It began with birds.
Not metaphor, not poetry—birds. Dozens of them, roosting along the outer walls of the estate before dawn, silent and still. The groundskeepers thought nothing of it until the steward woke to find five dispatches on his desk, all sealed in foreign wax.
Five letters.
Each from a different house.
Each addressed to Prince Percival.
Not one to the King. Not one to the Queen.
Not even to Albrecht.
Thalric read them in silence.
Each bore different handwriting. Different perfume. Different kinds of threats disguised as offers.
"We are delighted to hear of your restoration and would be honored to send our second niece for a brief stay at the estate—of course, purely for etiquette and education..."
"Your knowledge of old languages is much admired. Would you be so kind as to lend your insight on an old family heirloom..."
"Forgiveness is a virtue, dear Prince. And Worthing House must lead with virtue. Would you attend a private gathering—informal, discreet—so we may offer our prayers in person?"
But beneath every carefully pressed phrase, the same hunger bled through:
They believed in him now.
Not because they saw strength.
Because they smelled a shift in air.
The same way carrion birds sense movement beneath frost.
Thalric tossed the letters onto the fire one by one.
Not out of disdain.
But because he didn't need the paper.
He remembered the tone of each.
He could see the patterns forming—lines not yet visible to the rest. Cedric hadn't answered his appearance on the hunt. Albrecht had withdrawn to quiet lectures and unspoken unease. Rowan, of course, watched—but with restraint.
The Queen?
Silent.
That worried him more than Cedric's posturing ever could.
He stood from the hearth and made his way to the western tower—old, unused, but high enough to view the treetops curling into mist. The birds were still there. Watching. Unmoving.
House Worthing had grown used to being ignored.
They wouldn't know how to survive attention.
And now, the minor nobles were gathering letters like oil gathers before a spark.
He turned as the steward entered behind him.
"There's another," the man said breathlessly. "From House Velire. Their young lord proposes a visit. He... he mentions research."
"Decline."
"But—"
"If they mention research, they're lying."
The steward hesitated. "Should I say you're indisposed?"
"No." Thalric stared into the fog where the birds had once been. "Tell them the prince accepts no guests. Not because he is recovering—"
A pause. Then:
"Because he is remembering."