The palace gardens had quieted, lanterns burning low as the banquet carried on. Seren lingered by the carved balustrade, watching flickers of firelight ripple across the harbor. Daemon had been called away, drawn by an attendant’s whisper, leaving Seren alone in a sea of cousins and half-familiar faces.

He did not mind solitude. But when a man approached him, neat tunic, lowered head, words pitched like reverence, his brow furrowed.

“Your father requests you, my lord,” the man said softly. “The west terrace. A private word.”

“Does he?” Seren asked, his voice dry as salt. Suspicion prickled, but curiosity forced him forward. He acted on his curiosity.

The man led him down a quieter hall, then a narrow stair. Torches grew sparse; shadows thickened. Seren opened his mouth to question—

A sweet cloth clamped his nose and mouth. The world folded.

He woke to rope biting into his wrists and ankles, the stink of mildew and stale wine thick in his throat. A single lantern swung overhead, shadows cutting across three men with blades at their belts.

“Son of Veyros,” one drawled. “Worth more than gold. We’ll fetch a fortune.”

Seren tested the knots. Tight. His pulse thumped, but his expression never cracked. “You’ll be dead before you spend it,” he said coolly.

The men laughed.

A crash interrupted them, crates toppling, a bucket clattering across the floor.

A girl burst in. Hair in messy ropes, clothes too big, eyes wide as a startled gull. A wooden pail balanced precariously on her head, already spilling. She tripped over a broom handle, staggered, caught herself on a beam, and nearly toppled again.

“Uh. Hi,” she blurted. “Sorry. Wrong room?”

The kidnappers cursed. One lunged. She yelped, flailed, and in her panic a bent bar of iron wrenched itself upright from the pile of scrap she carried. It swung like a drunkard’s cudgel, connected with the man’s shin, and dropped him screaming.

Seren blinked.

“Oh. Right,” the girl panted. “Metal. Forgot to mention. Sorry!”

He saw an opportunity. He tested the subtle manipulation tactic he had tried with a servant while sparring with his father. Though this time, he succeeded.

The girl stumbled to Seren, tugged at the ropes. Her fingers slipped, knuckles fumbling. The lantern swayed, throwing wild shadows. “Hold still, I’m not… oh, blast it, knots are horrid—”

“You’re terrible at this,” Seren said flatly.

“I know!” she squeaked. “But I’m trying, alright?”

Finally the rope gave way. Seren flexed his hands. He stood immediately, chin high, eyes cold. “Let them come.”

But before he could square himself, the girl grabbed his sleeve. “Nope. Nope. Not today, palace-boy.” She yanked him toward the door with surprising force. “We run now, we look heroic later.”

Seren stumbled once, caught himself, but allowed her to pull him, more curious than resistant.

They burst into the alleys of the lower quarter. The city here was another world: leaning tenements, laundry strung between windows, smoke rising from hidden fires. The air smelled of salt, fish guts, and desperation. Shouts echoed as the mercenaries gave chase.

The street opened into a narrow court where a dozen hovels tilted toward the sky. A woman shoved a tray of pastry into a child’s hands. A boy no older than Seren snapped at a dog. Life here was small and immediate: people bartered rice, mended nets, exchanged gossip that smelled of smoke and salt. Seren felt the tug of it, a place alive in ways the palace never was.

“Where are we?” Seren asked, his voice even as his eyes darted.

“The fun bit of Osvarra,” the girl puffed, tripping on a loose stone and nearly dragging him down with her. “Mind your step. Don’t mind mine, I never do.”

“You could live here,” said the girl once they paused by a leaning wall. “If you’d never seen a velvet cushion you wouldn’t know the weight of one.” She laughed, and the sound struck him like music and shame both.

Seren did not answer. His face was calm, unreadable, though inside he noted every turn, every shadow.

They skidded into a narrow square. Men spilled in from two alleys, blades glinting.

The girl shoved Seren behind her, a bar of iron wobbling in her hands. “Stay back. You’re… you’re just a kid. I’ve got this.”

Seren looked at her, expressionless. “So are you,” he replied.

She shoved him back again, nearly tripping herself. “You’ll die looking serious. Let me make a mess of it.”

The mercenaries closed in. One lunged. She swung, and missed completely, but the iron bar ricocheted off a lamppost, bent like a spring, and snapped back into the man’s jaw with a resounding clang. He dropped.

She spun, lost her balance, and hurled a scrap of iron by accident. It flew end-over-end, cracked another mercenary’s helmet, and sent him sprawling.

“Sorry! Sorry!” she squealed, smacking wildly with the bar. It caught one man’s sword and wrenched it free, purely by mistake, before knocking over a stack of crates that toppled onto another.

Seren watched, expressionless, as chaos bloomed around him. She was a disaster, yet somehow the disaster favored her.

The motion had been messy, without the grace of a trained hand, but it had the blunt effectiveness of a lever. The girl’s cheeks were damp with water, her hair stuck in little ropes across her forehead, and the iron she made bent with a wobble when she gripped it, but it held. The mercenaries had not expected that.

For a moment it was almost comical. Until one of them surged past, blade nicking her arm. She yelped, blood streaking down her sleeve.

Seren stepped forward, fists clenched, ready to throw himself into the fray.

And then the air shifted.

A wave roared where no sea should be.

The mercenaries froze as a tall figure filled the alley mouth, his cloak snapping like a sail in storm winds. In his hand, a blade of water shimmered, bending light. His Card: Tide surged with lethal grace.

Alaric Veyros.

“Touch him,” Alaric said, his voice like a breaker over stone, “and you will beg the sea for mercy.”

The mercenaries faltered. One raised a sword; it rusted mid-swing, collapsing to flakes. Another lunged, swept aside in a flood that crashed from nowhere, bones cracking.

Alaric moved once, like a tide unleashed, relentless, unstoppable. The water-formed blade swept, and three men fell before they had drawn breath. Another swung an axe; rust blossomed from its edge as salt hissed through its seams, splitting it in his hands.

The ground slickened; the men slipped, drowned in fear before they drowned in water.

Within heartbeats the square was quiet, bodies groaning in shallow pools.

Seren stood tall, watching, unblinking. The girl sat on the cobbles, clutching her arm, her iron bar bent into nonsense.

Behind Alaric, two retainers appeared at last, calm as if arriving at supper. They watched their captain butcher mercenaries with the same indifference as one watches rain fall. To them, this was a regular night.

Alaric turned, his gaze falling on Seren. His fury was not lessened by victory. “Do you know what danger you walked into?”

Seren met his father’s eyes without flinching. His voice was steady, sharper than a child’s should be.

“I suspected. But I followed anyway. To see who thought they could touch me.”

For a breath, the air between them hung taut, thick with salt and silence. Then Alaric’s mouth curved, not in amusement, but in something darker. Pride, tempered with warning.

“Suspicion without caution is recklessness,” he said. “Next time, you may not wake to answer me.”

He turned, his attention landing on the girl slumped against a wall, clutching her arm. The iron bar she had conjured bent awkwardly in her grip, more accident than art, but it had drawn blood, broken bones, and stalled a dozen blades.

“You,” Alaric said.

She straightened, startled under the weight of his gaze. She half-opened her mouth, words fumbling, then closed it again. Her eyes darted between father and son, then down to the bar in her hands.

“What are you?”

She swallowed, straightened, and said with clumsy honesty: “Mara, Sir!”

Alaric stepped closer, studying her as though she were a weapon fresh from the forge. “Metal answers you. Poorly, but it answers.” His voice was low, unreadable. “I’ve been watching this quarter for weeks. Following rumors of criminal activities using children having strange cards.”

Mara blinked. “…You were watching me?”

Alaric’s silence was answer enough.

He glanced at Seren. “And now my son drags you into my sight. Curious.”

Seren’s chin lifted. “She fought for me.”

Alaric’s gaze lingered on him, searching, weighing. Then he nodded once, decisive. “Then she will fight for you again. And for me.”

Mara blinked, eyes wide. “Wait, you’re hiring me?”

Alaric’s mouth was a hard line. “You’re already hired. Servant to this house, and eyes in the streets. Fail, and I’ll cast you back where I found you.”

Her grin spread despite the blood on her sleeve, crooked and breathless. “Guess that’s better than buckets. Alright then. I’ll… try not to trip too much.”

Alaric’s eyes narrowed, but there was no humor in them. “Do not try. Do better.”

He turned, cloak dripping, the tide still clinging to his shoulders. “Come, both of you. This night has wasted enough breath.”

Behind him, Seren walked tall, his expression unreadable. But inside, he understood: his father had been testing him, weighing him, even now. And Mara was no accident. She was a piece placed on the board, by Alaric’s hand.

The carriage rattled through the gates of House Veyros. Torches flared along the walls, guards snapping to attention as Alaric strode ahead, Seren close at his side, Mara trailing nervously with the bent iron bar still in her hands.

The hall was lit with silver braziers, banners heavy with salt-stiffened cloth. The night’s chaos seemed to vanish within these walls, replaced by order, discipline, iron.

Alaric said nothing until they reached the dais of the entry chamber. Only then did he halt and glance at Seren. “There is someone you will meet tonight.”

From the shadows of the hall, a man stepped forward. His armor was polished steel, his posture unbending, his gaze sharp. He carried his helm tucked beneath his arm, and when he stopped before them, he dropped to one knee, not to Alaric, but to Seren.

“This is Sir Caldus Branthorne,” Alaric said. His voice echoed through the chamber, clipped and commanding. “He is appointed to you, Seren. He will be your guard, your teacher, your knight. Where I cannot stand, he will.”

Caldus lifted his head, eyes fixed on Seren, and spoke with the weight of ceremony. “I am Caldus Branthorne, sworn blade of House Veyros. From this night, I am yours to command, my lord Seren. Your shield against all who would harm you, your blade against all who would test you, your counsel in every trial.”

The silence stretched.

Seren stared at him, unblinking. His small hands folded neatly behind his back, his face as flat as stone.

“That was… dramatic,” he said finally. His tone was dry, almost bored, but his eyes glinted faintly, as though he found the knight’s grandiose self-introduction faintly amusing.

Mara stifled a laugh behind her hand. Alaric’s lips twitched, though whether in irritation or pride was impossible to tell.

“Enough,” Alaric said at last. He gestured to one of his household retainers. “Take the girl. She will be brought to the head maid. See that she is washed, clothed, and put to use.”

Mara blinked, glanced at Seren as though seeking reassurance. Seren gave her a single nod. She grinned crookedly and let herself be led away, muttering under her breath about buckets and beds.

Alaric turned to Seren. “Go. Rest. Tomorrow begins early.”

Seren inclined his head, then walked toward the upper stairs, silent as shadow.

Caldus remained in the hall, watching Seren’s small figure retreat toward the corridor. His lips curved into a faint smirk, eyes glinting. “Nice to meet you, prophesized Hero.”

His smirk widened, a spark of anticipation breaking through his otherwise soldierly calm.

“This will be fun.”