The carriage ride took forty minutes.
Dudian spent the first ten trying to memorize the route—turns, landmarks, potential escape paths. Old habit. The streets of the noble district gave way to wider roads, then to a private lane lined with ancient trees whose branches intertwined overhead like a cathedral ceiling.
He spent the next ten minutes cataloging the carriage's interior. The seats were real leather. The cushions were stuffed with something so soft it felt like sitting on clouds. A small cabinet held crystal decanters filled with liquids Kael couldn't name but assumed cost more than his entire former life. The Vane crest—a silver flower, something like a thistle but more elegant—was embroidered on every surface.
The last twenty minutes, he gave up trying to stay alert and just stared out the window like the five-year-old he technically was.
The estate appeared gradually. First the walls—white stone, thirty feet high, covered in climbing roses that Dudian's Earth-trained eye noted were glowing faintly. Magical roses. Of course. Then the gates—iron wrought into the same silver flower pattern, swinging open without anyone visible operating them. Then the grounds—gardens that looked like they'd been designed by someone who considered Versailles "a bit much."
And finally, the house.
Dudian had seen mansions. He'd visited them in his Earth life, during corporate retreats and client meetings. He'd thought he understood luxury.
He had not understood luxury.
The Vane estate rose before him like a palace that had decided to be humble and failed spectacularly. White stone, blue roofs, towers at each corner, more windows than Dudian could count. A fountain in the circular drive featured a marble woman holding a sphere of actual floating water that cycled endlessly upward.
The carriage stopped.
A servant opened the door.
And Dudian, for the first time in two lifetimes, had absolutely no idea what to do.
"Welcome home, young master."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. Dudian spun, looking for the speaker, and found a man standing exactly where no one had been standing a second ago.
He was old. Not frail-old—sharp-old, like a blade that's been around long enough to know exactly how sharp it needs to be. Silver hair, immaculate suit, posture so straight it looked painful. His eyes were pale gray and they were studying Dudian with the same intensity Dudian usually directed at others.
"I am Grimsby," the man said. "Butler of the Vane household. Lady Vane sent word ahead of your arrival. If you will follow me, I shall show you to your rooms."
"My... rooms?" Kael's voice came out smaller than he intended.
"Plural." Grimsby's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes might have been amusement. "Young Master Dorian attempted to claim the east-facing suite during his last visit. Lady Vane has specified that you are to have first choice. The east suite has excellent morning light. The west suite has a balcony overlooking the gardens. The tower room is, of course, a tower room."
Dudian blinked. "I get to... choose?"
"You are the young master of this house." Grimsby said it like it was obvious. "You will have many choices. Choosing where to sleep is among the simpler ones. Now, if you will follow me? The staff is eager to meet you, and I believe the kitchens have prepared refreshments."
He turned and walked toward the enormous doors without waiting for a response.
Dudian looked back at the carriage. The driver was already unhitching the horses, paying him no attention. He looked at the grounds. The gardens stretched endlessly in every direction. He looked at the house.
Don't get comfortable, he told himself. This could disappear. Make yourself useful. Make yourself indispensable.
Then he squared his tiny shoulders and followed Grimsby into the Vane estate.
The inside was worse.
Not worse as in bad—worse as in overwhelming. Marble floors polished to mirror shine. Tapestries that probably depicted historical events Kael knew nothing about. Chandeliers that hung three stories above and looked like they were made of crystallized magic. Portraits lined the walls—generations of Vanes staring down with various expressions of aristocratic disdain.
Dudian counted thirty-seven portraits before giving up.
Grimsby led him through corridors that twisted and turned in ways that felt intentional, like the house itself was testing whether he could remember the path. (He could. Old habit.) They passed servants who stopped whatever they were doing to bow or curtsy. They passed rooms with doors slightly ajar, revealing libraries, sitting rooms, what looked like a small ballroom.
Finally, they reached a section of the house that felt... different. Newer. Less formal.
"These are the family quarters," Grimsby said. "Lady Vane's rooms are at the end of this hall. Your rooms will be—"
"Mine."
The voice came from behind them.
Dudian turned to find a girl his age standing in a doorway. She was small, dark-haired, dressed in clothes that were clearly expensive but also clearly lived-in—scuffed shoes, a stain on her sleeve that might have been jam. Her eyes were fixed on Dudian with an intensity that made him instinctively step back.
"Mine," she repeated, pointing at Dudian. "I saw him first. Lena saw him first. You owe me."
Grimsby sighed. It was a tiny sound, barely audible, but Dudian caught it. "Young Mistress Lena, this is Dudian. He is Lady Vane's new—"
"Mine." The girl—Lena—crossed her arms. "Leo, tell him."
Another child appeared behind her. A boy, same age, same dark hair, same jam stain. He looked at Dudian with open curiosity. "Are you really from the slums? Did you kill anyone? Can you teach us to fight?"
"Leo." Grimsby's voice gained an edge. "Young Master Dudian has just arrived. He has not even seen his rooms. Interrogations can wait."
"But he's our new cousin," Lena said, as if this explained everything. "Cousins share secrets."
Dudian found his voice. "I'm not your cousin."
"Yet." Lena grinned. "Mama says adoption counts the same as blood in this house. So you're our cousin now. Which means you have to play with us."
"Lena." A new voice, older, exasperated. A woman appeared behind the twins—tall, tired-looking, with the same dark hair and an apron covered in flour. "Let the poor boy breathe. Grimsby, I apologize. They escaped while I was baking."
"The young masters and mistresses are, as always, a credit to their energy," Grimsby said, which Dudian recognized as polite for these children are feral.
The woman crouched down to Dudian's level. "I'm Marta. Head of kitchens. Which means I control the food, the treats, and the good gossip. You need anything, you come to me. Understood?"
Dudian nodded.
"Good. Now, I made cookies." She stood, grabbing a twin with each hand. "You'll come find us after you've settled. Cookies wait for no one."
She dragged the protesting twins away, leaving Dudian alone with Grimsby.
"The twins," Grimsby said, "are Leo and Lena Vane-Reyes. Their parents travel extensively. They reside here permanently. They are... enthusiastic."
"How old are they?"
"Four. They turned four last month. They have been asking for a new playmate since they learned to talk. You are, I suspect, about to become very popular."
Dudian wasn't sure if that was a threat or a promise.
His rooms were, as advertised, a suite.
Dudian stood in the middle of the sitting room—sitting room, he had a sitting room now—and tried to process what he was seeing. A fireplace, already lit. Bookshelves filled with actual books. A desk that cost more than his old hideout. A door led to a bedroom with a bed so large he could have fit his entire slum gang on it. Another door led to a bathroom with actual running water—magically heated, apparently, because the taps steamed when he turned them.
He stood there for a long moment.
Then he sat on the floor and laughed until tears came to his eyes.
This is ridiculous. This is absolutely ridiculous. I was sleeping behind a bakery last night. Now I have a sitting room. A SITTING ROOM.
A knock at the door interrupted his breakdown.
"Enter," he called, scrambling to his feet and wiping his eyes.
The door opened. No one was there.
Then a shadow detached itself from the corner and became a person.
Dudian yelped. He'd faced down nobles and survived the slums, but having a person materialize from darkness was a different level of terrifying.
The person was a woman. Young, maybe early twenties. Dressed in dark clothes that seemed to drink the light. Her face was expressionless, her eyes fixed on Dudian with an intensity that made the twins look relaxed.
"You're the new one," she said. Flat. No inflection.
"I... yes. Dudian."
"I know." She stepped closer. He stepped back. She kept coming. He kept retreating until his back hit the wall. She stopped inches from him, staring down.
"I'm Mira. I'm your shadow."
"My... shadow?"
"Bodyguard. Protector. Keeper." Her eyes narrowed. "I watched you in the alley today. You're clever. You notice things. That's good. It means you might survive."
"Survive what?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she reached out and touched his chest—right where the scar was, hidden under his clothes. Kael froze.
"Who gave you this?" she asked quietly.
"I don't know. I've always had it."
Mira studied him for a long moment. Then she stepped back, and just like that, the intensity vanished.
"You'll do," she said. "Try not to die. It would annoy Lady Vane."
And then she was gone. Not walking away—just gone, like she'd never been there at all.
Dudian stood against the wall, heart pounding, and made a mental note: Mira. Terrifying. Do not annoy.
Dinner was an experience.
The dining room was smaller than the ballroom-sized spaces Kael had glimpsed earlier, but "smaller" here meant "only thirty feet long." The table could seat twenty. Only three places were set—one at the head, two clustered together at one end.
Lady Vane was already seated when Dudian arrived, looking dramatically less formal than she had in the alley. She wore something comfortable—which for her apparently meant silk robes that probably cost a fortune. She was reading a document and sipping wine, but she looked up when Dudian entered and smiled.
"Little merchant! Sit. Eat. We have much to discuss."
Dudian took the seat beside her, unsure of protocol. Should he wait for her to start? Should he serve himself? Should he—
A servant appeared, placed food in front of him, and vanished before he could react.
Dudian looked at the plate. He didn't recognize half of it. The other half looked like food so fancy it had forgotten it was supposed to be edible.
Lady Vane watched him with amusement. "Problem?"
"I don't know which fork to use."
"Use all of them. Wrongly. It amuses me."
Dudian looked at the array of silverware. Then, deliberately, he picked up the smallest fork and used it to eat soup.
Lady Vane laughed. Actually laughed, not the polite chuckle nobles used. A real laugh.
"I was right about you," she said. "You're going to be entertaining."
"Is that all I am? Entertainment?"
She set down her wine, suddenly serious. "No. You're also my son. Officially, as of this afternoon. The paperwork is filed. The announcements will go out tomorrow. By sunset, every noble in the kingdom will know that Lady Hathaway Vane has acquired a child."
"Acquired." Dudian tasted the word. "Like property."
"Like family." Her eyes held his. "The Vane name is power. It's protection. It's also a target. Everyone who can't reach me will eventually try to reach you. That's the reality of being my son."
Dudian considered this. "So I need to be harder to reach."
"Exactly." She smiled. "Which is why, starting tomorrow, your education begins. Magic. Politics. Economics. History. You'll learn it all."
"What about baking?"
She blinked. "Baking?"
"The kitchen. Marta. She made cookies. I want to learn."
Lady Vane stared at him for a long moment. Then she laughed again, softer this time.
"You want to learn to bake."
"I have theories about bread. Slum food is terrible. I think I can make it better."
"My son, the baker." She shook her head, still smiling. "Fine. Baking lessons. But only after your studies."
"Deal."
They ate in companionable silence for a while. Dudian figured out which fork was actually for which course through careful observation, but he kept using them wrong anyway. Lady Vane noticed but said nothing.
Halfway through dinner, she spoke again.
"You asked about entertainment earlier. Whether that's all you are." She set down her utensils. "Let me be clear, Dudian. I've lived a long time. I've collected many things—art, land, businesses, rare artifacts. People, too. Allies, servants, the occasional enemy I kept around for amusement. But I've never collected a child."
Dudian waited.
"I adopted you because you're interesting. Because you negotiated with me at five years old. Because you made sure your slum friends would be cared for before you accepted safety for yourself. That's not entertainment. That's character." She met his eyes. "You're my son now. Not a pet, not a project, not a curiosity. My son. If anyone treats you otherwise, they answer to me. Understood?"
Dudian felt something in his chest loosen. Something he hadn't realized was tight.
"Understood," he said quietly.
"Good." Lady Vane picked up her wine. "Now eat your vegetables. They're good for you."
Dudian looked at the vegetables. They were artfully arranged, clearly expensive, probably delicious.
He ate them without complaint.
Later that night, alone in his ridiculous suite, Dudian lay in his ridiculous bed and stared at his ridiculous ceiling.
He'd counted seventeen exits from his rooms. Four doors, eight windows (some high, but he could work with that), and five potential escape routes through the walls (servant passages, maintenance access, one suspiciously movable bookshelf).
He'd cataloged every servant he'd met—twelve names, six faces, three who seemed genuinely friendly, two who seemed nervous around him, and one who'd glared.
He'd reviewed everything he'd learned about the household: Grimsby ran everything with terrifying efficiency. Marta controlled the kitchen and, apparently, the twins. The twins themselves were chaos incarnate. Mira could appear from shadows and knew about his scar. Lady Vane was exactly as dangerous as her reputation suggested, but also... warmer. Realer.
He'd learned all of this in one day.
Not bad, he thought. Not bad at all.
A sound from the corner.
Dudian didn't move. Didn't react. Just waited.
"Mira?" he said quietly.
No response. But the shadow by the window seemed slightly darker than before.
"You know," he said conversationally, "if you're going to watch me sleep, the least you could do is tell ghost stories. Make it interesting."
Silence.
Then, from the darkness: "Go to sleep, brat."
Dudian smiled.
Home, he thought. Maybe this could actually be home.
He closed his eyes and slept without dreams for the first time in months.