Chapter 3

The Grand Hall is always brighter when it's empty.

Afternoon light slants through the arched windows. It traces its way across the checkered marble, avoids the furnishings, bypasses the wall-mounted halberds and shields, and finally comes to rest near the piano. The light refuses to touch it directly. It passes beside the lid without warming it, casting its glow along the floor beside it.

The piano itself is an artifact. Polished, yes, but the cloth used to dust it leaves faint swirls on its surface, subtle patterns that expose the pretense of care. Someone has wiped it down without ever touching it.

The ivory keys have been sealed beneath the closed lid for as long as I can remember. No one plays it. No one even leans against it. It exists like a forgotten heirloom kept in sight only because removing it would imply emotional weight. Its presence is expected, but never welcomed.

I tried to play it once. I was six, maybe seven in a dress I hated, barefoot on marble. I remember dancing in the spaces between the black tiles, skipping the white, counting every third square aloud just to irritate Lucius. When he rolled his eyes and told me to stop being childish, I grew bolder—running my fingers across the piano's keys in a deliberate glissando, lowest to highest, a childish sweep that echoed off the ceiling. The sound was magnificent and defiant, exactly the sort of noise that would make my brother wince.

Father's voice cut through the music like a blade.

"Decorum."

The single word stopped me cold. Not Lucius's irritation, which I could dismiss, but Father's authority—the kind that makes servants straighten and makes the very air feel heavier. I pulled my hands back as if the keys had burned me.

I haven't played it since.

It's easier to be invisible than to invite scrutiny.

I watch the dust quietly drift to the piano's lid like it belongs there. The rest of the hall, in contrast, has already begun to brace itself. When Father returns, all adjusts; even the walls prepare.

The servants are the first to enter, moving with a peculiar blend of briskness and suppression as if some unspoken rule declares that haste should never resemble panic. Two chambermaids enter from the eastern corridor with identical baskets of polish and cloths. Sharing a glance, they split without speaking. The one on the right steps too quickly, knocking her hip against a column. She doesn't flinch. Neither looks at me.

One of the chambermaids is humming something under her breath as she polishes—a folk tune I recognize from the kitchen, three notes repeating. I find myself counting how many times she repeats it before Father's convoy reaches the gates. Forty-seven. I don't know why I keep counting. It seems important to finish.

Across the hall, the sound of precise boots echoes through the archways. Officers in tailored Windsor white, with deep-gold trim and brass-buttoned doublets, move like they're too aware of how they appear in formation. Their sabers hang evenly. Their hair is bound back. Some bear fresh lapel scrolls, their edges still stiff from seal-pressing. They exchange nods instead of greetings. Each nod carries different meaning.

One by one, they converge on the flanking corridors, where logisticians have already begun unfurling thick rolls of parchment onto long oak tables. As notebooks and ledgers open, murmuring begins.

"New estimates from the Academ-Mine. Northern iron projections were revised upward from last season."

"Adjusted why?"

"The southern deposits just struck a new lode. Less need for eastern imports."

"Shift it all to Solkara. Fortification engineers are doubling their requests."

"Send that to Quartermaster Linzi. She's petitioning for double-rationed granite again—claims the cliff wall near Grey-Veins's Tooth isn't stable enough for siege archways."

"And the cavalry?"

"Still pressing for expanded grazing lands."

"Again?"

"If they intend to double horse reserves, yes. Lord-General wants a quick-reaction force adjacent to Solmiris. That means farriers need double-time."

This is not commerce for luxury. This is commerce for dominance.

There are no merchants here. No velvet. No silks draped over outstretched arms. No brooches, perfumes, or laughter behind fans. These are numbers spoken in war-tones. Every ledger is one of conquest.

A steward passes me with a stack of sealed dispatches. He doesn't slow his pace. The edge of one scroll brushes my shoulder. He doesn't acknowledge me. I stand up from beneath the western colonnade, watching everything.

The pillars here are Windsor-etched, each bearing the same vertical inlay: a golden falcon, wings half spread, claws gripping two crossed swords. One downward, one upward. Balance through readiness. Readiness through superiority. The Windsor military crest is more than an emblem. It's an operating doctrine.

Beyond the windows, I can just barely glimpse the top battlements. Flags have already begun to change. The falcon is raised above the Pillared Sun, one level higher than the national sigil. As always.

I start walking toward Lucius, who's leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, on the opposite side of the Grand Hall from me. His shoulders are squared as though holding something unseen in place. His eyes never move. Not toward the piano, banners, or even the officers. He stares directly ahead, as if watching a shape that no one else can see.

I approach him quietly. I want to see if he'll notice.

He doesn't.

When I stop beside him, he speaks without looking.

"He's crossed the outer gate."

I glance toward the main corridor. "Already?"

"Mordrde said they made better time than expected."

"I wonder if the horses remembered the path, or if the men needed reins."

That earns me a breath. Just a slow exhale through the nose that might mean agreement.

Silence passes between us like wind through an open door.

Diener appears a few minutes later, dressed in his steward's livery, written updates held in both hands like an offering.

"Lord Lucius." His voice is careful. "The Lord-General's convoy has crossed the battlements. They are approaching the front courtyard now."

Lucius nods, once.

Diener glances at me, and for a moment, I think he might say something else. But he doesn't. His gaze returns to Lucius, and his feet carry him away.

The afternoon light has shifted, drawing toward dusk. The checkered tiles catch less color now, the gold fading toward brass, the white toward bone.

I look again toward the piano, still closed and silent.

Lucius says nothing.

Even here, even now, I know what I am. Father commands steel, stone, and men.

I am none of these.

The convoy has reached the base of the steps. Through the far windows I can see the motion of horses cease. The banners bow low in a practiced deference. Even the air thickens, like it remembers who it's meant to obey.

I remain still.

Polished boots whisper like drawn blades on marble. Officers align their ranks. Logistics clerks shuffle parchment with the tension of those about to face judgment. The air thickens with ceremonial pressure, as though the very stone arches are flexing in anticipation.

And then, the doors.

They swing open with a calculated slowness. Their hinges are so well-oiled they don't make a sound. Only the synchronized percussion of bootfalls announces his entrance. The cadence is military. Formal. Perfectly rehearsed.

His Honor Guard, made of Windsor Talons, strides in first, flanking the massive brass-trimmed carriage that rolls across the threshold like a siege engine disguised in civility. Warhorses tethered behind it snort with restless pride. Their barding is immaculate. Even the sweat beneath their bridles gleams like polish.

The last footstep stops.

Then, silence.

From the carriage descends Helix Windsor... my father.

He doesn't wear a sword; he doesn't need to. Just his field regalia, trimmed gold on sterile white. The falcon of House Windsor spreads proudly across his chest plate, wings mid-beat, talons extended. His stride is perfectly metered.

He carries the weight of Siegmara with a subtle pride.

Diener steps forward in formal greeting, as is required. He's professionally composed, until an errant wind from the southern archway snaps one of the enormous burgundy curtains free from its clasp. It whips like a banner loosed in a storm, right into Diener's face.

The fabric nearly swallows him whole.

He doesn't flinch. Instead, he peels it away with the same grace one might remove a glove.

My father steps into the hall at that exact moment.

"The drapery disagrees with you," he says, gruffly without pause.

"It competes for your attention, my Lord," Diener replies, unshaken.

Expressionless, my father simply nods, and the exchange vanishes into the air like a breath never drawn.

His adjutant steps forward with a slate in hand, already mid-debrief:

"Fort Solwind resupplied. Drach border stable. Cavalry regiments at sixty-two percent readiness. Siege engines—"

Helix lifts a single finger.

"Keep pressure on the Verdant lumber yields. If the contract weakens, we secure it directly."

Another breath.

"Monitor ore weights personally."

Another.

"Maintain rotations along the Drach border, have our inserts probe for Tether rebels as well."

Each command is as sharp and brief as a blade. Not grand pronouncements, or strategic lectures. These are directives.

With each line, I mentally triangulate his intentions.

Verdant Yields: Lumber for siege weaponry and palisades. If contracts weaken, that means internal unrest or suspected sabotage. He intends to militarize the resource stream directly.

Ore weights: Quality control for the northern mines. He suspects fraud or skimming.

Drach rotation: Border projection. Not offense. Readiness. That means that the truce holds, but not trust.

He's anticipating the heartbeats of the state.

I stand at the appointed reception point.

Not the center. Not the flanks. Precisely where I've always been told to for father's receptions. As if I'm another pillar of marble, to be acknowledged by absence.

I've rehearsed a greeting. Three lines. Four options for intonation. A question prepared, when he... if he asks one of me.

He won't.

I open my mouth. Then close it again.

His gaze flickers over me once. I feel my heart bounce.

The glance is the way one confirms the presence of a candelabra, or a particular door. Less than acknowledgement.

Then he turns.

"We'll make a Talon of you yet, boy!" he says to Lucius, who stands taller in that instant, trying not to smile. "Excellent work—those Dopsen auxiliaries can't shoot a bow worth a damn!"

Lucius accepts the praise with rigid dignity, but I see the pride in his throat. He beams beneath the surface, carved sharp by the weight of father's eye.

Helix turns next to Diener.

"Ensure Lady Speer is studying what she is supposed to," he says. No emphasis on my name... he doesn't even know what I'm studying... "Her discipline is imperative for the House."

Commodity.

Not child.

Not daughter.

Diener bows his head slightly, as though Helix has just commented on inventory. He files the command with the rest. He briefly glances at me, but reassumes his station.

I let my gaze slide to the great map in my mind. I overlay his orders on it like formulas.

Verdant. Drach. Solmara. Tri-corner reinforcement. Something is happening.

Yet he gives no outward sign of concern.

Because concern isn't efficient.

If I were asked, I could refine the Solwind rotations by sixteen percent by redistributing the cavalry to bypass the marsh terrain. I would balance the ore weight inspections using clerics rather than stationed observers, removing familiarity from the equation.

But no one will ask.

Maybe I should bring it up...

Father moves on. The convoy begins to disperse across the hall. Officers speak in low tones. Scrolls shift hands. More boots. More movement. The machine resumes.

I step one pace closer to Lucius.

"They're wasting..." I start, too softly.

He doesn't look.

I try again, firmer. "They're losing time. With the cavalry. The Solwind rotations are—They keep routing them through Yakata's Bend, but that terrain's inconsistent this season. Saturation rates are higher. If they just—"

I pause. Try to regroup.

"The whole movement pattern could be... not just rebuilt, just... rerouted. It would free up capacity. And the clerics—"

Lucius turns his head slightly. Not quite toward me. Just enough to indicate he's heard.

I feel my own sentence fray in the air between us.

"The audits," I say. "For the ore... they're relying on observers..."

My voice catches on the last word. It sounds childish in my mouth. Too soft, too informal.

Lucius blinks slowly, as if he's still parsing whether what I've said merits a response. His posture doesn't change. He isn't being cruel, he simply doesn't have to try.

After a moment, he answers.

"Those routes are fixed," he says. "The terrain's irrelevant. They use it because it's familiar. Reassignment costs more than delay."

I stare at him.

"But delay compounds," I say, quieter now. "Sixteen percent lost efficiency—"

He doesn't flinch. "Efficiency isn't priority. Familiarity is."

I look down. The checkered tiles blur slightly at the edges.

I fold my hands behind my back, tapping my palm with my thumb, thrice.

He isn't angry. He hasn't dismissed me.

He's just explained why I'm wrong.

I watch Lucius go to speak with the Adjutant, his silhouette clean and uninterrupted as he steps into the clockwork Windsor machinery.

He belongs there.