Three weeks changed a great many things in the Almeric Empire, though none of those changes were the sort that made history books.
No banners fell. No armies marched through the capital. No trumpets sounded from the palace balconies to announce a grand victory or a fresh tragedy.
Instead, the changes arrived like winter—quiet, persistent, creeping into every crack.
Starfall Manor, once pristine as a museum and twice as cold, began to feel like a place where someone might actually live.
It did not happen all at once.
It happened in the small ways first: the scent of lavender and warm bread in the corridors, the shift in footsteps from hesitant to purposeful, the way servants began to breathe again as though they were no longer waiting to be caught in some unseen trap. The hearth fires burned steadier. Curtains were opened each morning without someone glancing over their shoulder. A vase of fresh-cut flowers appeared on a table and remained there, replaced before it could wilt, not because a schedule demanded it—but because someone cared enough to do it.
Asimi cared.
And she was ruthless about it.
The day after she discovered that the "gift" came with eyes attached—documentation stamped and sealed, the quiet admission that every imperial manor was monitored by the crown's machinery—she had smiled politely at the steward and then removed him like a splinter.
The Office of Domestic Administration did not take kindly to splinters being pulled from its skin.
Letters arrived—crisp, official, dripping with gentle offense. Notices arrived. "Requests" arrived. All written in that precise bureaucratic language that pretended to be helpful while trying to remind its recipient who truly held the chain.
Asimi read them in silence, her expression serene.
Then she wrote back with equal serenity, and with words that carried the weight of imperial marriage and noble blood.
Starfall Manor, she reminded them, belonged to the Imperial House.
And the child within it belonged to the Emperor.
The Office's protest was not loud. It was… persistent. It tightened in small ways. A shipment of linens delayed. A cook's contract suddenly "misfiled." A guard rotation "accidentally" forgotten. A clerk from the office appearing at Starfall's gate with a smile that was too bright, insisting on an inspection "for safety."
Each time, the clerk was turned away by a new line of Starfall guards—men and women whose eyes held the steady calm of soldiers who knew exactly who they served. Two-thirds of the remaining household staff were loyal now, handpicked from Asimi's personal connections, her House Brionac's network, and—quietly—those vetted by Gina Othel's watchful eye.
Two-thirds.
That was enough to make the manor breathe.
But not enough to make it safe.
Because holdouts still existed.
They were not obvious. They did not hiss their resentment in corridors or refuse orders with dramatic defiance. The palace did not tolerate servants that foolish. No, the holdouts were subtler: a maid who repeated everything she heard as if she were simply fond of gossip; a footman who lingered too long outside certain doors; a gardener whose eyes were always down but whose ears seemed always up.
Asimi allowed them to remain.
Not because she trusted them.
Because sometimes it was better to know where the poison sat than to chase it blind through your walls.
On a pale afternoon, with the sun a thin coin behind cloud, Asimi sat in Starfall's sitting room with Alaric in her lap.
He was still small, still helpless, still trapped in the soft indignity of infancy. Yet his eyes were clearer now, his gaze sharper. He could follow motion. He could recognize faces. He could fix his attention on a person and make them uncomfortable with the intensity of it, even without words.
Gina stood at the window, watching the front gate through a narrow gap in the curtain.
"Two carriages," she murmured. "One bears Angelique colors."
Asimi's fingers stilled where they had been tracing slow patterns over Alaric's swaddling cloth. Her metallic eyes lifted.
"Tabris," she said softly.
Gina nodded once. "With a small escort. Not large enough to threaten. Large enough to remind."
Asimi's expression remained calm, but Alaric felt the faint tightening in her posture. Duke Tabris Angelique was not merely a noble. He was one of the five great ducal rulers of the Empire, and he was dangerous in the quiet way that knives were dangerous: not because they screamed, but because they waited.
Study.
The ability to copy another's ability, to steal the essence of what made them formidable.
The mere existence of such a man in the palace's orbit was unsettling. In a world where powers awakened at eight and shaped lives thereafter, a man who could borrow power was a man who could become anyone's shadow.
Asimi rose smoothly, shifting Alaric against her shoulder. She adjusted her gown—deep midnight trimmed with pale silver—and moved toward the entry hall with a grace that made even irritation look elegant.
"Bring him," she told Gina.
Gina followed at once, hands ready. Asimi's arms eased Alaric into Gina's hold without hesitation. It was a small, intimate trust: hold my son while I speak with wolves.
Alaric's gaze remained on Asimi as Gina cradled him. He watched his mother's face settle fully into her courtly mask.
By the time the front doors opened, Asimi was the Empress-Consort again—moonbound regality made flesh.
Duke Tabris Angelique entered with a polite smile and a sweeping bow that was almost convincing. He wore a dark coat lined in silver threadwork, the cut immaculate, the fabric expensive. His hair was midnight-black, and though his eyes were calm, there was something behind them that felt like a locked door.
"My lady," Tabris greeted warmly. "Starfall suits you. It is good to see the manor finally occupied as it was meant to be."
"As it was meant to be," Asimi echoed softly, and the words carried a slight edge. She did not offer her hand. She did not need to. "Duke Tabris. To what do I owe the honor?"
Tabris smiled as if he had not noticed the edge. "I came to pay respects," he said smoothly. "And to offer congratulations."
His gaze drifted toward Gina and Alaric.
"And to meet him," Tabris added.
Gina's posture tightened minutely. She remained silent, servant-still, though her amber eyes sharpened. Alaric stared back at Tabris with the blank seriousness of an infant—only the mind behind that seriousness was busy measuring.
Tabris stepped closer, careful not to invade space too rudely. He inclined his head toward Alaric. "Prince Alaric," he murmured. "Already the court speaks of you."
Asimi's smile remained pleasant. "The court speaks of everything," she replied.
Tabris chuckled softly. "True." Then his gaze returned to Asimi, and his voice shifted—still polite, but more purposeful. "May we speak privately?"
Asimi did not answer at once. She glanced toward the staff in the entry hall—two maids, a footman, a guard. One of the maids was a holdout, Alaric recognized from the subtle stiffness in her posture whenever Asimi spoke.
Asimi's eyes met Gina's briefly.
Gina nodded once, almost imperceptible, as if to say: I see them too.
Asimi gestured with graceful finality. "This way."
She led Tabris into Starfall's sitting room, a chamber warmed by a bright hearth and softened by new furnishings Asimi had chosen herself—less ornate than the manor's original pieces, but more lived-in. A small table held a tea set. Fresh flowers sat in a vase. The air smelled faintly of spiced citrus.
Gina remained near the door, Alaric in her arms, her posture respectful but unyielding. Tabris's escort stayed outside.
Once the doors shut, the sitting room became its own world.
Tabris seated himself without being asked, crossing one leg over the other with effortless ease. Asimi remained standing for a moment longer, then sat opposite him with careful composure.
"You have changed the staff," Tabris observed, his tone conversational.
Asimi lifted her teacup, though she did not drink. "I have."
Tabris's smile remained faint. "The Office of Domestic Administration is displeased."
Asimi's metallic eyes gleamed. "The Office is welcome to be displeased."
Tabris chuckled again, and this time it sounded almost genuine. "You remind me," he said lightly, "why the Emperor favors you."
Asimi's expression did not shift. "Flattery is a poor substitute for purpose, Duke."
Tabris inclined his head, conceding. "Then I will be direct." He leaned forward slightly, hands clasped. "I have had a child."
Asimi's gaze sharpened. "Congratulations."
"A daughter," Tabris continued, and for the first time his voice softened—not much, but enough that the change was noticeable. "Her name is Dawn."
Alaric's mind sparked. Dawn Angelique. The name he already knew, not from experience, but from the strange inevitability of lore falling into place around him. A love interest. A Lune Deva. A tamer with a salamander at her side.
And Tabris… Tabris was here, speaking her into the world like a piece being placed on the board.
Tabris's mouth curved. "I came," he said, "because I would like our children to be playmates."
Asimi's eyes narrowed slightly. "Playmates."
"Yes." Tabris spread his hands as if the idea were innocent. "Alaric will be raised under scrutiny. He will have enemies he cannot name yet. Dawn will be raised among nobles who already look at her as a measure of my worth." His smile grew faintly sardonic. "Children should not grow alone inside cages."
Asimi's gaze flicked toward Gina and Alaric. "And you believe Starfall is a cage?"
Tabris's eyes held hers. "All imperial manors are cages," he replied quietly. "Some simply have prettier bars."
Asimi's fingers tightened around her teacup.
Tabris continued smoothly, not allowing her time to respond. "There is another matter," he said. "One older than these manors, older than the Office's scribbles and the court's gossip."
Asimi's expression cooled. "Speak it."
Tabris's voice lowered, as though he were offering a secret rather than a proposition. "An arranged marriage."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Even Gina's posture changed subtly—an imperceptible tightening, the faint shift of weight. Alaric felt it in the way her arms held him a fraction closer.
Asimi did not flinch outwardly, but Alaric felt the pulse of her irritation like a muted drumbeat.
"Arranged marriage," Asimi repeated, slow. "That practice has gone out of style."
Tabris nodded. "In public."
Asimi's eyes sharpened. "In law."
Tabris smiled. "Law is shaped by those with enough power to bend it."
Asimi's voice was soft, but edged. "And you come to my son's manor, in the midst of Holtzen's threats and internal factions, to propose binding him to your house?"
Tabris's gaze remained steady. "Yes."
Asimi leaned back slightly. "Why."
Tabris's expression shifted, the polite mask thinning just enough to reveal something more calculating beneath.
"Because your son is vulnerable," he said simply.
Asimi's gaze turned cold.
Tabris lifted one hand, not in surrender, but in emphasis. "Do not mistake me," he said, voice calm. "I do not come to insult him. I come because everyone knows what is happening."
Asimi did not speak.
Tabris's eyes flicked briefly to Alaric, then back to Asimi. "The palace divides itself into two courts," he said. "The first Empress's legacy and your line. The Crown Prince's faction grows bold. Holtzen threatens war under the banner of faith. Hammerdeep's cannons and rifles are not rumors." He let the words settle, then continued, quieter. "And your son is a tenth child with an unusual visage that makes him memorable."
Asimi's jaw tightened.
Tabris's voice softened slightly, as if he were offering a kindness disguised as pragmatism. "If I place my house's support behind Alaric," he said, "it becomes more difficult to crush him quietly."
Asimi's eyes narrowed. "So you want to protect him."
Tabris's smile returned—small, controlled. "I want to align interests," he corrected. "Protection is a consequence of alignment."
Asimi's laugh was soft and without humor. "And what do you gain, Duke?"
Tabris did not pretend. "Influence," he said. "A future tie to imperial blood. And—"
He hesitated for the first time, and in that hesitation Alaric glimpsed something almost human.
"—and a chance," Tabris added, quieter, "for my daughter not to be dismissed."
Asimi's gaze sharpened further. "Dismissed."
Tabris's jaw tightened. "Dawn is my second child," he admitted. "A girl. Lune-bound." His mouth twisted faintly. "The court has already begun whispering what that means. That she will be 'soft.' That she will be 'less useful.'"
Asimi's eyes flicked with something like recognition. She knew what it was to be judged before breathing.
Tabris continued, voice low. "If Dawn is bound to an imperial prince, she cannot be treated as disposable. She becomes… relevant."
Asimi's fingers loosened slightly around her cup. "So your argument is this," she said slowly. "You offer your support and protection behind my son… and in return, you secure your daughter's future."
Tabris nodded. "Yes."
Asimi studied him, her gaze as sharp as any blade in the palace armory. "And if I refuse?"
Tabris's smile remained polite. "Then the palace continues as it is," he said softly. "And your son remains a solitary piece with no alliances of his own."
Asimi's eyes glinted. "He has me."
Tabris held her gaze. "You are one woman in a palace full of machinery," he replied quietly. "Even you cannot be everywhere."
Silence stretched.
Alaric's newborn body shifted slightly in Gina's arms, a soft fussing sound in his throat. Gina murmured under her breath, soothing him without taking her eyes off Tabris.
Asimi's gaze dropped to Alaric for a heartbeat—her expression softening just a fraction—then lifted again to Tabris.
"You are dangerous," Asimi said softly.
Tabris's smile turned faintly amused. "Most dukes are."
Asimi's voice remained calm. "Your ability," she added, and Tabris's eyes sharpened. "Study."
For the first time, Tabris's polite mask tightened. "My ability is not relevant to this conversation."
"Asimi's son's future is relevant to everything," Asimi replied. "If you can copy abilities, you can become the shadow of anyone you touch. That is not a small concern when discussing binding my child to your house."
Tabris's gaze held hers. "I have never copied an ability unlawfully," he said, voice controlled.
Asimi's smile was faint. "And yet the law is not what keeps children safe."
Tabris exhaled slowly, then leaned back, as if accepting the duel of words. "Then set terms," he said.
Asimi's eyes narrowed. "Terms."
"Yes," Tabris replied. "You are apprehensive. You should be. Arrange them in a way that benefits your son. Demand formal protections. Written vows. Witnesses. Binding contracts under Valion's domain of Nobility, if you like." His smile sharpened slightly. "Make it lawful. Your Emperor loves law."
Asimi's gaze flicked, just briefly, as though considering.
Tabris continued, pressing while the door was open. "I am not asking you to marry them tomorrow," he said. "I am asking you to allow them to know each other. To grow together. To become allies before the palace teaches them that affection is weakness."
Asimi's metallic eyes held him for a long moment.
Then she spoke, voice soft and decisive.
"I will not promise my son," Asimi said. "Not now. Not to anyone."
Tabris's expression did not change, but Alaric sensed the tension in him—the faint tightening at the jaw.
Asimi continued, not allowing him to interrupt. "But," she said, and the word shifted the room, "I will allow playmates."
Tabris's eyes flickered.
"As for marriage," Asimi added, "it will be discussed only when Alaric can speak for himself."
Tabris's smile returned, faint and satisfied. "A reasonable compromise."
Asimi's gaze sharpened. "Do not mistake me," she said softly. "If your interest in my son is anything less than what you claim—if you seek to use him as leverage—"
Tabris inclined his head. "You will cut my hands off," he finished politely. "Yes. I have heard the rumors about Empress-Consort Asimi's gentleness."
Asimi's smile was sweet. "Then we understand each other."
Tabris rose, smoothing his coat. "I will arrange a visit," he said. "When Dawn is strong enough to travel."
Asimi inclined her head, gracious. "Send word first."
Tabris bowed once more, and this time it was deeper—respectful, almost sincere. "Your son will have enemies," he said quietly. "Do not let pride deny him shields."
Asimi's expression did not soften, but her eyes held something thoughtful. "And do not let ambition pretend to be kindness," she replied.
Tabris smiled faintly and turned to leave.
When the doors shut behind him, the sitting room seemed to exhale.
Gina stepped closer, Alaric still held securely. "Empress-Consort," she murmured, "do you trust him?"
Asimi's gaze remained fixed on the closed doors. "No," she said simply.
Gina's amber eyes narrowed. "Then why—"
"Because he is right about one thing," Asimi replied softly, and her voice carried a hint of weariness beneath the steel. "The palace counts allies. And my son has too few."
Alaric stared up at Asimi from Gina's arms.
He could not speak. Could not tell her that Dawn would one day stand on a moonlit terrace with royal-blue eyes glowing faintly, a salamander curled at her feet. Could not tell her that this proposal, old-fashioned and out of style, might become the spine of something far greater than a mere political arrangement.
But he could feel it—the way the board shifted when a piece was placed.
Dawn Angelique.
A name that sounded like sunrise in a cold house.
And in Starfall Manor, where walls still had mouths and the crown still had eyes, Asimi had just done something quietly radical:
She had chosen to add a shield… even if it came attached to another blade.