The first sign something was coming arrived folded in cream-colored paper.
Argus noticed it because his mother did.
She stood in the doorway when he returned to their quarters that evening, holding the envelope between her fingers like it might burn her. Her expression was carefully composed, but Argus saw the tension immediately. He had learned to read her silences long before he learned to read rooms.
"Did something happen?" he asked.
She hesitated, then shook her head. "No. Not yet."
That answer told him far more than reassurance would have.
She handed him the envelope. The seal bore House Aethra's crest, pressed deep and clean, not rushed. Formal. Deliberate.
Argus did not open it immediately. He turned it over once, feeling the thickness, the weight of the paper. This wasn't a reprimand. It wasn't a summons for discipline.
It was an announcement.
He broke the seal carefully and unfolded the letter.
The wording was precise, almost elegant.
House Aethra would host a winter conclave in three weeks' time. Representatives from allied and rival families alike would attend. Attendance from all eligible heirs was expected.
Expected.
Argus read the letter twice more, slower each time.
He was not named directly. He was included under a category.
Eligible heirs.
His mother watched his face closely. "You don't have to go," she said, too quickly.
Argus looked up. "That's not true."
Her shoulders sagged. "I can speak to—"
"No," Argus said gently. "You shouldn't."
She fell silent.
They both understood what refusing would mean. Absence would be noticed. Absence would be interpreted. In a house like Aethra, absence was never neutral.
"Why now?" his mother asked quietly.
Argus folded the letter and placed it on the table. "Because people are curious."
She looked away.
The next days confirmed his suspicion.
Preparations began almost immediately. Servants moved with renewed urgency. Tailors were summoned. The estate's outer halls were cleaned with unnecessary thoroughness. Instructors adjusted schedules, excusing certain heirs from training while quietly reassigning others.
Argus was not excused.
If anything, his days grew more crowded.
Instructors corrected him more often now, not because he needed it, but because they were watching. He made sure every mistake was small and explainable. Every success, forgettable.
Still, he felt the pressure building.
That night, alone again, Argus returned to the system.
He sat cross-legged on his bed, eyes closed, breathing slow. The presence behind his right eye answered more readily now, no longer distant but restrained, like a blade kept deliberately sheathed.
Aethric Archive (Fragment)Status: StableAdaptive capacity: Narrow expansion available
"Show me," Argus thought.
Define objective.
He considered the coming conclave. The conversations. The glances. The tests disguised as pleasantries.
"I need awareness," he thought. "Not strength. Not speed. Awareness."
Silence followed.
Then:
Clarify: Physical, cognitive, or perceptual?
Argus felt his pulse quicken slightly.
Perceptual was dangerous. Too close to whatever waited behind his eye. Cognitive carried risks he wasn't prepared to explore.
He chose carefully.
"Cognitive," he thought. "Limited. Short duration."
Risk acknowledged.Protocol: Micro-Pattern Recognition TrialObjective: Improve recognition of repeated social and physical cues.Cost: Mental fatigue.Consent required.
Argus hesitated.
This was new. Not muscles. Not balance.
His mind.
"Yes," he thought.
The pressure behind his eye tightened, then spread, not painfully, but insistently. It felt like someone adjusting the focus on a lens he didn't know he possessed.
Images surfaced. Not memories. Patterns.
He saw Vaelor's posture when angry. The way instructors leaned forward when something interested them. The slight pause before a servant lied.
It wasn't revelation.
It was connection.
Argus's breathing quickened despite his effort to remain calm. He grounded himself, focusing on the feel of the mattress beneath him, the steady rhythm of his heart.
The sensation faded slowly.
Trial complete.Result: Pattern recognition efficiency +0.9%Cumulative cognitive load increased.Warning: Overuse may cause detachment symptoms.
Argus opened his eyes.
Less than one percent.
And yet, the world felt subtly sharper.
"So this is the trade," he murmured.
Correct.
He lay back and stared at the ceiling.
Awareness came with distance.
Distance came with cost.
He would have to remember that.
The first sibling to confront him about the conclave was not Vaelor.
It was Maelis.
She found him in the inner garden two days later, seated beneath a bare-limbed tree, watching servants string early lights between stone pillars. Winter preparations.
She approached without announcement, steps soft enough that he might not have noticed her before.
Now, he did.
"Argus," she said pleasantly. "You'll be attending the conclave."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes," he replied.
"How exciting," she said, her smile flawless. "It will be your first."
Argus inclined his head. "I suppose so."
Maelis circled the bench, examining him the way one examined a garment for flaws. "You should be grateful. Opportunities like this don't come often to branch members."
"I am," Argus said. He meant it, in a way she would never understand.
Maelis stopped in front of him. "You'll be introduced," she continued. "People will ask questions. It's important you answer correctly."
"What's correct?" Argus asked.
She smiled again, a little sharper. "That you remember your place."
There it was.
Argus met her gaze. "I'll do my best."
She studied him, clearly searching for something beneath the compliance. Finding nothing, she straightened.
"I hope so," she said lightly. "Embarrassment reflects poorly on everyone."
She turned to leave, then paused. "You'll be wearing gray."
Argus blinked. "Gray?"
"Branch color," she said over her shoulder. "Silver would be… presumptuous."
She left without waiting for a response.
Argus remained on the bench, expression neutral.
Gray.
So that was how they planned to mark him.
He exhaled slowly.
Uniforms mattered in rooms where words were weapons.
That evening, his mother brought the garments.
Simple. Well-made. Subdued.
She laid them out carefully, smoothing invisible creases with trembling fingers.
"I can alter them," she said. "Make them stand out more."
Argus shook his head. "No."
She looked at him sharply. "Why not?"
"Because standing out is exactly what they expect," he replied.
She studied his face, then nodded slowly.
"You've changed," she said.
Argus didn't deny it.
The final pressure came from an unexpected direction.
Theron intercepted him outside the training hall the next morning, expression serious.
"You're attending the conclave," he said.
"Yes."
Theron nodded. "Then listen."
Argus waited.
"You will be tested," Theron continued. "Not by strength. Not openly. By implication. By tradition. By silence."
"I know."
Theron's eyes narrowed slightly. "Do you?"
Argus met his gaze. "Enough to survive."
Theron studied him for a long moment, then reached into his belt pouch and withdrew a small, plain pin. No crest. No ornament.
"Wear this," he said, pressing it into Argus's palm. "Inside your collar. It's nothing official. But some people will notice."
Argus looked down at it. "Why help me?"
Theron's jaw tightened. "Because if you fall apart in that room, they'll decide something about the rest of us too."
He stepped back. "Don't make me regret this."
Argus closed his fingers around the pin. "I won't."
Theron turned and left.
Argus stood there for a moment, then tucked the pin away.
Not a shield.
But a signal.
That night, as the estate lights dimmed and preparations continued in hushed urgency, Argus lay awake and thought about rooms filled with smiling enemies.
He thought about children who had already learned how to ruin lives without raising their voices.
He thought about what it meant to be seen.
The system stirred faintly, as if sensing his focus.
Upcoming environment: High-density social interaction.Recommendation: Observation over intervention.
Argus stared into the dark.
"I know," he thought.
He didn't need to win at the conclave.
He needed to leave it remembered.
And not for the reasons they expected.
Outside, the House of Aethra prepared to display its heirs like polished blades.
Argus lay still, breathing evenly, gray garments folded neatly at his side.
The invitation had been delivered.
The game had begun.