Viktor couldn't sit still.
His quarters—small, cozy, cluttered with books and random treasures—felt too confined tonight. He'd tried sitting at his desk. Tried lying on his bed. Tried reading one of the Red Wide texts his mother had given him. Nothing worked. His body was buzzing, electric, like his Source was humming just beneath his skin even though he wasn't channeling.
He paced from window to desk to bookshelf and back again.
Emeline sat on the floor near his bed, legs crossed, working on something with needle and thread. One of his tunics, maybe—the grey one that had gotten torn somewhere. She'd been there all day, since he'd stumbled back to his room after the training hall demonstration. Not hovering. Not fussing. Just there, the way she always was.
They'd talked. About everything. About Werner's praise, about the spear, about the way the dummy had exploded and his father had smiled. About how different it felt to be seen as strong instead of broken.
She'd listened. Made her usual jokes. Punched his shoulder when he got too wound up. But something in her eyes had been careful. Watchful. Like she was trying to figure out if he was okay or if he was something else entirely.
Viktor didn't know either.
He stopped at his desk. The locket sat there, coiled like a small silver snake. He'd taken it off earlier to wash—his hands had been covered in dust and splinters from the training hall—and he'd meant to put it back on immediately.
He hadn't.
Viktor picked it up now. The frost-beads caught the lamplight, pale and delicate. His mother's locket. Her gift. The only physical reminder that he was hers, not just Werner's.
You are my son, not just his asset.
But what if being an asset wasn't bad? What if it meant being strong? Being chosen? Being—
His fingers tightened on the chain.
His mother didn't understand. She couldn't. Or—maybe she understood too well. Maybe that was the problem. She'd been in her chambers, away from the training halls, away from Father and his expectations. She didn't know what it felt like to finally be good enough.
Viktor's chest tightened. He loved her. But she was wrong about this. She had to be.
"You going to put that on or just stare at it?" Emeline's voice cut through his thoughts.
He looked at her. She was watching him with those storm-grey eyes, needle paused mid-stitch.
"I was just—" Viktor fumbled with the clasp, fastening it around his neck. The silver settled against his collarbone, cool and familiar. "Just thinking."
"Dangerous habit." She went back to her sewing, but her mouth curved slightly. "You've been pacing for an hour. Your thinking is loud."
"I'm not—"
A sharp knock at the door.
Not Emeline's casual tap. Not his mother's gentle rhythm. This was formal. Precise. Three measured strikes.
Viktor's heart jumped. He looked at Emeline.
She was already standing, setting aside the tunic and needle. "You want me to—?"
The door opened.
Charles stood in the threshold—not the brother who sometimes helped Viktor with his sums when Werner wasn't watching, but the Crown Prince. Formal blacks, hair tied back with the dark ribbon, face carefully blank. Professional. Distant. The Charles who was kind when it served him.
His eyes found Viktor first, then flicked to Emeline.
"Leave us."
Not a request. A command.
Emeline's jaw tightened. Viktor saw it—just a flash of irritation before she smoothed it away. She didn't look at Viktor. Didn't ask if he wanted her to stay. Just gathered her sewing supplies and moved toward the door.
She passed Charles without a word, but Viktor caught the way her shoulder tensed. The way Charles didn't move aside, forcing her to angle past him in the narrow doorway.
Then she was gone.
Viktor's stomach twisted. Charles had just dismissed her like she was nothing. Like she didn't matter.
But Charles was Crown Prince. He could dismiss whoever he wanted. That was how things worked.
The door closed.
Charles stepped into the room. He didn't sit. Didn't relax. Just stood there, hands clasped behind his back, surveying Viktor's quarters with the same assessing look Werner used.
"Viktor." His voice was flat. Professional. "I have your assignment."
Viktor's breath caught. The electric feeling that had been buzzing through him all day suddenly focused into something sharp and immediate.
Assignment.
Not practice. Not training. An actual mission. The thing his father had promised.
Charles moved to Viktor's desk. From inside his jacket, he produced a small rolled parchment. He set it down carefully, precisely, in the center of the cleared space.
"Father has authorized your first field assignment."
The words were cold. Official. Like Charles was reading from a report.
Viktor stepped closer. His hands were starting to shake again, but not from fear. From anticipation.
Charles unrolled the parchment.
It was a map. Simple, hand-drawn, showing the route from the palace grounds through the city and out to the eastern estates. A location was marked with a small X.
"Duke Farrow is hosting his Spring Gala in one week." Charles's finger tapped the X. "Your target is the central ice sculpture on display in his main hall. Your directive is to destroy it."
Viktor's heart pounded. This was real. This was happening. In one week, he'd prove himself. He'd show Father—show everyone—that he was strong.
Viktor stared at the map. At the small X marking Duke Farrow's estate.
"Destroy it," he repeated. The words felt strange in his mouth. Big. Adult. "But—how am I supposed to get in? What if someone sees me?"
Charles's expression didn't change. He looked at Viktor with that same flat, assessing gaze their father used—the one that measured and calculated and found you either sufficient or lacking.
"That is for you to solve," Charles said. "You are to be unseen. Undetected. No witnesses."
Viktor's stomach tightened. "But I don't—I've never—"
"As for how..." Charles's voice cut through Viktor's stammering. "Father requested a storm. I suggest you don't give him a lattice."
The words landed like a command. A reminder. Viktor's demonstration in the training hall—the overwhelming force, the shattered dummy, Werner's pride—that was what his father wanted. Not Aldwin's precision. Not Orell's control.
Power.
Viktor nodded slowly. His hands were shaking again, but he pressed them against his sides.
Charles reached into his jacket and produced a small sealed envelope. He set it on the desk next to the map. Then a leather pouch that clinked softly when it landed.
"Your invitation and funds," Charles said. No further explanation. "You will use these to gain access to the estate grounds. The details of your approach are yours to determine."
Viktor picked up the envelope. It was heavy parchment, sealed with red wax. Official. Real.
This was actually happening.
"You will attend," Charles continued. His voice had gone even colder, each word precise and final. "You will complete the objective. You will not be seen. You will not fail."
He paused. Leaned forward slightly.
"Do you understand?"
Viktor's throat was tight. The fear was there—sharp and immediate and real—but underneath it was something else. Something that burned hotter than the fear. The memory of Werner's hand on his shoulder. The weight of that pride. The intoxicating feeling of being chosen.
He would not fail.
"I understand," Viktor said. His voice came out steadier than he felt. "I won't disappoint him."
Charles studied him for a long moment. That same measuring look. The one that saw through skin and bone to whatever was underneath.
Then something shifted in his expression. Just barely. A softness at the corner of his eyes that appeared and vanished so quickly Viktor might have imagined it.
"See that you don't," Charles said quietly.
He straightened. Turned toward the door. His hand was on the handle when Viktor found his voice again.
"Charles—wait. How do I—what should I wear? And when do I leave? Do I need to—"
"You have one week to prepare." Charles didn't turn around. "Figure it out."
Then he was gone.
The door closed with a soft click that seemed too quiet for how final it felt.
Viktor stood alone in his quarters. The map lay spread across his desk. The sealed invitation sat next to it. The pouch of coins gleamed dully in the lamplight.
One week.
His eyes traced the route on the map. From the palace, through the city, out to the eastern estates. The X marking Duke Farrow's home. The place where he would prove himself. Where he would show his father that the praise hadn't been a mistake. That he was strong. That he was a storm.
Viktor's hand went to the locket at his throat.
His mother's voice echoed somewhere in the back of his mind—You are my son, not just his asset—but it felt very far away now. Buried under the weight of Werner's expectations and Charles's cold directive and the mission sitting on his desk like a challenge.
He picked up the invitation. Broke the seal. Inside was a card written in elegant script, granting passage to the Spring Gala as a guest of... someone. A minor noble, probably. Someone whose name Viktor would need to memorize.
One week.
Seven days to figure out how to get onto the estate grounds, find the sculpture, destroy it without being seen, and escape.
Seven days to prove he deserved his father's pride.
Viktor set the invitation down and stared at the map again.
The fear was still there. But the excitement was bigger. Brighter. More real.
He wouldn't fail.
He couldn't fail.
Not when his father was finally watching.