Viktor had barely slept.
The night after Charles's visit had been endless. He'd spent hours staring at the map on his desk, tracing the route from the palace to Duke Farrow's estate over and over until the lines blurred together. The pouch of coins clinked every time he shifted in his chair. Emeline had finally dragged him to bed sometime after midnight, threatening to sit on him if he didn't at least try to rest.
But rest hadn't come. Just questions.
How do you sneak onto a noble's estate? How do you find one sculpture in a building you've never seen? How do you destroy it without anyone hearing?
Now morning had arrived, pale yet warm. Spring light filtered through Viktor's window, turning everything grey. Six days. One less than when Charles had given him the assignment. The time was already slipping away.
By midday, Viktor was walking through the palace corridors toward his mother's chambers. The usual morning bustle had settled—servants moved with purpose rather than urgency, courtiers conducted their business in low voices, the clash of training weapons echoed distantly from the yard.
Viktor's hands were in his pockets, fingers turning a coin over and over. A nervous habit. His shoulders were tight, his jaw set.
He was going to see his mother because... because he always did. It was routine. Normal. She'd be expecting him after what happened with Werner. She'd want to know how the meeting went, what his father had said, whether Viktor was alright.
And he would tell her.
Most of it, anyway.
I'll tell her Father was proud. That I proved myself. That everything's fine now. She'll be happy. She'll understand.
He'd repeated it all morning like a spell, rehearsing the words over and over. But now, approaching her door, they felt flimsy. Unconvincing.
Still. He'd made his choice.
The corridor leading to his mother's chambers grew warmer as he approached. The air changed—less stone-cold palace, more lived-in space. The carved door with its Red Wide patterns stood closed but somehow still inviting. Viktor paused outside it, hand hovering over the handle.
His throat felt tight.
Viktor pushed open the door.
The warmth hit him immediately—spices and cedar, the soft amber light from colored lamps casting everything in gold and honey tones. Thick rugs in reds and golds muffled his footsteps. Tapestries covered the cold stone walls, geometric patterns from his mother's homeland that made the room feel like somewhere else entirely. The braziers burned low and steady in the corners, their heat gentle rather than harsh.
His mother stood near the window, fingers working through her long black hair, weaving in the pale silver frost-beads with practiced ease. She wore a simple wrap in deep blue. The afternoon light caught the lapis color of her eyes as she turned to see who'd entered.
Her face transformed.
Relief flooded her expression—genuine, overwhelming relief that made Viktor's stomach twist with guilt he didn't want to examine. Her hands dropped from her hair and she crossed the room in three quick steps, the frost-beads clicking softly against each other.
"Viktor." Her voice cracked slightly. "You look—you look alright. You're whole." She reached for him, hands framing his face, eyes searching for... what? Bruises? Breaks? Evidence of punishment? "I was so worried. What did he say?"
Viktor's stomach twisted tighter. She'd been terrified. Actually terrified that his father would hurt him.
She didn't understand.
"It was good," Viktor said. He couldn't quite meet her eyes, but his chin lifted anyway. Pride swelling in his chest, pushing back the fear and the sleepless night and the questions he couldn't answer. "It was... really good. He was proud of me."
Nadia's smile started to form, tentative and hopeful.
"He said I was strong," Viktor continued, the words spilling out faster now. "He said my spear—the one I made in the training hall—it was... it was 'the blood of a Kirchner.' He said that's what real power looks like. Not Aldwin's precision exercises. Not Orell's measurements. Real strength."
He was using Werner's exact words. Repeating them like a prayer, like proof. His voice carried that same edge of excitement he'd felt standing in the training hall with his father's hand on his shoulder.
The smile vanished from Nadia's face.
It didn't fade gradually. It just—stopped. Like someone had snuffed out a candle. Her hands dropped from Viktor's face. The cold aura around her intensified—Viktor's breath fogged, the cold biting at his cheeks.
"Viktor..." Her voice had gone very quiet. Very careful. "That strength he praised. What did he ask you to do with it?"
Viktor flinched. "Nothing. He just—he trusts me now. He's giving me more responsibility."
He could hear how bad the lie sounded even as he said it. Thin. Obvious. The kind of lie a child tells when they're trying very hard not to get in trouble.
Nadia saw it. He watched her face close off, that survivor's instinct she carried recognizing the shape of something terrible.
"Viktor." She knelt down, bringing herself to his eye level. Her hands found his shoulders, gripping firm. Her fingers were cold even through his tunic. "His trust is not a gift. His 'trust' is a leash. What did he ask you to do?"
"I—" Viktor's hands clenched in his pockets. "It's nothing dangerous. It's just—"
"What did he ask you to do?"
Her voice cracked on the last word. Not angry. Desperate. Like she already knew the answer would be bad and was begging him to prove her wrong.
Viktor pulled back from her grip. The irritation was rising now, hot and defensive, a shield against the fear and guilt twisting in his stomach. Why couldn't she just be happy for him? Why did she have to make everything about Werner being bad and him being used?
"It's official business," he said. The words came out in Charles's cold, flat tone without him meaning them to. "It's princely business. I can't talk about it."
Nadia recoiled like he'd struck her.
The temperature in the room dropped further. Not her magic—just the absence of warmth. Like all the life had been sucked out of the space between them.
"That's not your voice," she whispered. "That's his. That's Werner's voice coming out of your mouth."
"It's my voice!" Viktor's hands came out of his pockets, fists clenched at his sides. His face was hot. His eyes were burning. "You just don't want me to be strong! You want me to stay here and—and be afraid of everything like you are! You want me to be like you, just hiding in here where nothing happens!"
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Viktor's stomach dropped. No. He hadn't—he didn't mean—
His mother's face had gone pale. Not angry. Just... broken.
Viktor's chest heaved. His throat burned. He hadn't meant to say it like that. Hadn't meant to make it sound so cruel. It wasn't even true—he knew it wasn't true—but the pressure and the fear and the desperate need for someone to just be proud of him without making it complicated had all twisted together into something ugly.
But she was looking at him with that disappointed, heartbroken expression, and he couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand the way she saw through him, saw the lie, saw everything he was trying so hard to prove wasn't true.
"Viktor—"
"I have to go."
He turned toward the door. His mother's voice followed him, breaking.
"Viktor, please. Whatever he asked you to do—you don't have to—"
He didn't let her finish. Just walked out and pulled the door closed behind him.
The door clicked shut. Final.
The hallway was grey. Empty in a way that felt crushing. Viktor's hands were shaking. His eyes burned but he wouldn't cry. Not now. Not when he'd finally—
When he'd finally what? Proven himself? Or just proven Werner right?
He started walking back toward his quarters, boots echoing against marble.
He'd done the right thing. Hadn't he? She didn't need to know. She'd only try to stop him, and he couldn't let that happen. Not when his father was finally proud of him. Not when this was his only chance to prove—
To prove what?
Viktor shook his head, pushing the thought away.
Inside her chambers, Nadia stood alone.
The warmth that usually filled the space felt hollow now. Meaningless. The amber light from the lamps cast shadows that seemed too deep.
She knew he was lying.
She knew he'd been caged.
And she knew—with the terrible certainty of someone who'd lived under Werner's hand for twelve years—that her son was walking into a disaster she could no longer protect him from. Whatever Werner had asked of him, a ten-year-old boy couldn't accomplish it. Wasn't meant to accomplish it.
Her hands trembled as she pressed them to her mouth.
This was the last time they would ever truly speak.
She just didn't know it yet.
Her hands dropped. She turned back to the window, looking out at nothing.
She should go to Werner. Confront him. Demand he stop whatever game he was playing with their son.
But Werner didn't negotiate. Werner didn't compromise. And if she challenged him now, he would only push Viktor harder. Use her resistance as proof that she was weak, that Viktor needed to choose between them.
She was trapped.
And so was Viktor.