His brother slipped away from the cluster near Marian and approached with a smile that looked pleasant enough for witnesses. "Summoned already?" he asked. "That is fast. Father must be eager to discuss your future. Or the lack of it."
Lucien turned slightly. "Congratulations to Marian."
Cedric blinked once, annoyed by the answer.
"She deserves it," Lucien added.
"That she does," Cedric said, recovering quickly. "A useful ability. Imagine that."
Lucien's eyes moved across Cedric's face. Twenty-one. Alive. Beautiful in the way polished steel was beautiful, all shine until the edge entered flesh. In the ruined future, Cedric had been captured at Harren's Field. Lucien had heard rumors afterward, ugly ones, imperial cages beneath wet stone, noble prisoners traded for favors, awakeners broken for their abilities. He had not known which rumors were true. He had not cared enough soon enough.
Looking at Cedric now, Lucien felt no brotherly affection rise. But hatred had become complicated after death.
"Usefulness changes depending on the battlefield," Lucien said.
Cedric's smile thinned. "A comforting thought for those without any."
Gareth's heavier hand landed on Cedric's shoulder before Lucien could answer. "Leave him," Gareth said, though his grin robbed the words of kindness. "He looks like he might start seeing blue things again."
Cedric chuckled.
Lucien regarded Gareth for a moment. Older in bearing if not by succession, broad-shouldered, bright-eyed, already beloved by the yard and the younger knights. Steel had answered him at awakening. Steel loved men like Gareth, straightforward men, forceful men, men who never had to wonder whether the world would respect them if they stayed silent.
"You both seem very entertained," Lucien said.
Gareth shrugged. "Better entertained than devastated. What else would you have us do? Weep because you drew carnival cards?"
"Not necessary," Lucien said. "I would hate to ask too much of you."
Cedric's eyes sharpened at the mildness of the answer.
That was what unsettled him. Not defiance. Not anger. Calm.
The old Lucien would have snapped. He would have insulted Gareth's skull, Cedric's vanity, perhaps dragged Marian into it out of wounded stupidity and regretted it later when pride made apologies impossible. He would have made the scene worse because any attention felt better than helplessness.
But this Lucien had watched them die.
He knew the exact weight of words that could never be taken back.
So he inclined his head with the barest courtesy and walked away.
Neither brother stopped him.
The east corridor was quieter, cooler, lined with portraits of Valehart ancestors who all looked as though they had never made a mistake without ordering someone else to pay for it. Lucien moved past them with measured steps. His body remembered this path. Left at the silver brazier. Past the old war tapestry showing the Stag Charge at Merrow Hill. Sixteen steps beneath the arched windows. Then the heavy oak door at the end, carved with the family crest.
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He had stood outside this door many times in his first life.
As a child, he had dreaded it because his father's office meant lessons, correction, and expectation. As a young man, he had resented it because the room became a court where his failures were recorded with terrible silence. Later, after he left, he had imagined the office often while drunk, always with his father inside counting debts, reading reports, and deciding how much of his disappointing son could be hidden from public view.
Now the door stood before him again.
Lucien raised his hand to knock.
The wood opened before his knuckles touched it.
"Enter," Count Aldren said from within.
Lucien stepped inside.
His father's office smelled of ink, leather, steel polish, and the faint smoke of the hearth. It was exactly as he remembered and not as ruined as memory wanted it to be. Maps covered one wall, marking the Valehart territory, the western border roads, old fort lines, villages, river passes, and the distant route to Prav.
Count Aldren stood behind his desk, not seated. That meant the conversation was not casual.
Lucien stopped two paces from the chair and bowed.
"Father."
Aldren watched him for long enough that the silence became a tool. He had always been good at that. Silence from Aldren Valehart could make seasoned knights confess mistakes they had not yet committed.
"What will you be doing now?" his father asked.
In his first life, Lucien had heard condemnation in it.
Now he heard fear.
Aldren's face did not show it. His father was not a man who let emotion spill cheaply. But Lucien had died with too many regrets to remain blind to every crack. The Count's eyes were sharper than usual, his jaw too still, his hands clasped behind his back with enough force that one thumb pressed white against the other.
He was not asking because he had already given up.
He was asking because he did not know how to save him without first learning whether Lucien intended to drown.
Lucien breathed once.
"What else," he said, voice level. "I'll train. What would a child of a noble family with a charlatan skill have to do but that?"
Aldren's expression shifted by the smallest fraction.
It was not relief.
If anything, it looked like disappointment twisted through confusion.
Lucien understood why a heartbeat later, and the understanding almost made him smile.
His father had expected anger. Perhaps even wanted it. A furious son could be pointed toward a sword yard. A rebellious son could be punished, guided, challenged, baited into discipline. A boy who cursed the world could be taught to carve a place in it out of spite.
But Lucien was calm.
Too calm.
Too accepting.
That unsettled Aldren more than rage would have.
The Count moved around the desk slowly. "Is that all that ability can do? Summon Tarot cards? I have some knowledge about awakeners who got something similar, but they never amounted to much." He paused, the next words rougher because he forced them out. "Not that I'm saying you should give up."
Lucien looked at him.
In another life, that sentence would have sounded like poison.
Now it sounded like a man walking across thin ice while pretending the cold water beneath did not exist.
"That's because they believe that their fate is in the hands of their awakening, not their own, Father."
Aldren went very still.
For a moment, the office seemed to shrink around them.
"That," Aldren said slowly, "is a mature thing to say."
Lucien nearly laughed again, but not with bitterness this time. Of course, it was mature. It had taken him death, ruin, exile, a gallows, and the complete extinction of everything he loved to learn how small an awakening was compared to the hand that held it.
Aldren walked to the map wall and stared at the western roads as though they offered a more manageable battlefield than his son. "Then you'll head to the barracks. Even without a proper awakening, you can still learn swordsmanship and improve your standing. We have several valiant and powerful knights who can guide you to achieve remarkable growth in the path of swords. Ask Delan. He'll help you master the Imperial Swordsmanship."
Delan.
The name struck a memory loose.
Sir Delan Marr, captain-instructor of the Valehart barracks. A brutal man with a square beard, scarred knuckles, and a belief that every human problem could be improved by footwork, exhaustion, and being struck in the ribs with a wooden sword. In the first life, Lucien avoided him after three humiliating lessons. Delan had called him soft. Lucien had called him an aging ox with a sword. Gareth laughed. Cedric repeated the story for months.
Sir Delan later died at Blackmere Ford beside Aldren.
Lucien swallowed the memory.
"Father. May I say something?"
Aldren turned from the map. "Go ahead."
"I'd like a one-month leave from the house."