Three Weeks Earlier...
Viktor woke to someone flicking his ear.
"Alright, your highness. Up and at 'em."
He groaned, pulling the tangled blankets over his head. The dream was still there—something formless and suffocating, slipping away the harder he tried to remember. Just weight. Just pressure. Just the feeling that something was very wrong.
Emeline's voice cut through it like a knife through fog.
"The empire won't be impressed by your snoring."
She yanked the blankets off entirely.
Viktor squinted up at her. Early spring light filtered through the window, pale and clean, catching the dust motes above his bed. Emeline stood there in her formal blacks, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. Fifteen and entirely unimpressed. Her grey eyes were sharp, awake in a way that made Viktor feel like he'd been sleeping for years instead of hours.
His quarters were smaller than his siblings'—plainer—but they felt more like his. Books from his mother's homeland lined one shelf, their spines written in scripts he was still learning. Another pile sat crooked on his desk: A Young Mage's Guide to Northern Beasts, Source Theory and Application—half of it still too advanced, but he kept trying—and a slim volume on ice formations that he'd read three times. The room smelled faintly of old parchment and the cedar oil Emeline used on the furniture.
"Still looks like a library threw up in here," she said, glancing at the books.
Viktor didn't answer. She knew he liked it that way.
"What time is it?" His voice came out rough.
"Early enough that you should still be asleep." She moved to his wardrobe with the easy confidence of someone who'd been doing this for years, pulling out his formal tunic—the stiff grey one with too many buttons. "But you've got the abacus lady coming, so up."
Viktor sat up slowly, rubbing his face. His hands were still trembling slightly.
Emeline's teasing smile faltered. Just for a second. Her eyes flicked to his hands, then back to his face.
"Bad one?"
He shrugged.
She didn't push. Just tossed the tunic at his head. "Get dressed. I'm not explaining to your father why you showed up to evaluation in your nightshirt."
He dressed while she straightened the chaos he'd made of his bed, her movements quick and practiced. The nightmare was fading, but the residue clung—that feeling of something building inside him, pressing against his ribs, looking for a way out.
His chest felt tight. Like he couldn't quite get enough air.
"Ugh." Emeline tugged at his collar, her nose wrinkling as she adjusted the stiff fabric. "This color. Who dressed you, a tax collector?"
"It's regulation."
"It's depressing." She stepped back, looking him over with the critical eye of someone who'd been doing this since he was born. "You look like you're attending a funeral."
"Maybe I am."
"Don't be dramatic. It's just Legate Orell." But her voice softened slightly, and she reached up to muss his white curls in a way that would've gotten any other servant dismissed. "She giving you trouble?"
"She's... fine." Viktor fiddled with his cuffs. The evaluation wasn't the problem. The problem was what he'd felt yesterday during practice—that surge, sudden and massive, like something inside him had shifted. His ice had spread farther than he'd intended, frost crawling up the practice dummy's arms and across the floor in branching patterns he hadn't called for. Master Aldwin—his primary instructor, the man who reported Viktor's progress directly to Werner—had gone very quiet. He'd dismissed class early without explanation.
If Orell noticed the same thing today...
"Hey." Emeline's hand landed on his shoulder, firm and warm. "You'll be fine. Just do your thing. Make some ice. Don't overthink it. And if your tutor gives you grief about yesterday, ignore him."
"What if I do too much?"
The question came out before he could stop it.
Emeline's grey eyes studied him for a long moment. Then she gave his shoulder a light punch—gentle, but enough to ground him. "Then you'll deal with it. You always do."
She moved toward the door, pausing with her hand on the frame. Her voice shifted—still her, but with an edge of something more serious underneath. "Go do your princely glaring. Try not to freeze Master Aldwin's beard this time. It's unseemly."
Viktor almost smiled.
Almost.
He took a breath, feeling the last of the warmth from their banter slip away like water through his fingers. The evaluation. Master Aldwin. Another test. Another chance to prove he was useful, that he was worth keeping.
Another chance to lose control.
He walked to the door, leaving the cozy chaos of his quarters behind. The hallway was cold—not magic-cold, just stone and silence. Morning light slanted through the tall windows but never reached the shadows where he walked. Somewhere below, he could hear servants moving through distant corridors, the faint clatter of breakfast preparations echoing up from the kitchens.
Viktor stepped through.
The door closed behind him with a soft, final click.
Behind it, Emeline stood alone in his room, staring at the closed door. Her smile was gone. Her hand was still raised, as if she could call him back.
She didn't.