The frost deepened overnight.
By dawn, it had seized the gutters and lintels in a quiet conquest—spilling over the window sills, feathering the stone walls in pale lace. Even the iron hinges on the north-facing doors groaned with it. When Caesar crossed the main courtyard, a servant was chipping ice from the cellar doors with a bent chisel and a strip of cloth tied around his nose. Each strike rang sharp in the morning stillness, like some hidden war was being fought in slow, miserable blows.
Caesar pulled his borrowed coat tighter across his ribs and walked on.
He hadn't slept well. Again. The dreams had returned, thick and half-formed—blood soaking the marble stairwell, a black-feathered shape crouched above the garden wall, Alaric's eyes gone pale as sun-bleached glass. And each time he blinked awake in his narrow bunk, the pieces unraveled faster than he could catch them.
By the time he reached the west corridor, the ache behind his temples had settled into something deeper, almost bone-deep—like exhaustion soaked in vinegar.
The corridor leading toward the linen vaults was quiet, but not empty. Someone was already working near the inventory crates, folding and stacking thin woolen wraps. The figure moved quickly and precisely, fingers making quick work of silk ribbons and clasps. It wasn't until Caesar stepped closer that he recognized Nico—thin, pale Nico, with his soft voice and hair that never lay flat. His knuckles were red from cold, but his hands never stopped moving.
"You're early," Nico murmured without looking up.
"So are you."
"I had a nightmare about wine storage and woke up screaming."
Caesar arched a brow. "That bad?"
"Someone spilled an entire crate of Dreadvine reserve last week. Took three days to scrub the stone."
Caesar gave a small, understanding grunt. Then, after a pause: "Where's Marith?"
"Upper larder," Nico replied, his tone shifting. "She's checking the root bins again. Something's off. They're rotting faster than they should."
Caesar nodded. "Thanks."
"Be careful if Vek's down there," Nico added, still not looking up. "He's been in a mood. Again."
Of course he was.
Caesar left the corridor and took the service stairwell—narrow and drafty, barely wider than his shoulders. Frost clung to the walls here too. His boots scraped against stone steps slick with morning ice, breath coming in short white puffs. Halfway up, he paused at a slit-window overlooking the garden wall. The western parapets were silvered in white. Beyond them, smoke trailed from the distant forge-chimneys of another noble estate—likely House Dreadvine. Their colors had been hung at yesterday's salon.
He wondered, briefly, if the demon warlocks had left yet, or if they lingered in the sealed chambers behind the salon walls, sipping tonic and bargaining souls.
The thought turned his stomach.
Marith was crouched beside the storage shelves when he entered the larder. Her sleeves were rolled up, and her fingers were stained brownish-purple from sorting tubers and dried root bulbs. Her coat was patched at the elbows again—he recognized one of the square stitches as his own, done weeks ago under candlelight while pretending not to care.
She didn't look up.
"You're late," she said, scribbling a mark in her ledger.
"I'm not," he replied.
She grunted. "Then I'm early."
Caesar hesitated, then crouched beside her and reached for a sack.
"You don't have to," she said quietly.
"I know," he replied. "But I'm here."
They sorted in silence. Rotten bulbs went into a wooden bin near the back wall. The ones soft enough to salvage were set aside for stews. Each time his hand brushed hers, she didn't flinch.
Minutes passed. Then Marith broke the silence.
"Vek told Berla you cried."
Caesar's jaw tightened. "Did she believe him?"
Marith gave a soft, humorless laugh. "Berla's seen boys like him before. Knows how he works."
He nodded. "Didn't cry, for the record."
"Of course you didn't," she said flatly. Then, softer: "Still hurts though, doesn't it?"
Caesar looked at her. The bruise on her jaw had yellowed, fading toward green. She hadn't bothered to cover it.
"He's going to slip up eventually," Caesar said.
Marith smiled faintly, teeth tight. "And when he does, we'll make sure he regrets it."
The words weren't spoken like a promise. More like a fact waiting for its hour.
The hour didn't wait long.
They were carrying the sacks of salvageable roots down to the kitchen when the sound of boots striking stone echoed through the main service corridor. Vek appeared from the opposite end—broad-shouldered, wearing the leather apron of the butcher's assistant, his grin sharp as a blade edge.
"Well, well," he drawled, stepping directly into Caesar's path. "If it isn't the quiet little shadow."
Caesar shifted the sack on his shoulder. "Move."
Vek's grin widened. "What's the hurry? I hear you've been making friends."
Around them, the corridor was starting to fill—two scullery boys slowing their walk, a junior maid lingering near the wall. Even the girl with bleeding hands from earlier had stopped, watching.
Caesar tried to sidestep, but Vek's arm shot out, palm slamming into his chest. The sack slipped, hitting the floor with a muffled thud.
"Pick it up," Vek said.
Caesar bent, but Vek's boot caught him in the ribs before he could grab it. Pain flared sharp, breath knocking out of him.
Someone laughed.
"Go on," Vek said louder, clearly playing for the growing audience. "Show us how quick you are."
Caesar straightened slowly. "Not worth it."
The answer must have irritated him, because Vek's fist came next—slamming into Caesar's jaw. He stumbled back into the wall. Stone scraped his shoulder through the coat.
Nico's voice came from somewhere behind the crowd: "Berla's going to—"
"She's not here," Vek cut in. "And I'm just having a little fun."
The next blow doubled Caesar over. He tasted blood.
He could have fought back—once, in another life, he would have—but here and now? He stayed still. Not because he was afraid of Vek. But because the witnesses mattered. Servants remembered who started fights. They also remembered who stayed standing afterward.
Vek grabbed his collar, gave him one more shove into the wall, then stepped back with that same satisfied grin. "Careful, shadow. The dark's a dangerous place."
The crowd dispersed slowly, murmuring. Caesar picked up the sack, ignoring the way his ribs ached with each breath.
Marith was waiting just around the corner, hands clenched at her sides. "You all right?"
"Fine."
"You're not."
"Doesn't matter."
Her eyes narrowed. "It matters to me."
That was the beginning of the day's rhythm. The rest—the kitchen noise, Berla's sharp orders, the smell of roasting meat—unfolded like a pattern Caesar had already walked a hundred times in two lives.
Marith didn't press him further. Instead, she took the other sack from his shoulder without comment and walked ahead, forcing him to follow. In the dim stairwell down to the kitchen, their boots scuffed the stone in uneven rhythm—hers quick, his slowed by the ache spreading from ribs to jaw.
By the time they pushed through the kitchen's side door, the heat from the stoves rolled into him like a wave, almost dizzying after the morning chill. Pots hissed, knives struck wood, and steam clung to every surface. The noise was so thick it was almost a shield—anyone who'd seen the fight outside had no room for it here.
Berla's voice cut through it all. "Caesar—wine racks. Marith—root prep." She didn't look up from the row of copper pans she was inspecting, but Caesar could tell she'd clocked the way he moved. Berla noticed everything.
He took a cloth from the stack near the scullery and crossed to the wine racks along the west wall. The dark glass bottles were arranged by vineyard and vintage, each neck tagged with a strip of parchment in Berla's neat, slanted script. His hands were steady enough, but every twist of his torso sent a dull warning through his ribs.
As he worked, Nico slid into the aisle beside him with a stack of goblets balanced in both arms. He set them down carefully and glanced over Caesar's shoulder.
"You didn't fight back," Nico said quietly.
"Wasn't worth it."
"Looked like it to me."
Caesar met his gaze briefly. "You've seen the kind of trouble that sticks."
Nico's mouth pulled into a small, tight smile. "Yeah. Trouble like Vek."
They fell into a quiet rhythm—Caesar wiping dust from bottles, Nico polishing goblets until they caught the firelight. Every now and then, Caesar caught himself listening to the kitchen's pulse: the scrape of ladles, the hiss of boiling water, Berla's short, clipped commands.
An hour later, Marith returned from the root table, wiping her hands on a rag. She gave Caesar a once-over. "You're slower than usual."
"Bottle dust doesn't care how fast you move."
"That's not what I meant."
He didn't answer.
Berla passed close enough to catch the tail end of their exchange. "If you've got air to talk, you've got air to clean the goblets," she said without looking at them, her eyes fixed on a tray of steaming rolls.
Marith smirked faintly at Caesar. "She's in a fine mood."
"She's always in a fine mood," he said, but the faint humor didn't quite reach his voice.
The rest of the afternoon was a slow boil. The kitchen swelled with heat and bodies as the hour of the salon crept closer. Dishes moved from preparation to plating, servants shuffled trays to the warm room off the main hall, and the scent of roasting meat deepened until it clung to Caesar's skin.
When the first bell rang—thirty minutes before the guests arrived—Berla began her rounds like a commander inspecting her household staff. She adjusted collars, smoothed sleeves, and straightened posture with quick, efficient hands.
"Don't linger near the hearth," she told Caesar. "Alaric hates the smell of smoke on the servers."
He nodded.
"And if anyone spills soulwine tonight, you clean it before it stains. No excuses."
The second bell was softer, more ceremonial. By then, the kitchen was empty except for a skeleton crew tending the last pots. Everyone else was stationed where they belonged.
Caesar's post was in the rear corridor of the salon, close enough to refill drinks but far enough from the main conversation to avoid drawing eyes. Nico stood beside him, adjusting the white gloves that looked too big for his thin wrists.
The salon was awash in lamplight and layered scents—spiced meat, sweet fruits, and the faint copper of soulwine. It gleamed dark red in crystal goblets, catching the light like it was lit from within.
"I hate this stuff," Nico murmured. "Smells like rust and sugar."
"It's made from bloodfruit," Caesar said quietly. "Dreadvine's pride."
He didn't add what he remembered from the other timeline—that bloodfruit wine would one day be worth more than silver, used to barter for weapons and betray allies. That people would kill for it. That Nico would never taste it twice.
Instead, he watched.
The lords and emissaries moved through the room like predators wearing silk. Their voices were warm, their words carefully chosen, but every glance was a measure, every smile a blade's edge.
By the hearth, Alaric stood with one hand resting lightly on a goblet, his other tucked behind his back. Midnight silk draped over him like shadow, the fire's light tracing faint lines along his cheekbones. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze traveled the room in quiet sweeps, taking in every word, every gesture.
When Caesar passed behind him to replace an empty glass, Alaric spoke without turning.
"You move like someone expecting to be punished."
"I just don't want to be noticed."
"That's the same thing," Alaric murmured.
Then he let him go.
By the time the last guest departed, the hall smelled of wilted flowers and cooling meat. The tables bore the remains of the night—half-eaten platters, overturned goblets, and one sticky red stain on the corner rug.
Marith appeared at his elbow with a rag. "Kharun brat spilled soulwine. Before it sets."
He dropped to a crouch and began scrubbing. The stain resisted, bleeding further into the fibers before finally fading under the rag's damp weight. His shoulders burned from the strain, and the dull throb in his ribs returned with each twist.
That was when he heard the faint click of claws—or no, not claws. Talons.
A crow perched on the edge of the wine cabinet, black feathers sleek against the dim light. Its head tilted, watching him.
In a sudden, fluid motion, feathers scattered like black petals, twisting into a tall figure clad in a dark butler's suit. Ethan's hair gleamed like oil, his eyes bright and cold.
"You dropped something earlier," Ethan said, holding a folded letter between two fingers. "You shouldn't have touched it."
"I didn't read it."
"You thought about it." His tone made it sound like that was worse.
"Why do you care?"
"I don't. But Lord Alaric does. And someone else has noticed you."
"I didn't ask for that."
"No one ever does." Ethan's voice stayed even, almost pleasant. "But they'll still carve you up and plant their banners in your ribs."
Caesar met his gaze. "Is this a warning?"
"I'm delivering a message: stop attracting attention. Or next time, I won't be the one who finds you."
He turned to go, then paused. "Start deciding who your enemies are. And who your friends really are."
Then, with a faint rustle, he was gone—into the shadows, like he'd never been there.
The kitchen was nearly empty when Caesar finished his last task. The heat had faded to a lingering warmth in the stones, and the air smelled faintly of ash and herbs.
He was lighting the corridor lamps when Marith appeared, carrying a chipped plate with a thick slice of figcake.
"You missed dinner," she said.
"I wasn't hungry."
"You never are."
She handed him the plate anyway. He took it, wordless.
"You've been brooding," she said.
"Not brooding."
"Thinking, then."
He ate a slow bite, the sweetness sticking to his teeth. "You ever wonder what you'd do if you were someone else?"
"Like a noble?"
"No. Like someone who mattered."
She shrugged. "You matter to me."
He looked at her, but she didn't look away.
"Doesn't have to mean anything fancy," she added. "Just means I notice when you're bleeding."
"You're weird."
"So are you."
They stood there a while longer in the lamplight, the silence not unfriendly. Something unspoken sat between them—fragile and warm.
Caesar didn't have magic. Or armies. Or a noble crest.
But he had time.
And for the first time in both his lives, he understood something simple and terrible:
Time was power.
And he wasn't going to waste it.