Cael woke just before dawn, the faint hum in the stones still clinging to him like a memory he couldn't shake.

The locket lay against his chest under his tunic, warm as a heartbeat.

He pressed his palm to it briefly before sitting up. The whispers had faded during the night, slipping back into silence, but something lingered, the quiet satisfaction of finally naming a thing that had always been there.

He dressed slowly, when he tied the cuffs of his shirt, he noticed his hands no longer trembled the way they used to.

He caught sight of himself in the little square mirror by the wash basin and stared for a long time.

The boy who looked back at him… still slight, still pale, still wearing the same tired scowl, but his eyes, those were different now.

The blurriness that used to frustrate him was gone. His sight was not just clearer, but deeper somehow. He could see the faint grain of the wood behind him reflected in the glass. The cracks in the mortar around the doorframe. The way the candle on his desk, even unlit, still carried the ghost of last night's smoke.

That realization settled in.

This wasn't just about seeing better.

It was about noticing things and he intended to notice everything.

...

At breakfast, Cael sat where he always did, two seats down from Jorlan, across from Edric, next to the scullery wall.

It had been years since Edric even bothered to look at him during meals, and today was no exception.

As the morning meal wound down, Cael stayed in his corner seat, watching the usual ritual play out. Jorlan basked in their father's praise, regaling the table with another tale of his sparring triumphs. Cousins and lesser Varissens nodded and laughed dutifully.

Cael's eyes drifted, not to his brother, but to the servants arrayed around the room, quiet and unassuming as ever.

He noticed how Gerren, Jorlan's man, leaned a little too close to one of the kitchen boys stationed near Edric. They didn't speak, but a faint exchange passed between their hands, a folded scrap of parchment and unmistakably, the glint of a silver coin.

The kitchen boy slipped the note into his sleeve and resumed pouring wine without so much as a glance.

Gerren straightened, his expression flat, and moved to stand just behind Jorlan's chair.

Cael's lip curled faintly.

The boy was no page, he was a spy and bought cheaply at that.

How many others here, he wondered, answered to coin rather than name?

Even here, in Edric's own hall, servants passed notes and bribes in plain sight, confident no one cared enough to notice. They wore the family's crest on their backs, but carried another man's coin in their pockets.

How many of them are spies for other houses?

It was obvious that the name stitched on their livery didn't matter. It was silver that decided where their loyalty lay.

Cael's fingers slipped absently into his sleeve, where his purse hung under his tunic. He held it there for a moment, feeling just how thin it had gotten.

Much later, when Cael counted the small allowance left in his own coffer, the thought struck him harder.

Jorlan's expenses were paid generously, tailored shirts, gleaming boots, fresh swords when he wore out the old. Even the cousins had stipends large enough to keep them in good standing at tournaments and card tables.

Cael's purse, by contrast, could barely stretch to cover his own quills and candle stubs.

I'm the heir, in name… yet poorer than even Jorlan's squire. That's how little my father thinks of me.

His eyes fell again on the servants, the way one bowed too low to Jorlan, the faint smirk on another's face as they accepted a folded note from a cousin's hand.

He held the few coins he had in his hand for a moment, feeling their cold weight.

If loyalty can be bought so cheaply… then I'll learn to buy it better than any of them. Quietly enough no one would see it coming.

He filed that away, and the faint hum inside his chest seemed to approve.

...

Later that afternoon, he slipped away from the hall and climbed to his room, locking the door behind him.

He sat at the desk, took out a sheet of parchment, and flattened it.

If this… thing in him was to be understood, he needed to name it. Map it.

At the top of the page he wrote:

What I Am Becoming.

Below it, he listed the first thing that came to mind.

Memory — perfect. Always sharp...Too sharp even. Never forget anything I see or hear. Since I was a five, progressed ever since and got overwhelming when I started hearing the whispers through contact with old places and old things.

Next line:

Sight — poor before. Better now, not just clearer, deeper. Can see cracks, faint glimmers, what people don't mean to show and sometimes their true intentions before they even act on it. A few times I have seen threads of light, no idea what they mean yet. Started three winters ago? Stronger now after the locket opened.

He paused. Then added:

Resonance — through touch. The whispers. The hum. Memories of others in stone, metal, cloth. Only strong when I know the place or object well. The tower. The locket. Both warm to me now. Sometimes faint light. Sometimes whispers. Sometimes flashes (the woman crying on the stairs, the man striking a bargain in the counting house... are these real?)

Below that, more tentatively:

Reflexes? — Haven't tested yet. Body feels steadier now. Less clumsy. Noticed during ledgers last week, fingers don't fumble as much. Will test during sword practice when I can without Jorlan noticing.

He stared at the list for a long time, then added one more line, almost reluctantly.

The warmth — strongest when I press both hands (or heart + hand) to a place. Feels like it's watching. Not just memory. Feels alive. Or maybe just me going mad.

He set the quill down and flexed his fingers.

The paper stared back at him like a challenge.

So far the abilities had come to him when he wasn't looking for them. But that couldn't continue.

He needed to own them.

Later that week, he found an excuse to linger after dinner.

He slipped into the yard under cover of dusk, where Jorlan's training sword still leaned against the fence.

No one paid him any mind, why would they?

Cael stood in the yard for a long time just holding the blade in both hands.

The familiar weight of it, the awkward balance.

He used to despise this. The way the blurriness made everything a blur of silver and motion.

But now… he raised the blade and watched how the moonlight caught the steel, every scratch and notch clear.

He struck at the post. Once. Twice.

The first blow jarred his wrists the way it always had.

But the second? His arms moved cleaner, the blade cutting air with less resistance.

His sight tracked the post, the little flecks of bark breaking off. He adjusted his angle instinctively.

When he struck again, the post cracked at the seam.

He stood there for a moment, breathing hard, unsure whether to feel proud or frightened.

The whispers didn't come tonight. But he could still feel the faint hum in his chest, approving somehow.

That night, back in his room, Cael leaned the training sword in the corner and unfastened the locket again.

No parchment this time. No hidden hair. Just the faint glow of memory under his thumb.

He whispered into the hollow shell of it.

"I will not squander this."

The faint warmth that answered him felt almost like a hand at his shoulder.

For the first time, he believed himself.

By the end of the week, he had made a habit of it.

Every night he logged what he'd learned.

The progress was small, but it was there.

He could touch the tower stones now and bring forth more distinct memories. Not just voices, but faces.

An old Varissen lord swearing vengeance in the great hall.A kitchen girl sobbing by the hearth.A pair of hands counting coins, faster than his eyes could follow.

When he focused hard enough, he could even see himself. Faint, blurred, as though he stood outside himself, watching his own life through another's memory.

The locket responded most strongly. The whispers there were more intimate, more focused. The faint murmur of his mother's voice, "Little thorn" now came with a second phrase he hadn't noticed before:

"What they cannot take by the blade, they will try to take with gold. Do not let them."

At one point, late into the night, he found himself standing outside the counting house itself.

The door was locked, but he pressed his fingers to the wood anyway.

Warm.

He closed his eyes and let the resonance guide him.

He heard the soft clink of coins, the rustle of ledgers, and a voice, thin and bitter, muttering about debts that would never be repaid.

The tower, the locket, the counting house, all of them held pieces of the same truth:

This family lived on a knife's edge, and no one else seemed to notice but him.

Days passed.

On the tenth day since the locket opened, Cael stood at his desk, looking over his list.

It had grown longer:

— Perfect memory.

— Sight (subtle + sharp).

— Resonance (touch + familiarity = whispers, visions, warmth).

— Reflexes improving (to test further).

— Sense of presence (feeling watched when touching certain places, not unpleasant but… heavy).

At the bottom, he wrote:

What comes next?

He stared at the question for a long time before finally setting the quill down.

...

That evening, as the candles in the hall burned low, he watched Edric hand Jorlan a purse heavy with coin.

The old man didn't even look at Cael as he muttered something about "earn it back in the next tourney."

Jorlan smirked, pocketed the gold, and swaggered off.

And Cael caught it, just the faintest glance between the butler and the pageboy, the quiet transfer of another coin behind Edric's back. Not rebellion, not even secrecy, just… habit. A quiet wager on the son everyone assumed would win. Even Edric, if he noticed, did nothing to stop it.

He smiled faintly to himself.

If even the servants hedged their bets with silver, and Edric saw it yet dismissed it, too proud to believe coin could ever outweigh his name, then Cael already understood more of this household than Edric ever would.

And he intended to use that.

...

That night, in the quiet of his room, he laid the locket flat on the desk and placed one palm on it, one on the stones.

He closed his eyes and whispered:

"I don't know what you want from me. But I won't be cut down before I bloom. I swear it."

For the first time, no whisper answered.

But the warmth surged, spreading through him like a silent oath accepted.

Cael leaned back in his chair and let the silence settle around him.

When he finally rose to blow out the candle, the faint hum in the walls followed him to bed. This time they didn't seem so mournful.

***

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