5. Ryewood #2
We reach the far wall, where the narrow staircase curves upward past the library and the ballroom to his private study.
He takes his seat at his desk and gestures for me to sit.
I do. I learned a long time ago that in moments like this, obedience isn’t submission; it’s survival.
My eyes catch the portrait on the bookcase next to the dried sea holly, the one he never talks about.
A woman in profile with dark hair swept back.
I’ve seen the picture a hundred times and never thought much of it, but today it stops me.
There’s something familiar about her face that I can’t place—the line of her jaw, the curve of her mouth.
I almost reach for why, then Father’s voice pulls me back.
“When Hayesland loses control, that failure is yours.” Father’s voice is low and even, that careful calm he uses when he’s furious and determined not to show it.
“You let your brother lose his composure in front of the entire yard. Insulting six nobles, whose favor we’ve spent years cultivating.”
I say nothing. I know better.
“Those nobles hold real power,” Father continues. “Their families outnumber ours. Their magic makes them a threat. Their loyalty keeps us on the throne.” He leans forward slightly. “One outburst. One insult. And we risk losing years of careful work.”
Here it is, the familiar refrain.
“They see the realm’s people as lesser beings,” he says. “If they ever assume control, life for the commoners will be far worse.”
As if the current state with him ruling is a mercy.
“Yes, Father. I understand. I’ll do better.” I keep my voice calm and say what he needs to hear. I’ve learned that resistance only sharpens the blade.
“You will.” The edge in his voice dulls, appeased by my compliance. He studies me for a moment longer, as if weighing whether I still belong to him.
“Since you’re here,” he says, “there’s another matter.”
My stomach drops, like it always does when he says matter.
“A report came in this morning of a family in Millhaven, the Caldwells. They have twin sons posing as brothers born close in age.”
My pulse stutters.
“They live in the western quarter,” he continues calmly. “Last house on the left on Merchant’s Row.” A long deliberate pause. “I need you to handle it. Tonight.”
The words hit heavy and familiar. I know exactly what he’s asking.
I nod.
“You understand why it matters?” he says, quieter now. “Why this falls to you?”
He watches me as if checking for hesitation.
“You know I have the nobles handle most of them. But some won’t touch the younger ones, and others lack restraint; they make too much noise.” His expression goes flat. “And the young ones invite sympathy, rumors, and panic.”
He comes around the desk as if proximity makes this a conversation instead of a command.
“That’s why your work is necessary,” he says. “You’re careful; you don’t draw attention or turn it into a spectacle.”
His hand settles on my shoulder, familiar and possessive. I keep my face still.
“Voss has served me well,” Father says. “But he’s mortal. In a few decades, he’ll be gone. Hayes won’t.” His gaze sharpens. “He’ll rule for centuries. He needs someone who can stand beside him through all of them.”
His thumb presses into my shoulder, a reminder and a claim.
“You’ll understand this better after the trials,” he says. “Once your magic awakens, you’ll see what’s actually at stake.”
He straightens, already finished.
“Yes, Father,” I say. The words come easy, but they cost everything.
The weight of it stays with me through the day, until the evening quiet settles over the castle. My stomach twists as I make my way through Terrath, the rough-spun tunic itching at my neck.
The first missions with Voss surface the way they always do, whether I want them to or not.
My gut clenches at the memory of him slicing the throats of two sleeping twins, quick and efficient, with no hesitation. I made it outside and vomited until there was nothing left. When I finally straightened, Voss was there, watching me with disappointment.
I went on missions with Voss until I learned how to wear the unaffected mask. Most of the children were asleep, but some weren’t. Their parents screamed either way.
Once Voss decided I could stomach it, I was sent alone. I went there intending to follow orders.
The house was quiet, too quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed against my ears as I stood in the doorway of the children’s room, with a knife in hand.
The twins slept side by side, their bodies angled toward each other, small hands nearly touching on the shared pillow.
One of them stirred, and his eyes opened.
He looked back at me, confused but not afraid yet.
He had brown curls plastered to his forehead and cheeks still round with baby fat.
He couldn’t have been more than six. His brother slept on, breathing slow and even.
For a heartbeat, I saw Hayes at that age, the same wide eyes, the same unguarded expression. My grip tightened around the knife, but my arm wouldn’t follow. It knew before I did that I couldn’t do it.
I stepped back, and my boot brushed the floor, too loudly.
The mother appeared first, hand flying to her mouth. The father moved in front of her instantly, placing himself between me and the room, even though we both knew it wouldn’t matter. They knew why I was there.
“Please,” the mother whispered, her voice shaking. “Please. They’re just children.”
I raised my hands slowly. “I’m not going to hurt them,” I said, my grip still aching where the knife had been. “I just—I need a moment.”
I paced the small room, heart hammering, while they watched me like prey watches a predator. The boys shuffled out, rubbing sleep from their eyes, and the mother gathered them close while the father’s jaw clenched.
I explained. They needed to leave immediately that night. Each boy must be sent to a different village, to family who could keep them apart. The parents would stay and let the village believe their children were gone…dead. Then, only then, could they leave to find them.
Hope flickered in the mother’s eyes, and I let it live for half a breath. Then I told her there would be no later, no fixing it once they were gone. If the boys were ever seen together again, even once, this wouldn’t end in separation. My father would make sure it ended in blood.
The boys could never live together again. They could never be seen together. Ever.
Something in me died when I told her this. I still haven’t gotten it back.
The parents looked at each other, and the hope drained from them, leaving only what was left to survive. Then they nodded, because there was no other choice.
The boys clung to their mother, sobbing now. The father stepped forward and pressed a small pouch of coin into my hand. I would bet it was everything they had.
I pushed it back. And took out my own purse instead.
“Never speak of this,” I told them. “And never let those boys be seen together.”
I left before they could thank me.
Outside, my hands shook so badly that I had to brace myself against the wall. I retreated to the treeline and waited, forcing myself to watch.
The father came out first, scanning the road before ushering one boy forward, bundled in a cloak too large for him.
The mother followed with the other, clutched tight to her chest. The boys wrapped themselves around each other, sobbing and refusing to let go.
The parents had to pry them apart, and then they set off in opposite directions until both were swallowed by the dark.
That was the last time I tried to follow orders.
Every mission since has been the same. The same outcome, the same lie, the same devastation.
And every time I wait in the dark, watching until they disappear, terrified they won’t follow my instructions, and even more terrified Father will discover what I’ve done.
Not for myself, but because he’ll simply finish what I refused to do.
The Caldwell boys are gone, sent in opposite directions before dawn. My hands are still shaking as I make my way back through Terrath, knowing there was no version of that family that stayed whole.
Uninvited, the words surface, like always.
When four lie broken and one stands alone,
Blood must spill upon the sacred stone.
Two born together carry the key,
For Ether to reunite earth, flame, wind, and sea.
A seer’s prophecy. A handful of lines that have ruined more lives than any blade.
Two born together. Twins.
I don’t know when the seer first spoke them, only that Father heard them, and everything changed. The words loop in my head, hollow and insistent. I’ve turned them over more times than I can count, searching for whatever truth Father sees in them, whatever justifies this. I’ve never found it.
I asked him once, early on, what it meant and why it mattered. I’d never seen his face change like that before—not anger or calculation, it was something far colder. What followed wasn’t a conversation; it was a lesson. I never asked again.
The people don’t know the prophecy. There was never a decree, no law written in ink, but enough children vanished that the fear took root anyway. Families learned to hide, to lie, to send their twins away to different corners of the realm and hope no one noticed.
I walk on, lost in the words, the night already thinning at the edges, and the sky is paling too early for comfort. I pull my hood lower and press through Terrath’s outskirts.
Then movement catches my eye.
A figure slides down the side of a building with practiced ease, hands finding stone without hesitation. They’re in dark clothes, with a mask covering the bottom half of their face, and a satchel riding their hip. The way they move is so quiet and fluid.
My pulse stutters. It can’t be.
Tonight is not the night to risk being seen, but I move toward her anyway.