaoru’s eyes gleamed.

Shiori’s fingers were already ink-stained.

The discovery had begun with an innocent quest: finding records of past noble negotiations for their “sociopolitical development log,” father’s homework for them.
What they’d found instead was… something better.

Justus’s old field notes.

Organized only in the loosest, most spiritual sense of the word. Scribbled on the backs of official documents. Annotated with questionable symbols. Folded in ways that broke paper physics.

Shiori unrolled one labeled:
Day 12 — "Target still alive. Emotionally compromised. Do not interfere (unless she has a fever again)."

He blinked. 

-“This is… oddly specific.”

Kaoru unsealed another.
Day 47 — "Infiltration of baptism ceremony successful. Children grew suspicious. Denied everything."

She grinned. 

-“This is brilliant.”

Shiori nodded slowly. 

-“This is art. ”

Another scroll.
Day 83 — "Spiritual status: fluctuating. Solution: strategic tea + silence. Result: limited success."
A sketch of Ferdinand wrapped in three blankets was taped to the side.

Kaoru pressed a hand to her chest. 

-“We’ve been living inefficiently.”

Shiori whispered, 

-“We’ve been children. ”

They exchanged a look.

Kaoru stood dramatically. 

-“We must adapt.”

Shiori rose too, mimicking a Justus eyebrow arch.

Together, in perfect unison:

-“ We’ll protect Father. Our way. ”

Kaoru tucked the scrolls under her arm like blueprints for revolution.
Shiori sealed their pact by copying Justus’s signature sideways, in red ink.

And so, with nothing but delusion, devotion, and a dozen surveillance techniques,
the twins began their transformation.

From chaos gremlins to…
strategic chaos gremlins.

The dining room had been converted into a presentation chamber.
The lights were dimmed. The furniture rearranged.
A projection tool (ver. 2) glowed faintly at the center of the table, flanked by two slices of apology cake and a cup of tea that steamed in perfect timing.

Ferdinand narrowed his eyes. 

-“Why do I smell cinnamon manipulation?”

Rozemyne sipped her tea. 

-“Because you’re being handled, dear.”

Then the twins entered.

Kaoru in front, scroll in hand.

Shiori at her side, holding a pointer stick and a diptych with decorative borders. 

-“Welcome,” Kaoru said solemnly. “To the Operational Briefing for Archducal Family Stability.”

Shiori added, 

-“Subtitle: Preventing Collapse Through Strategic Delegation.”

Ferdinand blinked. Rozemyne smiled.

The projection lit up.

Slide 1: Current Threat Level — Critical
A stick figure version of Ferdinand was surrounded by flames, paperwork, and what looked like a sentient ledger.

Slide 2: Stress Graph (Father)
An aggressive upward slope marked “Week of the Sinking East Wing,” ending with a tiny sketch of Ferdinand asleep with his eyes open.

Slide 3: Agent Profile: Justus
“Most resilient. Most adaptable. Still has full hair.”

Ferdinand squinted. 

-“How did you—?”

Slide 4: Blood Pressure Data

Rozemyne leaned forward. 

-“Is that real?”

Ferdinand’s eyes widened. 

-“That’s classified. How did you get my medical notes?”

Kaoru, cheerfully: 

-“They were in the same folder as the Justus logs.”

Shiori, helpfully: 

-“Not protected. Poor archival security.”

Ferdinand stood. 

-“That’s—That’s—!”

Rozemyne took another sip of tea, absolutely delighted.

The next slide appeared:

Slide 5: Projected Outcomes With and Without Justus as Tactical Support
Two pie charts. One was labeled “With Justus” and had colors like “controlled chaos,” “tea time,” and “emotional breathing room.”
The other: “Without Justus” was entirely black, labeled “DOOM (Projected).”

Rozemyne clapped.

Ferdinand sat back down, eyes twitching.

-“I am not emotionally compromised,” he said to no one in particular.

Kaoru gently pushed forward a scroll. 

-“Here’s the contract. We’ve left space for your initials.”

Shiori added, 

-“And Justus’s signature. We accounted for his dramatic entrance delay.”

As if summoned by the laws of irony, the doors opened.
Justus strode in , adjusting his cuffs and looking mildly suspicious.

-“You’re late,” said Kaoru.

-“We expected this,” added Shiori.

Rozemyne was now giggling outright.

Justus stared at the projection. Then at the contract.

Then at Ferdinand.

-“...What did I miss?”

Ferdinand gestured weakly at the cake.

-“They’ve weaponized spreadsheets.”

Justus had infiltrated temples.
He had spied on nobles.
He had, once, disguised himself as a high priest of another duchy for three weeks just to retrieve gossip.

He was, by all accounts, very good at his job.

And yet.

-“Lady Kaorindis,” he said carefully, adjusting his gloves, “why are there smoke traps in the hallway?”

The girl blinked. 

-“To test civilian reaction time.”

Siorand added, 

-“Data is logged. Section 3A failed miserably.”

Justus took a slow, bracing breath. 

-“That’s not standard protocol.”

Kaorindis tilted her head. 

-“Day 102,” she quoted, perfectly calm. “‘The child should not have access to explosive potions. The child has access to explosive potions.’”

Justus froze.

Siorand crossed his arms. 

-“We study patterns.”

-“And adapt,” Kaorindis said with a smile.

They both stepped to the side in perfect sync to avoid a passing cart of scrolls. Neither flinched when a siren tool somewhere in the castle activated.

Justus narrowed his eyes.

He wasn’t sure when the chaos had stopped feeling chaotic.

-“Did you really read all of my reports?” he asked, suspicious.

-“Cross-referenced and annotated,” Siorand said proudly.

-“You misspelled ‘infiltration’ twelve times,” added Kaorindis.

Justus blinked. 

-“No, I didn’t.”

They showed him the proof.

He did.

He sat down.

The twins watched him expectantly, notebooks in hand.

-“Do you expect me to supervise you now?” he asked.

-“We already have shifts prepared,” said Kaorindis.

-“And a list of our preferred disguises,” added Siorand.

Justus rubbed his temples.

They were dangerous.

They were precocious.

They were him. They were Ferdinand . Split in two and dressed in nicer clothes.

-“…We’re going to need code names,” he muttered.

The twins grinned.

That night, long after the castle had gone quiet (or at least quieter), Justus sat in his room with a glass of vize and a headache that defied documentation.

He reached for a paper sheet.

Paused.

Then, with a sigh, began to write.

Internal Log.
Day 1 with twin subjects.
Gods help me.
...Though I admit—
they’re efficient.

Chapter Text

Ferdinand was halfway through decoding a flawed political report when the door slammed open with all the subtlety of a mana explosion.

Rozemyne peeked in, breathless. 

-“Urgent summons. Upper Council. Now.”

He didn’t move. 

-“We’re scheduled for silence until third bell.”

-“They overruled the bell.”

Ferdinand muttered something unholy and stood, brushing invisible dust from his sleeves. 

-“Where are the children?”

Rozemyne blinked. 

-“Probably building traps again.”

-“Unacceptable.” He turned to the nearest retainer. “Who’s available?”

The retainer paled. 

-“Everyone’s occupied. Except…”

A new voice chimed in like a hymn to chaos.

- “I would be honored,” Hartmut said, materializing from nowhere.

Ferdinand flinched. 

-“You.”

-“Yes. As a humble servant of Lady Rozemyne and her divine progeny, I consider this a sacred opportunity.”

Ferdinand stared at him.

Then Clarissa emerged from behind a bookshelf. Literally.

- “I shall assist,” she declared. “As a Lady Rozemyne’s servant and a devoted wife, I am well-equipped to ensure environmental harmony.”

She smiled. Three throwing knives shifted under her cloak.

Rozemyne whispered, 

-“Do we have a better option?”

They didn’t.

Ferdinand closed his eyes. Regretted every life choice that led to this moment. Opened them again.

-“Ten minutes,” he said grimly. “No more.”

Hartmut placed a reverent hand over his chest. 

-“We shall be the light that guides them.”

Ferdinand ignored that.

Clarissa saluted. A dagger fell out of her sleeve. She caught it without blinking.

Rozemyne tugged his sleeve. 

-“If we die in this meeting, avenge me.”

-“Only if we make it back in time,” he muttered.

They left.

The door clicked shut behind them.

From inside, a voice whispered—

-“Would you like to learn about divine scriptures?"

Another voice added cheerfully—

-“Or knight training?”

Outside, Ferdinand stopped in the hallway.

-“…We’re doomed.”

The room had been darkened.

Not dimmed — darkened.

Candles had been lit in a very specific formation. Incense drifted from somewhere. A crystal orb glowed faintly on the table, surrounded by what looked suspiciously like offerings.

Kaorindis and Siorand sat side by side on a cushion labeled “Sacred Mat (temporary).”

Across from them, Hartmut beamed.

-“In this passage,” he intoned, voice low and reverent, “our Saint, blessed be her name, bestowed divine clarity upon the youth. Even as infants , they absorbed her teachings like sunflowers to the light.”

He raised a scroll dramatically.

A vivid illustration revealed Rozemyne —serene, glowing, haloed— holding two shining bundles of light.

Each bundle had disturbingly familiar curls.

Kaorindis squinted. 

-“This is not a canonical depiction.”

Siorand frowned. 

-“This style isn’t even from the correct region.”

Hartmut looked delighted. 

-“Sharp eyes! Truly, you are her descendants.”

He rolled out the next illustration.

Rozemyne standing on a staircase made of books, the twins hovering like cherubs behind her, trailing sparkles.

-“Here, we see her divine ascent, flanked by the Twin Beacons of Alexandria.”

Kaorindis leaned in.

Siorand whispered, 

-“That staircase didn’t exist until last year.”

Kaorindis whispered back, 

-“He’s retrofitting the narrative.”

Siorand nodded solemnly. 

-“Cultural domination tactic. Embed emotional authority into foundational mythology.”

-“We should file a counter-report.” Kaorindis whispered.

-“With diagrams.” Siorand added.

Hartmut continued enthusiastically:

-“Lady Rozemyne's grace enveloped all who followed her path, and those who resisted were gently redirected —sometimes through structural collapse, but always with purpose.”

The twins stared.

Kaorindis raised a hand. 

-“Are you aware this qualifies as mythological distortion under archival law?”

Siorand added, 

-“Also, lying.”

Hartmut tilted his head. 

-“Are you not… feeling inspired?”

The twins spoke together, absolutely flat:

-“We are feeling observed.”

Hartmut blinked.

Clarissa, from the corner where she had been cleaning a dagger, nodded. 

-“They’re taking it well.”

They were not.

Somewhere between the third candle ritual and the revised sermon on divine twinhood, Clarissa decided it was time for physical exercise.

She clapped her hands, eyes blazing.

-“Combat training builds character!”

Kaorindis and Siorand looked at each other. Slowly. Silently.

Clarissa unrolled a mat. Then pulled out what appeared to be decorative pillows —except some were oddly weighted. One shimmered faintly. Another smelled like pepper oil and determination.

-“Begin!” she shouted, and hurled the first one.

Kaorindis dodged. It hit the floor with a soft pop —and released a burst of glitter and smoke.

Siorand blinked. 

-“That… exploded.”

Kaorindis whispered, 

-“It was minor. Contained mana pulse. Possibly a dust capsule.”

Clarissa grinned. 

-“Excellent evasive maneuver, Milady!”

The next pillow flew faster.

Siorand barely ducked. It bounced off a chair and ricocheted toward a shrine alcove, knocking over a candle. Clarissa caught it mid-air, replaced the candle, and resumed the drill without pause.

-“She’s had practice.”

-“We’re being raised for a religious war.”

Another pillow came.

They ran.

Under the table, breath steady and notebooks open, the twins began writing.

Draft Report: Incident 3A

• Duration: 22 minutes
  
  
• Casualties: one broken teacup, two unlit candles, zero injuries (miraculously)
  
  
• Emotional impact: unresolved

Kaorindis jotted: “Subject Clarissa displays high motor precision. Probable elite training. Possible unsanctioned experiments.”

Siorand added: “Recommend containment protocol. And therapy. For us.”

Above them, Clarissa cheered. 

-“You’re learning to survive!”

The twins remained very still.

Preparing their next plan.

Ferdinand returned early.
Not out of trust.

Out of instinct. And dread.

The hallway was too quiet.
Which was suspicious.
Alexandria was never quiet. Not around them.

He rounded the corner and froze.

Clarissa was in the middle of a full-body combat roll, two daggers strapped (decoratively?) to her arms, chanting something about “pre-verbal defense reflexes” while leaping over small stacks of books.

-“Block! Duck! Pivot! Divine grace is fluid motion!”

He blinked.

Then entered the chamber.

Inside, Hartmut stood before an improvised altar, a radiant orb in each hand, absolutely glowing.
Quite literally.

-“This orb,” Hartmut was saying reverently, “responded only to the touch of Her radiance. It shines now because her children are near.”

Candles flickered.
An artifact hummed in spiritual overexertion.

Ferdinand’s eye twitched.

-“WHAT. ARE. YOU. DOING.”

Hartmut turned with a serene smile. 

-“Spiritual education.”

Clarissa popped her head in, slightly out of breath. 

-“Reflex coordination!”

A small rustle came from behind the furniture.

Ferdinand’s gaze snapped to the armchair.
He crouched. Lifted the edge.

Two pairs of wide eyes stared back.

-“Requesting immediate extraction,” whispered Kaorindis.

-“Preferably with compensation,” added Siorand.

Ferdinand sighed. Deep. Long. Existential.

He stood. Pointed at Hartmut. 

-“Return every single object to the temple. Now. ”

Then to Clarissa. 

-“Cease your training regimen before someone loses a limb. Preferably not mine.”

Hartmut bowed. 

-“Of course. We are but humble—”

-“Not another word.”

Clarissa saluted upside down.

Ferdinand crouched again and extended a hand.

The twins didn’t move.

-“ I brought actual cake. ”

They emerged instantly.

The aftermath was swift. And merciless.

Ferdinand issued a formal decree: No future unsupervised interactions between the twins and anyone who had once tried to canonize Rozemyne.

Rozemyne, smiling sweetly through gritted teeth, handed Clarissa and Hartmut a scroll thicker than a noble’s pride.

-“Please complete this in quintuple copy,” she said.

Hartmut paled.

Clarissa scanned the contents. 

-“...These are forms for census reconciliation. And outdated guild tax calculations.”

Rozemyne nodded. 

-“It should keep you busy.”

Hartmut tried to speak. Rozemyne raised a finger.

-“One more thing. You are forbidden from seeing me. For five months.”

They both gasped.

Then bowed.

-“A divine test,” Hartmut whispered, tears streaming down his face.

- “We shall persevere,” Clarissa added, trembling.

Ferdinand watched the display in stunned silence. Then left before his brain collapsed.

Back in their study corner, Kaorindis and Siorand placed a crisp, labeled document on Ferdinand’s desk.

“Internal Threat Assessment: Case File — Hartmut & Clarissa.”

It included diagrams. Risk indexes. A trauma scale.
And three colored tabs labeled: Cult Energy , Weapon Density , and Emotional Volatility.

Kaorindis closed her folder with a sigh. 

-“I prefer Justus’s calculated explosions.”

Siorand nodded. 

-“At least he doesn’t try to make us apostles or saints.”

They turned quietly, walked down the hall—

—and threw their arms around Justus, who had just turned the corner with tea.

He froze.

Tea tray rattling.

-“...What did I miss?” he said, eyes wide.

The twins didn’t answer.

They just held on.

Justus, slowly: 

-“I’m filing for hazard pay.”

Chapter Text

The meeting was going long. Again.

Justus had been left in charge with minimal context— “They’ve already eaten, they’re not allowed near volatile tools, and no experiments involving live insects.” A pause. “Please.”

Now he sat on the floor of the east library wing, a folded tactical map between them, intended as a mild distraction. A harmless story. Just enough drama to keep them still.

-“It was a basic infiltration mission,” he began, adjusting the edge of the parchment. “Low risk. Just a misfiled patent and a noble who thought he could replicate a mana filtration chamber.”

He tapped the edge of the map. “I entered through this corridor. Poison darts are everywhere. No ambient mana, which should’ve been a clue, but—well, I was young and impatient. Almost ended up in a pit lined with suppressing enchantments.”

A pause.

The children didn’t blink.

Two notebooks appeared between them, silent and smooth, like weapons being unsheathed.

-“…You’re taking notes?”

Siorand didn’t look up. 

-“You said the poison was paralytic?”

-“Refined from whisperroot,” Justus admitted. “Takes effect in under twelve seconds. Leaves a rash.”

Kaorindis pointed at a drawn arc on the paper sheet. 

-“And this bypass route… did you chart that yourself?”

-“I—yes. I mean, later. After the escape. Using encoded notation.”

He glanced down. Both of them were already copying the symbols, interpreting spacing, and repeating structure. Kaorindis adjusted her pencil grip the same way Ferdinand did when focused. Siorand tilted his head and underlined a detail with mechanical precision, eyes narrowed in calculation.

Something in Justus’s chest shifted.

It wasn’t nostalgia.

It was closer to alarm.

Because he had seen that exact expression—too calm, too silent—on Lord Ferdinand’s face, years ago, while reading an assassination breakdown report as if it were a weather forecast.

He cleared his throat. 

-“This isn’t a formal lesson.”

They both nodded. Respectful. Disregarding.

-“Just… anecdotal material,” said one.

-“For analysis,” added the other.

The map disappeared back into its protective scroll. Justus dusted his hands, trying to convince himself he was still in control.

Behind him, quills scratched quietly.

The lesson, it seemed, was still in session.

The notebooks had changed.

What had begun as wide-eyed scribbles and observation logs had, over the seasons, evolved into operational documents —still clumsily written in brightly colored ink, yes, but structured with terrifying precision.

Kaorindis flipped through hers, fingers lightly smudged with pastel red and archive blue.

One page had a detailed diagram labeled “Emotional Leverage Points in Noble Interactions” , complete with arrows, probability estimates, and two stick figures arguing over tea.

Next to it: a tiny doodle of Justus , grinning with a sparkling crown , holding a scroll labeled “Secrets.”

Another page showed Ferdinand drawn with a calm, confused face and a floating question mark overhead. Beneath him, the title read:

“Father’s Keywords of Concern (Updated Quarterly)”

The list included:

• “Prototype”
  
  
• “Accelerant”
  
  
• “Untraceable”
  
  
• “Again?!”
  
  

Siorand had his own system.

His notebook opened to tabs , lovingly marked with wax seals Rozemyne had helped them make.

The sections were:

• Strategy
  
  
• Persuasion
  
  
• Vocabulary for Noble Adults
  
  
• Conflict Avoidance (subdivided by cake availability)
  
  

In bold calligraphy:

“How to Win Without Arguing”

Followed by:

• Step 1: Use facts.
  
  
• Step 2: Use tone.
  
  
• Step 3: Use cake.
  
  

Further down:

“Diversion Tactics with Pastry (Revised)”

• Strawberry = Distraction
  
  
• Hazelnut = Delay
  
  
• Apple = Emotional reset
  
  

Kaorindis flipped to their glossary.

“Justus-isms (Do Not Quote in Front of Mama)”

• “Never underestimate an idiot with authority.”
  
  
• “Smiling while planning is legal. Barely.”
  
  
• “Emotions are weapons if you know how to aim them.”
  
  

They nodded to themselves.

A small insert charted progression in adult responses over time. Apparently, Justus raised an eyebrow more slowly now. Father paused for longer before responding. Mama’s smiles had increased 17% when presented with strategic snack offerings.

The twins took this as proof that their training was working.

Kaorindis turned to a clean page.

Siorand passed her the orange ink.

They titled the section together:

“Subtle Manipulation Techniques for High-Level Bureaucrats.”

And beneath it, in neat lettering:

“Confidential. Class: Archducal Heir Use Only.”

They smiled.

Outside, the seasons turned again.

It started with hallway coincidences.

Too many of them.

Ferdinand adjusted his schedule to avoid unnecessary traffic—something he prided himself on—but still, somehow, one of the twins would always appear. Casually. Strategically. At precisely the moment, he needed to choose between a confrontation and a headache.

Once, as he prepared to reprimand a visiting noble for blatant procedural sabotage, Kaorindis had stepped in with an updated report already annotated, highlighting a clause that invalidated the noble’s entire argument.

Another time, Siorand had silently handed him a graph titled “Expected Emotional Outcomes of Direct Confrontation vs. Tactical Delay.” It was color-coded. With cake symbols.

Ferdinand had stared at it for a full minute before realizing it was… actually useful.

By the third occurrence, he stopped pretending it was a coincidence.

He began to watch them back.

Kaorindis met his gaze with the unnerving calm of someone who had already written the conclusion of the conversation.

Siorand just smiled.

Ferdinand went to Justus.

He didn’t knock.

Justus jumped anyway.

Ferdinand crossed his arms. 

-“What are you teaching them?”

Justus blinked. 

-“Nothing. I mean— I talk. They listen. I didn’t know they were taking notes!”

Ferdinand narrowed his eyes. 

-“They quoted one of your reports verbatim. From three years ago.”

Justus turned pale. 

-“I burn those reports.”

-“Apparently not well enough.”

Silence.

Then Justus muttered, 

-“They might be planning… something.”

Ferdinand raised an eyebrow.

-“Not something dangerous,” Justus clarified quickly. “A system. Possibly seven of them.”

Ferdinand sat down.

This was worse than he thought.

It was supposed to be a simple lesson.

Ferdinand had cleared his afternoon, selected the appropriate paper sheets, and even brought visual aids. Today’s topic: basic magic circle structure and mana flow control.

He began with authority. Precision. Years of expertise behind each word.

Three minutes in, Kaorindis raised her hand.

-“We’ve reviewed that already,” she said politely.

Ferdinand blinked.

Siorand nodded. 

-“Twice. Once through Justus, once through Mama’s archive notes.”

-“Rozemyne’s—? Those aren’t meant for—” he stopped. “Regardless, we will begin at the start.”

The twins exchanged a glance.

Then, with synchronized calm, they unrolled a diagram onto the table.

It was beautifully illustrated in pastel inks, annotated in color-coded segments, with flowing mana lines mapped like rivers across a field.

“Enchantment Theory for Children Under Five,” the title read.

Ferdinand stared. 

-“This is… functional?”

-“We tested it with wooden figures,” said Siorand.

Kaorindis added, 

-“There was a mild fire. But no lasting damage.”

-“We added a feedback loop using edible ink,” Siorand continued, pointing. 

Ferdinand blinked again. 

-“Edible…?”

Kaorindis nodded. 

-“It’s a new formulation. We developed it last season. No mana distortion, mild sweetness, and color stability over three days.”

There was a long silence.

Then, very quietly, Ferdinand sighed—head aching, pride rising, utterly unwilling to admit either one.

Somewhere behind him, Justus barely muffled a laugh.

Rozemyne entered quietly, half-distracted, then paused by the bookshelf.

A page was pinned there.

In glitter pen.

“ How to Control a Meeting Without Raising Your Voice: Father Method. ”

She smiled, folded the page, and slipped it into her sleeve.

Ferdinand turned, grasping at formality like a lifeline. 

-“We will resume with structured education. I’ll draft a timetable.”

The twins were already prepared.

Kaorindis handed over a neatly bound weekly schedule—color-coded, signed by Justus, and marked with a large stamp that read:

“Approved by Archduchess.”

Rozemyne blinked. 

-“Oh, yes. That was in my inbox. Looked cute. I approved it.”

Ferdinand opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Then sat down.

Hard.

Justus patted his shoulder. 

-“At least they’re efficient.”

Ferdinand muttered something about divine punishment and stared at the table in silence.

Still—

Somewhere beneath the pain and panic, he felt… proud.
Worried. But proud.

The twins smiled.

Lesson complete.

Chapter Text

The room smelled like peaches and betrayal.

It was meant to be a peaceful afternoon — Rozemyne’s version of rest, complete with a velvet sofa, tiered dessert trays, and new seasonal pound cakes with imported fruits from Dunkelfelger, studded with wild citrus and different types of berries.

The twins sat across from her, hands folded, posture impeccable. Kaorindis had accepted a second slice without hesitation. Siorand poured the tea, precise as ever.

Rozemyne, amused, sipped quietly.

That’s when it happened.

Kaorindis lowered her fork. 

-“Mama, we would like access to your private library.”

Siorand, sweetly: 

-“Please.”

There was a silence — elegant, brief, and dangerously golden.

Rozemyne’s smile froze. Only slightly.

-“My… private library?” she echoed, gently setting down her cup.

The one that didn’t officially exist. The one nestled behind enchantments and false shelving. The one meant to remain secret until Alexandria’s grand public archive was ready, to avoid overwhelming the local scholars with unprocessed material. (The one that was hers)

She blinked. Once.

Kaorindis waited, eyes calm.

Siorand offered a napkin.

Rozemyne narrowed her eyes. 

-“How do you even know about that room?”

-“We don’t,” Kaorindis replied evenly. “That’s why we’re asking.”

Rozemyne leaned back slowly, the way one might lean away from a ticking box labeled fragile but clever.

Across the table, the twins smiled. Serene. Unthreatening.

But Rozemyne had once negotiated with noble families using only two hairpins and a single report. She recognized the signs.

This was a setup.

A gentle, fruit-scented, carefully layered setup.

She glanced at the pound cake, then at the untouched slice on the twins’ plate.

A trade was being offered.

And she wasn’t sure she was the one setting the terms.

The second attempt was far more calculated.

Same setup.
New location.
Additional witnesses.

This time, the twins requested tea with both Rozemyne and Ferdinand, under the pretext of “sharing a new flavor.” There were cakes, of course. Carefully arranged. Slightly warm. Just aromatic enough to soften resistance.

Rozemyne took her first bite and closed her eyes in delight. 

-“Cinnamon and pineapple ? Mmm. This is new.”

Shiori offered her plate forward, expression gentle. 

-“You can have mine.”

Rozemyne blinked. 

-“You don’t want it?”

-“In exchange,” Shiori said lightly, “for a favor.”

Ferdinand straightened.

Rozemyne, already amused, smiled. 

-“What kind of favor?”

Kaorindis set her teacup down with careful poise. 

-“Access to restricted areas of the central wing.”

Ferdinand choked on air.

Rozemyne raised a brow. 

-“You mean… my private library?”

Shiori nodded. 

-“Among others.”

There was a long pause.

Rozemyne covered her mouth and chuckled. 

-“Ufufu… my little negotiators.”

Her eyes sparkled — somewhere between maternal pride and quiet alarm.

Benno would be so proud, she thought.

Kaorindis reached into a small basket and revealed a plate of cinnamon and pineapple pound cake, still slightly glazed.

-“We’re willing to accept supervised access,” she said, as if proposing peace terms. “Limited hours. With observation.”

Shiori added, 

-“And exclusive pastry rights in the staff wing, until autumn.”

Rozemyne accepted the offering with grace. 

-“I believe we can negotiate that.”

Across the table, Ferdinand hadn’t moved.

His eyes tracked the twins, the cake, the smiles, the negotiation terms laid bare like some kind of tactical map in frosting.

They were winning.

Without volume.

Without power.

Without even raising a hand.

He sipped his tea in silence.

Horrified.

The negotiations had concluded.

They had not secured access to the secret chambers — Rozemyne, it turned out, was a formidable wall of soft resistance. But the twins had pivoted, adjusted their strategy, and claimed territory .

A forgotten wing of the castle.
Three storage rooms.
Now cleared. Reclaimed.

With the help of Justus (who claimed plausible deniability), the children constructed what would become known as:

  “Classified Child Contingency Zone”

It had internal zoning.

A snack division. A tactical reading nest.
Defensive pillow ramparts.
One locked drawer labeled "Cake Debt Management."

Justus provided blueprints. Rozemyne sent a handwritten list of “recommendations” (which the twins immediately reclassified as Foundational Directives ). Everything was documented.

And then came the Treaty .

Written on only legal-use parchment. Illustrated with devotion.

There were threatening drawings of intruders being chased by flying sweets.
There were adorable sketches of Kaorindis and Siorand standing atop a plush throne made of cushions.

The treaty included:

• Designated access hours
  
  
• Rotating supervision list
  
  
• Emergency cake clause (Anexo Pound Cake)
  
  
• Clause 7b: “Right to retreat in case of family-related emotional destabilization”
  
  
• Clause 13: “Hartmut and Clarissa forbidden entry under all spiritual interpretations”
  
  

The copy was bound in blue ribbon and delivered by hand to Ferdinand’s office.

He read it in silence.

Then again.

He stared at the crest drawn in the upper left corner: two crossed forks, a teacup, and a pillow with stars.

-“…This has more legal coherence than our current trade agreements with Ehrenfest,” he muttered.

Justus coughed behind his hand. 

-“They had help with the phrasing. But the tone is entirely theirs.”

Ferdinand set the document down.

He did not smile.

He did not frown.

He just… considered.

For one dangerous moment, he even wondered whether this could be used as a template for future noble negotiations.

Then he shook his head sharply.

-“No.”

But the idea lingered.

The twins, in the meantime, were already drawing up fortress expansion proposals .

The fortress was quiet now.

Pillows stacked into towers. Blankets draped like banners.
The glow of a single magic tool cast soft shadows on the fabric walls.

Inside, nestled between cushions and treaty scrolls, the twins sat cross-legged, a notebook between them.

No servants. No observers. Just the echo of muffled steps from distant hallways.

Kaorindis leaned closer, voice barely above a whisper.

-“…Do you think the plan will work?”

Siorand hesitated.

Then nodded, slowly. 

-“Not yet. But this… is a good place to plan.”

They fell silent again, scribbling something in the margins of a map—half tactical diagram, half doodle.

After a while, Kaorindis rested her head on her brother’s shoulder.

-“Sio.”

-“Mhm?”

-“I like it better when we talk like this.”

Siorand closed his notebook. 

-“Me too, Kori.”

A beat of warmth passed between them.
Then Kaorindis added, 

-“But tomorrow we need to test the cake inflation ratios.”

-“Obviously.”

Their tone was light.

But in the hush of the fortress, between the pillows and the cinnamon, one thing became clear:

They were still children.

Brilliant.
Organized.
But small.

And they were afraid.

Not enough to stop.
Just enough to plan harder.

The fortress wasn’t a game.

It was a refuge.

A beginning.

Chapter Text

The bath chambers of Alexandria were designed for efficiency, decorum, and peace.

They came very nearly to achieving two out of three.

Kaorindis and Siorand, now eight, had once bathed together — a habit born from twinhood and perpetuated by Rozemyne’s soft insistence that “they feel safest when they’re side by side.” It had worked, for a while. But after a series of incidents involving synchronized questioning, shared vocabulary anomalies, and a philosophical discussion about metaphysical dirt, the staff had quietly rebelled.

There had been memos. Petitions. One handwritten plea tucked beneath Ferdinand’s teacup.

And so, for the sake of structural sanity, the bath routine was split.

Separate chambers.
Separate teams.
A collective sigh of relief.

Or so they thought.

In the western chamber, Kaorindis reclined in silence, eyes half-lidded, submerged just enough to suggest deep thought. Steam curled around her like a divine veil.

-“I require seven more minutes,” she murmured without opening her eyes.

The attendant paused mid-towel prep. 

-“Pardon, milady?”

-“Seven,” Kaorindis repeated. “It’s optimal for strategic meditation. Stillness breeds insight. Heat enhances memory consolidation. You may consult the notes in my drawer, section ‘Bath Efficiency Trials.’”

She raised one hand lazily.

-“Or don’t. I already accounted for your hesitation in this request.”

The attendant stared at the water.

It stared back.

Meanwhile, in the eastern chamber, Siorand was finishing his rinse and standing before a polished silver mirror, towel draped over his shoulders like ceremonial robes. His lips moved in practiced cadence.

-“…to bind intention without invoking presence…”

He frowned.

-“Still no Father’s enough. Less urgency. More resonance.”

The assistant gently asked if he was reciting from a new scripture.

-“No,” Siorand replied, adjusting his posture. “These are theoretical structures for unmanifested invocation. I’m adapting the phrasing for public speech.”

He made a note with chalk in the corner of the mirror and added, 

-“Mama might prefer the version with passive modifiers. She likes softer conclusions.”

The assistant nodded, very slowly.

Then began drafting a leave of absence in his mind.

When the twins finally emerged, freshly scrubbed and robed in matching navy silks, they walked with the serenity of diplomats who had survived a summit.

Kaorindis, toweling her hair delicately, mused aloud, 

-“Why does skin wrinkle if water is pure?”

Siorand, thoughtful beside her, added, 

-“Is the physical body necessary if the will is eternal?”

The nearest attendant dropped the basket of fresh towels.

No one spoke.

The twins continued walking.

And somewhere behind them, someone quietly reconsidered their entire career.

The castle staff had just finished recording the twins’ latest bathing routine under “Special Case Documentation: Category Adorable Yet Ominous”, when Justus received two folded documents.

Delivered personally.
One from each twin.
Pressed wax seals. Identical fonts. Identical gravity.

He turned the first page. Then the second. Then blinked twice.

Each document bore the same title, elegantly centered:

“Transition Manual: Clean Body, Dangerous Mind” 

Each outlined, with chilling specificity, the behavioral protocol expected immediately after bathing.

There were bullet points.

There were diagrams.

There were, alarmingly, time stamps.

Kaorindis’ section read:

• No direct conversation for 15 minutes post-exit.
  
  
• Mandatory snack for emotional recalibration.
  
  
• Avoid contact with political documents, sacred texts, or anyone named Hartmut.
  
  

Siorand’s mirrored it:

• Silence is preferred unless spoken to first.
  
  
• Praise for vocabulary expansion is welcome.
  
  
• Do not mention Clarissa, explosions, or metaphysical paradoxes until both feet are dry.
  
  

At the bottom of both, in distinct but eerily similar handwriting, was a final clause:

“These conditions are non-negotiable. We are fragile in purity.”

Justus, for reasons he refused to examine, added the documents to his “Internal Chaos Archives.”

Later that evening, Rozemyne found the treaties stacked neatly beside her tea.

She read them with a hand to her cheek and a soft, delighted hum.

-“My little negotiators are growing. This tone feels so familiar…”

She didn’t question the content.
She praised the formatting.

And tucked a cinnamon biscuit into each twin’s lunch tray the next morning.

Ferdinand, on the other hand, discovered his copy tucked inside a report about grain storage.

He read it once.
Then again.

-“…They’re ritualizing post-bathing behavior,” he muttered. “Why would anyone… regulate emotional volatility… after soap?”

He turned the page and read:

“Prohibited phrases: ‘Hartmut said—’, ‘Clarissa thinks—’, ‘What if we built a sanctum?’”

He stared at the line.

Then sat down.
Hard.

-“…They’re adapting for their own safety.”

He didn’t know whether to panic or… approve.

Justus, passing by, muttered under his breath:

-“They’re terrifying. But I’ve never seen such efficient self-containment protocols.”

Ferdinand pinched the bridge of his nose.

-“…We’re raising sanctified tacticians.”

Rozemyne, from across the hall, sipped her tea.

-“Ufufu. With clean hands and sharper minds.”

Evenings in Alexandria were often chaos wrapped in velvet. But every so often, Rozemyne carved out a small bubble of peace —
No retainers. No schedules.
Just her and the twins.

Kaorindis sat on a cushioned stool, back straight, hair still damp and combed smooth. Rozemyne worked through the strands with practiced care, her fingers gentle, the wooden comb gliding down in long strokes.

Moments like this had become tradition. No matter how turbulent their lives became, Rozemyne always made time to comb their hair. Kaorindis and Siorand shared the same length, the same texture, like threads binding their small family together.

Kaorindis hummed softly.

Then, without warning, she said in a tone as light as breath:

-“If Chaocipher wanted to alter the flow, we could use the roof instead of the temple corridor. But she promised to wait.”

The comb stopped.

The room, which had felt so warm a moment ago, cooled by degrees.

-“…Chaocipher?” Rozemyne repeated, carefully casual.

There was a beat.

From beyond the curtain separating the twin chambers, Siorand’s voice floated in:

-“She said not to reveal everything yet.”

Neither of them moved.
Not Kaorindis, still serene under Rozemyne’s hand.
Not Siorand, unseen but eerily precise.

The air tightened.

Rozemyne's lips parted. She meant to ask — how do you know that name? But the words caught behind her teeth.

That name. That name wasn’t spoken for anything good.
Not in books.
Not in bedtime tales.
Not in the temple.

She lowered the comb slowly, deliberately. Her hand, resting lightly on her daughter’s shoulder, began to tremble.

A soft sigh came from the doorway.

Justus, half-shadowed, held a report in one hand and a familiar tension in the other.

-“…Not again,” he muttered, almost too quiet to hear.

Rozemyne didn't look at him.

She couldn’t take her eyes off Kaorindis — still quiet, still smiling, as if the name she’d uttered hadn’t just torn a hole in the laws of knowledge.

Ferdinand reviewed the documents in silence.

One by one.
Line by line.

Some were written in wax pencils. Others in expensive ink. A few in that now-infamous edible dye Rozemyne had somehow approved.

But it wasn’t the medium that concerned him.

It was the content.

“If she speaks again, we must recalibrate the words before sunrise.”
“Do not mention the corridors in front of mirrors.”
“Father cannot see the symbols yet. Let him sleep.”

There were sketches. Fragments of diagrams that didn’t match any known script.
Phrases that were too precise. Too timeless.

Too old.

Some of it mimicked prayers, but with alterations that no mortal scholar had penned. Others resembled battlefield briefings… delivered from above.

Ferdinand rubbed his temples.

More than once, he had felt the same with Rozemyne and all of the unwanted blessings. (And everything else)

This felt the same.
But doubled.
Multiplied.
Distilled into children too young to hold this weight.

-“This isn’t magic,” he murmured. “It’s interference.”

Justus, leaning against the edge of a bookshelf that hadn’t been there five minutes ago, exhaled slowly.

-“Mm. And it’s just starting to get fun.”

Ferdinand didn’t look at him.

He stood, began drafting a quiet surveillance protocol — adjusted to avoid triggering magical detection.

Then stopped mid-sentence.

He already knew.

It wouldn’t work.

He’d taught them too well.

Chapter Text

It was a cold night in Alexandria — not snowy like Ehrenfest, but wet and restless. Rain ticked lightly against the windows, steady as a clock, seeping into the stillness of the northern wing where the warmth of candlelight barely reached the floor.

Winter preparations had consumed the archducal couple.

They were out — somewhere in the depths of bureaucratic winter panic.

Rozemyne hadn’t sat down in hours. Ferdinand had forgotten to eat again. Meetings. Inventory. Magical inspections. Staff reassignments.

Which left the twins alone.

Not unattended, of course.

Justus was there.

Kaorindis and Siorand sat curled up on the floor cushions in their room, a single candle between them, both too awake and too serious for ten-year-olds.

They would be leaving for the Royal Academy in one month. They had already packed. Twice.

-"Tell us something real," Kaorindis said, expression unreadable.

-"No fairy tales," added Siorand, already opening his notebook. "And nothing with a happy ending."

Justus stared at them for a beat, then sighed. 

-"Perfect. I’ve got plenty of those."

He didn't sit down like a storyteller. He sat like a strategist about to confess a war.

He didn’t bring a book. He didn’t need to. He sat on a cushion between them, legs crossed, cloak falling softly around him like the curtain before a performance. The rain offered rhythm. The candles offered warmth. And Justus offered memory.

And he began.

"When Lord Ferdinand was young, he offered his own name. It belonged to his father — like a sealed ring inside a vault. Courtesy of Veronica.

He didn’t eat with the family. Didn’t live in the castle.

They sent him to the temple — a golden cage, shiny enough to pretend it wasn’t exile.

Sylvester said it was for his safety.

No one explained that ‘safe’ meant ‘alone.’"

"Rozemyne... well, she was never supposed to survive.

As you know, she was born poor. Fragile. The Devouring nearly killed her more times than anyone could count. Eventually, she stopped crying when it hurt.

When she offered herself to the temple, they didn’t know what to do with her. Exploit her or hide her.

The High Bishop of that time made the choice. He chose to use her. That’s where she met Ferdinand.

And no, it didn’t start with comfort. It started with rage."

"To protect her family, she had to die. Not literally.

She signed away her name, her parents, her friends.

They held a funeral for her back in Ehrenfest.

Before that, she blessed them. Healed them. All of them.

And then sealed her love with magic, so no one could use it against her ever again."

“Years later, your mother was poisoned.

Saving her sister.

She nearly died.

Was put in Jureve — asleep for two years, unmoving, untouched.

Lord Ferdinand worked without sleeping. Without eating. Without anything.

When she finally opened her eyes… he smiled. A real one. One of those stupid, crooked ones he doesn’t know how to fake.”

"Eventually, even Sylvester couldn’t protect him.

The Zent gave him a choice: destroy your brother or marry Detlinde.

So Ferdinand chose martyrdom.

He went to Ahrensbach. To Detlinde. To the food that reminded him of every time someone tried to poison him as a child.

He said, ‘I’m fine,’ when Rozemyne came for him.

Another lie."

"She led a war for him, you know.

United duchies. Activated ancient doors.

She flew like a divine wind.

She tore through armies.

All to get him back."

"And after that?

More duty. More burden. More pain.

They called it service. Called it devotion.

I call it injustice. With gloves on."

The candle flickered. Neither twin moved.

Kaorindis stared straight ahead, tears running silently down her cheeks.

Siorand had torn the page he’d been writing on, fingers trembling slightly.

Neither of them spoke for a long time.

Then Kaorindis whispered, 

-“If we don’t act… they’ll keep suffering.”

Siorand nodded. 

-“And this time… we’ll know. We won’t let it happen.”

They stood, walked wordlessly to their shared desk, and opened the leather-bound journal where their notes always went.

They changed the title on the cover.

Protocol: Parental Stability
Phase Zero — “We Were Warned.”

Justus stepped out of the room and leaned against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.

-“…Gods,” he muttered, exhaling. “What did I just do?”

He start walking.

He didn’t look back.

But when he passed Ferdinand in the corridor minutes later, the man narrowed his eyes.

-“They’re quiet,” Ferdinand said. “That usually means trouble.”

Justus shrugged.

-“They asked for a story.”

Ferdinand didn’t respond.

He didn’t need to.

He already knew exactly which story they had asked for.

And somewhere behind the door, a pen scratched softly against the page.

The plan had already begun.

Chapter Text

The castle felt quieter the next day. Not because Alexandria ever truly settled—its halls were a constant hum of movement, of nobles posturing and attendants rushing—but because two small voices had fallen silent.

Kaorindis skipped dinner.
She’d sat at the table, hands folded, eyes on her plate… but never lifted her fork.
Siorand went through his music lesson like a ghost, his haspiel untouched, his voice absent from the harmonies.

Rozemyne noticed. Of course she did.

Later that evening, in one of the smaller family salons—just them, warm tea, and the scent of old and new books—she asked softly, 

-“What’s wrong, little ones?”

They glanced at each other first.

Then Kaorindis spoke, barely above a whisper.
Siorand finished the sentence.

-“Are you okay, Mama?”

There was a pause.

Rozemyne smiled.

It was the kind of smile that looked perfect in a painting. That shone just enough. That meant to reassure.

-“Always,” she said.

A lie.
Small. Well-intentioned.
They didn’t believe it.
But they didn’t press.

Not yet.

The rain tapped softly against the windows of their room.

It was late. Too late for talking. But the room was warm, the curtains drawn, and the space between their two beds was filled with unspoken thoughts.

They whispered anyway.

-“Kori,” Siorand murmured from under his blankets, “Papa always has headaches.”

Kaorindis didn’t answer right away.
She looked up at the ceiling, eyes narrowed in thought.

-“And Mama sleeps less every day,” she whispered back.

There was a pause. Then a rustle of pages.

Kaorindis leaned over the side of her bed, pulled out their shared notebook—the one hidden behind the false panel in her nightstand—and handed it across the gap.

Siorand took it. Uncapped the ink.

By the faint light of a mana-lamp tucked under a blanket, they began to write:

Objective: Ensure long-term emotional and physical stability of parental units.
Project Name: Protocol: Parental Stability
Activation Condition: When laughter is no longer heard.
Subjects: Subject F (Father) / Subject M (Mama)

They stared at the words for a long moment.

Kaorindis traced the final line with one finger.
Siorand added a tiny sigil in the corner: the emblem they used for “classified.”

Neither of them said good night.

They didn’t need to.

The kitchen staff of Castle Alexandria had seen many things—ingredients exploding by mistake, noble children requesting sweets before sunrise, even Hartmut attempting to consecrate the bread oven once.

But two ten-year-olds handing them a neatly inked scroll marked “Priority: Health Maintenance — Archducal Level” was new.

-“Please follow this exactly,” Kaorindis said with all the seriousness she could muster.

-“It’s for Father,” Siorand added, sliding across a pouch of calming herbs and a carefully measured sachet of powdered fruit—Dunkelfelger-imported, high in mana but low in bitterness.

The cook blinked. 

-“This… is tea protocol?”

-“It’s breakfast,” Kaorindis corrected. “With emotional logic.”

Later that morning, at the archducal dining table…

Ferdinand stared down at a plate of softened grains infused with citrus peel and pear-root extract, sprinkled with a light powder of honeyed spice.

He blinked once.
Then again.
He lifted one eyebrow, slow and sharp.

Rozemyne, seated beside him, smiled faintly and murmured, 

-“It’s… different.”

Siorand, watching from his chair, leaned toward his brother and whispered:

-“It didn’t work.”

Kaorindis didn’t look up from his fork.

-“Phase 1 needs revision,” she replied.

Justus had just settled into his chair with a cup of afternoon tea—finally, mercifully, alone—when two shadows appeared beside him, far too silent to be accidental.

Kaorindis placed a folded paper on the table in front of him.
Siorand slid a sweet next to it. As incentive.

Justus raised an eyebrow.

He unfolded the page.

At the top, written in practiced script with just a hint of decorative flair, it read:

Dear Uncle Justus,
We require your assistance.
Can you identify what exhausts Father the most?
Please include names, circumstances, and possible solutions.
Thank you for your cooperation.
Sincerely,
Your Favorite Strategists
(Temporarily Anonymous)

He blinked.

Then looked up.

-“...Is this a request for espionage?”

Both twins nodded, solemn and eager.

Kaorindis tilted her head. 

-“Technically, it’s preventative strategy.”

Siorand added, 

-“For health purposes.”

Justus stared at them.

Then at the paper.

Then at the sweet.

He sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.

-“I’m in.”

The quiet of their room was broken only by the soft scratching of quills and the occasional thoughtful hum.

A new notebook lay open between them on the floor—small, thick, and bound in blue leather with reinforced corners. It had two front covers, depending on which side you opened.

One read, in perfectly blocky handwriting:

Protocol: Parental Stability

Flip it over, and the other said—this time with swirls, tiny stars, and an inked ribbon along the margin:

Impossible Ideas That Might Actually Work

They took turns writing.

Siorand, tongue between his teeth in concentration, scribbled:

“Gift Mama one hour daily with no visitors. (Name it ‘Reflection Time.’ Add plaque.)”

Kaorindis, after some deliberation, added:

“Make Father talk to someone that isn’t a document. Preferably a human. Bonus if it’s Mama.”

Later, together:

“Stage an incident that justifies mandatory parental vacation. Minimum: 2 consecutive days. Maximum: ∞.”

At the bottom of the page, they drew a tiny diagram labeled “Project Calm Storm”, with their parents’ initials inside a cozy bubble surrounded by tea cups, pillows, and absolutely no paperwork.

They stared at it for a moment.

Outside, the rain drummed gently against the windows.

Siorand glanced sideways. 

-“What if it doesn’t work?”

Kaorindis didn’t hesitate. 

-“Then we’ll find another way.”

They sat side by side, fingers smudged with ink and determination.

The candle between them flickered, then went out.

The notebook closed with a soft snap.

The protocol had begun.