Five hundred and forty-seven days.
That was how long it had been since the kidnapping attempt.
Well—at least according to what Ezra had written in his journal. He'd started keeping one shortly after he'd been moved into the "nursery," a guest room repurposed in the wake of the kidnapping attempt. They'd renovated it entirely: slapped up shelves, added a desk and a few bookcases, wedged in a crib, and declared the job done. If you ignored the crib, it looked less like a child's room and more like a private study.
The walls were white—smooth plaster, bright as bone—like the rest of the castle. Sunlight poured through tall windows and spilled across pale stone floors, flashing off polished wood and brass. The room even had its own washroom. For a world that felt medieval in so many ways, it was one of the more impressive luxuries Ezra had seen in Bren.
He still wasn't sure whether the rest of the Empire matched it. If he had to place Bren's overall technological level, he'd call it a strange blend of Roman and medieval: Roman concrete and surprisingly competent engineering, paired with limits that felt familiar from Earth's Middle Ages. Two things, in particular, stood out to him—plumbing, and paper.
The Empire's plumbing resembled that of the Romans; they had aqueducts, real ones, carrying water in from the hills and feeding cisterns high enough that gravity did the rest. Most places lived and died by height and slope—by the simple fact that water only traveled "up" if someone carried it.
Castle Blackfyre cheated. The upper rooms had pressure, steady and immediate, as if the pipes themselves were alive. Ezra didn't know how it worked—only that the adults he had access to spoke of "water magic crystals." Somewhere in the castle, a rechargeable crystal-and-core pair did the work of a dozen pumps, feeding water upward and out across the halls on demand.
He hadn't found the mechanism yet. He'd tried—quietly. But whatever made the water rise was tucked behind doors he wasn't allowed near, guarded with the kind of seriousness that made it feel less like plumbing and more like security.
Paper, on the other hand, came in two broad classes. The most expensive tomes were written on vellum, but most documents used a plant-based paper that was plentiful enough to be ordinary. Bren even had paper mills, from what he'd gathered—an entire quiet industry devoted to turning reeds and pulp into the Empire's bureaucracy.
With paper that accessible, notebooks weren't a rarity—at least among the upper class. As far as Ezra could tell, there was a literate caste of commoners who served as stewards, clerks, and assistants, but most real administrative authority still sat with people of noble blood, not heirs, second or third sons mostly. He wasn't sure whether any commoner was ever trusted with leadership over "higher" matters, or if the ladder simply stopped where lineage began.
He scribbled in his journal.
Fort by the Badlands is on… seventh layer of walls? No bandit reports for weeks. Aerwyna hasn't let go of the door latch whenever someone knocks for over a year.
He tried something.
He stopped using mana, and then wrote again.
His fingers wobbled.
His body no longer fought him the way it had in the first few months in this world—head too heavy, legs too clumsy, muscles firing half a second late. Those days were mostly gone.
Mostly.
He sent a thin stream from his core, down his spine, and into his limbs. The wobble vanished. He'd become dependent on this ability the new world had given him. He'd adapted fast. At first it was necessity; after that, he kept doing it mostly because the clumsiness had pissed him off. Mana into the arm—and the world snapped into tolerances: not just smooth, but micrometer-perfect, like he'd traded flesh for machinery.
But he reminded himself that leaning on it too much would teach him the wrong muscle memory—the way touch-typing only works if you stop reaching for keys the old way and force your hands into proper placement, no matter how awkward it feels at first.
Since then, it had become habit: mana for anything that needed precision.
No mana when he wanted to test what the body could do on its own.
He smirked at that last line and kept writing.
This particular journal, at least, he kept in English. The first time Evan had caught him writing in it, it had piqued his interest—until he'd decided it was just a child's scribbling and dismissed it. Ezra wasn't recording things because he needed the notes; he could remember everything well enough. He wrote because he wanted the practice, and because English was where he stored the thoughts that didn't fit anywhere else. But mostly, it was because he wanted to do something—anything.
Plans. Wishes. Half-baked projects he didn't want read.
He'd filled pages with ideas—how to find rubber, or something close enough to it; plans for extracting high fructose for candy and sweets; little lists of tools, materials, and impossible timelines. Most of it was meandering, but it was his, and in a castle that watched him from every bright white wall, that mattered.
He was still barred from returning to the library, even though some time had passed since the magic core explosion—the library incident.
Instead, there had been a concession. Books were brought to him from the library, checked out and noted by the steward. The steward had no idea they were going to Ezra's bedroom; as far as he knew, it was Aerwyna reading them. He'd been told it was an inventory of sorts, so "she" wouldn't request the same book twice.
By the end of his first year, Ezra had gone through the whole library twice.
So instead of reading, he tried writing. He wrote whole textbooks from Earth, then translated them into High Imperial.
Ezra dipped the quill again and scribbled in the margin:
Have re-read same six histories three times. If I read about the founding of the Empire again I might actually scream.
He paused, then added:
No, I won't. Screaming would alarm Aerwyna. Not worth it.
He shut the journal and stared at his reflection in the inkwell.
On Earth, boredom never had time to settle—there was always another paper, another crisis, another feed to scroll, another simulation to run. Even alone, his head had been loud.
He tested AMP until his nose bled—fifty at first, nearly a hundred now, before the pressure behind his eyes forced him to stop. He ran mana through his muscles, timing how long he could keep the thread without his limbs turning to stone—an hour, once; a full day, lately.
Without those games, the boredom would've eaten him alive.
He climbed into the window seat and watched the courtyard, and the sliver of training yard beyond two towers. Knights and squires moved like dots of steel, faint mana clinging to the stronger ones. He'd spent whole mornings tracking the same drills—the reinforced sprints, the hardened arms, the wooden sword swings.
It was… fine.
Predictable.
Ezra had only seen Reitz train twice, from a distance, but the glimpses had burned into his memory. It was the closest thing Ezra had to a real battle in this world—and that pissed him off.
"Genius," he muttered at the glass. "Give me everything to see, then lock me where I can't do anything."
Today was supposed to change that.
A knock came at the nursery door.
"Ezra?" Aerwyna's voice. "May I come in?"
He hopped down from the window, wiped his ink-stained fingers on a cloth, and walked to the door as it opened.
Aerwyna stepped in, already dressed for company.
Her blonde hair was braided and pinned, her gown a deep blue lined with fur at the collar, accents of black and crimson, signifying the Blackfyre house colors.
There was a faint smudge of fatigue under her eyes, but when she saw him, her face lit up.
"Good morning, little one," she said. "Happy birthday."
"Good morning, Mama," he replied.
She still paused every time he answered that clearly.
It was tiny—a blink, a soft hitch—but he saw it, especially when he was using mana.
Then she scooped him up, hugging him tight enough that his ribs creaked.
"Two years," she murmured into his hair. "You grow too fast."
Not fast enough to stop being treated like a zoo animal.
He didn't say that part out loud. That would cause trouble, so he let her hold him.
But there was something that hit him differently every time Aerwyna hugged him. There was something in it that caught him off guard every time—warmth, yes, but more than that: a quiet pull, like his body had decided she was safe before his mind could argue. It wasn't a thought. It wasn't something he chose. Often times he would use mana to forcibly drown it. He hadn't felt this sort of thing, this-this feeling. But today he let it happen.
It was just there, settling into him, smoothing the sharp edges.
He didn't have a name for it, and he didn't know what to do with it—but when she looked at him like that, the hollow space in his chest didn't feel quite so hollow.
"Remember what we talked about?" she said, pulling back to look him in the eye.
"Yes, mother," Ezra nodded. "Small words."
"Yes," she said firmly. "You may speak. You may answer when spoken to. But no talk of…" She waved one hand, searching for the phrase. "Angles of the sun. Or the way the castle's shadow changes with the seasons. Or why the southern wall resonates differently when you touch it. People already talk enough as it is. At least for the party today. Okay?"
"I know," Ezra said.
Last year, servants had whispered about the baby who walked like a grown man—the six-month-old who'd given orders during a kidnapping. The last thing they needed was Ezra lecturing in the hall.
He'd rather be underestimated. Fewer eyes on him when he finally did what he wanted.
"I'll behave," he said.
Aerwyna sighed, though her smile stayed. "All right. I'll take that." She squeezed his hand. "Come on. Your father's been raiding the kitchen since dawn. I told the cook that if he steals more than three bites before the feast, they're allowed to bill him for it."
"That's quite a habit he has before feasts," Ezra muttered. "I don't recall him doing it during the Day of Introduction, though."
Aerwyna huffed a laugh. "Yes. Well, we were all rather tense that time."She set him down and took his hand, and together they walked the corridor toward the Great Hall.
The hall had been dressed up again.
Not as grand as his Day of Introduction—the memory of countless nobles and the Rex himself watching him while he tried very hard to drool from time to time was burned into his mind—but close.
Banners hung from the cross beams, Gemlamp chandeliers were lit.
The Blackfyre sigil rippled over the high seat, surrounded by the sigils of their allies.
Long tables were laid out with simple food for now, richer dishes waiting in the kitchens.
Near the main lord's chair, a smaller seat had been set up on a low platform.
It was carved dark wood, cushioned, entirely too elaborate for someone his size.
"Your thronelet," Reitz announced when he saw Ezra.
He stood beside the dais, a pastry in one hand.
His tunic was decently clean but slightly crooked, as if he'd put it on while walking.
He grinned, eyes bright.
"Happy birthday, Ez."
"Seriously, Father? Pastry? Again? Before the feast?" Ezra said, rolling his eyes.
Reitz glanced at it—then took a bigger bite on purpose.
"Come now," he said around the mouthful. "You know full well we're supposed to be feasting, right?"
Aerwyna's brows rose. "You told me you'd stop at three. That's your fifth."
Reitz studied the pastry like it might testify in his favor, then looked back at her. "This one doesn't count," he said. "It's for morale."
Aerwyna closed her eyes in visible frustration and pinched the bridge of her nose.
"You are Earl of Bren," she muttered. "You face bandits, raiders and murderous nobles. Feasting should not be your downfall."
"It's not a downfall, I'm just doing what's appropriate for the occasion," Reitz grinned toothilly.
He wiped his fingers on a napkin, then scooped Ezra up and plunked him onto the small chair.
"There. Sit. Look terrifying."
Ezra sat, feet dangling above the floor, hands folded neatly over his knees. He tried not to look as nervous as he felt under the room's attention.
When you mean terrifying you should mean it. I could scare the subjects half to death just by speaking.
Servants lined the walls. Knights in House colors stood polished and still. A handful of lesser nobles had come—minor lords, a couple of merchants allowed closer than most—and they were already stealing glances at him, whispering behind their cups.
He knew what half of them were thinking.
There's the miracle baby.
There's the odd child that walks like a grown man.
There's the piece the Rex has his hand on.
Aerwyna stepped forward, a hand on his shoulder. "Friends of Bren," she said, voice carrying, "thank you for coming to celebrate the second year of our son, Ezra Blackfyre."
Applause rolled through the hall—bows, curtsies.
Reitz leaned in. "Now you say something adorable."
"I thought you said terrifying?" Ezra murmured.
Reitz's grin twitched. "I was just joking."
Aerwyna's fingers tightened. "Just a simple thank you would do."
Ezra swallowed. He didn't mind attention so much as the feeling of being examined—on Earth he'd been the one behind the glass.
He cleared his throat. "Thank you," he said, steady but not loud. "Mother. Father. Everyone."
Mild shock. A few soft laughs. An older lady dabbed at her eyes. Servants grinned.
He hadn't babbled. He'd just spoken—and for now, that was enough.
Reitz clapped his shoulder. "Perfect."
The speeches were short.
Reitz said a few things about peace and the Rex's continued favor, keeping his words careful.
Aerwyna announced food distributions into Bren so that the town would feel included in the celebration.
Then came the part Ezra had only been told about yesterday.
"Ezra," Aerwyna said, turning toward him in front of everyone. "From this day, you are not confined to the nursery and these halls alone."
A murmur passed through the room.
Even some of the knights shifted.
"You may walk the streets of Bren," she continued, "with me or your father, and with a proper escort. You may watch the men train from the yard, not only from your window. You may see more of the land you will one day help lead."
Ezra felt the words hit his chest like a punch.
It wasn't freedom but it was something.
A small, natural smile tugged at his mouth.
Only Evan, standing near the dais in armor, seemed to catch what sat beneath that smile. The knight met his gaze, steady and understanding.
I know, that look said. You've been pacing in here like a caged wolf.
Ezra inclined his head a fraction.
Reitz clapped once, shaking off the mood.
"A lord's life is not lived alone. Today, you receive the first of those who will stand at your side when I cannot."
He beckoned toward the front.
"Caspian come."
While he had already met Caspian previously when he was a baby, Today marked the day of him becoming an official attendant.
A boy stepped forward awkwardly.
Ezra recognized him from the courtyards and halls.
Brown hair that never quite lay flat, a face full of freckles, a nose that would probably look better when he grew into it.
His tunic was new but plain, stiff with fresh dye.
His boots were a little too big, stuffed at the toes.
Caspian had been rescued from one of the raids.
"Here is Caspian," Reitz said, voice carrying. "He was orphaned when bandits dared the king's road. We took him into our house. In the past year he has shown a sharp eye and a steady hand. From this day he will train as one of your own men, Ezra, and spend two days each week as part of your escort."
Caspian dropped to one knee, head bowed.
"I am at your command, my liege," he said.
The words came out a little rushed, like something memorized the night before, but he forced them through.
Ezra studied him.
Though he was small now, children didn't stay small, and the raw hands, straight back, and flicker of relief in his eyes at the word command spoke of practice—not laziness—and of something other than fear or flattery.
"Thank you," Ezra said. "Please stand. Train well."
Caspian looked up, startled by being addressed at all, then scrambled to his feet and backed away, cheeks flushed.
Reitz nodded in approval.
"Next," he said. "Hearth Come, pay your respects."
Hearth stepped forward with none of Caspian's awkwardness.
He looked about nine.
Black hair, glossy and perfectly combed, fell in a controlled wave.
His tunic was finer, trimmed in the sigil of House Bedross.
"Ezra," Reitz said, his tone smoothing out a small hitch, "this is Hearth. He is," there was a short pause, "the son of Aaron Bedross. You know Aaron. Hearth will serve as your retainer."
Hearth sank to one knee with precise control, bowed not quite as low as Caspian, kept his eyes open on Ezra's chest rather than his feet—and said nothing, letting the silence stretch.
"Hearth," Reitz prompted gently.
Just two words, no more, aimed past Ezra at Reitz, and where Caspian had been nervous, Hearth was closed—not hostile, exactly, just locked down, like the older mages at the edges of Reitz's war meetings when they thought they were being judged.
Ezra watched him.
On Earth, he'd met people like this—raised on the certainty that they mattered, that they were meant for something, only to have that "something" handed to someone else, and they either broke or turned hard.
"Since he is Aaron's son," Reitz said, a little too lightly, "I hope you'll treat him well, Ezra, and not as a common servant."
Ezra wasn't sure whether that line was for him, for the hall, or for Hearth.
"Okay, Papa," he said.
He let his eyes rest on Hearth for a heartbeat longer, then nodded once, the same acknowledgement he'd given Caspian.
"Please stand," he said. "We'll… learn together."
Hearth's grey eyes flickered, just for a moment, as if he hadn't expected to be included in anything.
Then his face smoothed again.
He stood, stepped back to the appropriate place behind the dais, and became part of the furniture like any other retainer.
Caspian ended up opposite him almost without thinking, two points on either side of Ezra's seat.
Ezra tucked that little symmetry away for later.
The feast began.
Servants moved like a current, carrying platters of roasted meat, baskets of bread, stewed fruit in gleaming bowls.
Reitz and Aerwyna drifted through the hall, exchanging words with their guests.
Nobles made compliments that were also questions.
Reitz answered in jokes and half-answers.
Aerwyna's smile never quite reached her eyes.
Ezra stayed on his chair, descended sometimes to be polite, then climbed back up.
Old ladies pinched his cheeks.
Younger knights bowed awkwardly.
He replied when spoken to, kept his words small and plain.
On the outside, it was all warmth and celebration.
Inside, under all the noise and color, the boredom waited.
The knowledge that when the tables were cleared and the servants sent to bed, he would walk the same halls back to the same room, and tomorrow would look almost exactly like today.
Unless something changed.
It changed halfway through a cup of watered wine.
A guard in Blackfyre colors came striding into the hall, helmet under his arm, sweat making his hair cling to his forehead.
He didn't raise his voice or drop to a knee; he simply leaned in beside Reitz and murmured in his ear.
Reitz's smile didn't move, but his eyes sharpened.
Aerwyna's hand stilled on the table.
Evan, stationed near the dais, straightened as if he'd felt the air change.
Ezra watched the exchange like a hawk, he used mana out to amplify his hearing catching the words beneath the hall's noise.
"My lord," the guard murmured, close to Reitz's ear. "Forgive the interruption. A rider has come to the outer gate."
"And?" Reitz breathed, without turning.
"He bears the mark of the Demon Hunters," the guard said. "He requests immediate audience. Says his business is urgent."
"What's his rank?"
"He wears the sigil of a Hellspawn Slayer, my lord. Name of Deimos."
Slayer. Not apprentice. Not a courier with a minor report.
Ezra's fingers curled against his knees.
Reitz gave a small nod, then set his cup down with deliberate care and let his gaze sweep the tables as if nothing had happened.
"Very well."
Then, without turning his head, he added under his breath, "Have him lodged and fed. I'll see him in my study after the reception."
The guard bowed once and melted back into the crowd.
Whispers still ran through the hall—people always sensed something—but whatever the message had been, no one could claim they'd heard it.
Ezra felt something cold and bright slide through him.
Not fear.
Interest.
Demon Hunters were one of the few things in his reading that still felt like blank spaces—half-mentioned in histories, avoided in conversation, tied to places normal armies didn't go.
And now one of them was here.
For the first time in too long, the world had put a piece in play that Ezra hadn't already seen from his window.